The rhythmic clank of iron-shod shin guards echoed across the stone courtyard of the Seventh Smelting Ward, drowning out the roar of Crucible Three.
Lin Ke stood in the corner of the office writing hall, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. He wore a grease-smeared linen tunic that reeked of raw animal fat, coal ash, and rancid pig fat. Over his chest, he had rubbed a handful of wet soot mixed with vinegar to simulate the chemical eczema typical of end-post fire slaves.
Across the room, Elder Wu DeZheng was hyperventilating into a silk handkerchief, his round jowls quivering like un-set gelatin.
“Two years,” Wu whispered, tears pooling in the bags beneath his eyes. “Two years, one month, and four days until my full old family pension vestment. If that royal butcher strikes my name from the sect rolls today, I lose my retirement courtyard in the Southern Peach Valley. I’ll be living under a wicker awning eating cold congee.”
“He’s crossing the threshold,” Lin Ke said quietly, not moving his lips. “Breathe through your chest muscle. Keep your hands on the scrolls.”
Lin Ke closed his eyes and forked a test model thread behind his eyes.
