The jade basin smelled of ozone, stale well water, and dried blood.
It sat on a scarred elm frame stand in the center of the Seventh Ward’s receiving yard. It hummed at a hum that set Lin Ke’s back teeth shaking. The liquid inside was not water. It was melted spirit-liquid silver, chilled to near-freezing, swirling with tiny pale runes that drifted like suspended ash.
Inquisitor Commander Zong stood three feet behind the basin, his hands folded inside sleeves of stiff, lacquered silk. A mask of beaten gold covered the upper half of his face, leaving only a mouth with thin, gray lips.
“Submerge the right palm, Ward Master Lin,” Zong said. His voice was flat, level, and entirely devoid of inflection. “Five inches. Nascent Soul deep ring must make full contact with the Canonical Basin.”
Lin Ke stood in his patched linen smock, feeling the mountain wind rake through the courtyard.
The cold cut straight through the coarse cloth to the pale flesh of his forearms. Beneath the skin, his congenital glass spirit veins pulsed with faint, crystal-clear refraction. Rigid, non-elastic waveguides that carried tightly packed liquid Qi with zero ringing drag. But threatened to shatter if subjected to sudden shear shock.
