The sledgehammers on the surface were eight hundred pounds each, forged from spirit-iron and driven by teams of four indentured formation-masters.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Every stroke drove another three-foot segment of black iron crushing weight stake into the granite flags of the Seventh Ward’s main courtyard.
Sixteen stakes in a nested circle, each inscribed with Grand Yan draconic runes designed to sever underground leylines and drain the regional spiritual pressure until every breathing soul in the sector felt like a deep-sea diver dragged to the surface.
In the office pavilion, Elder Wu DeZheng was on his knees, not in prayer, but clawing through an ancient bitter pine-resin-wood chest in the corner of his private office.
“They’re taking the courtyard,” Wu wailed, hurling mouldering leather scrolls over his shoulders. “If Chu Jue drives the final four stakes, the Seventh Ward is officially reclassified as a Royal Penal Encampment! My title is dissolved! My pension... Forty-six years of careful ledger falsification... Gone! Destroyed!”
Lin Ke stood beside the window, watching through the timber slats.
In the center of the courtyard, Grand Inquisitor Chu Jue stood beneath a purple silk parasol held by an Iron Guard, observing the formation-masters with cold, bored calm distance. Twelve stakes were already in the ground. It glowed with dull violet light as they siphoned the surrounding Qi directly into four bronze storage urns.
