The air above the Seventh Ward went cold and sharp as broken glass.
A scream of parted wind tore across the sky. It was followed by the heavy, metal rattle of spiked chains dropping through cloud cover. Thirteen figures dropped in tight formation, their midnight robes snapping like raven wings against the gray mountain fog.
They hit the courtyard flat stone slabs without bending their knees, the moving shock blasting dust outward in a circular wave.
Inquisitor Commander Zong stood at the point of the chevron. In his uninjured left hand, he held a length of blackened iron links—the Canonical Binding Chains—each link etched with serrated soul-tracking runes that whistled with a shrill, hungry hunger.
“Lin Ke,” Zong said, his voice grating from behind the beaten gold mask. “By resisting the Canonical Deprecation Pulse, you have declared the Seventh Smelting Ward an active hostile exception. Under Emergency Directive Seven, your dantians are forfeit.”
The twelve Golden-Mask Judges behind him fanned out, uncoiling matching lengths of spiked chain.
The chains didn’t hang loose. They floated three inches off the stone, their barbed iron tips swaying like vipers, drawn toward the magnetic heat streaming from Lin Ke’s glass spirit veins.
“Zong,” Lin Ke said, shifting his weight to keep his injured right arm tucked close. “You’re deploying active weaponized tracking inside a heavy-duty upkeep zone. That’s a direct safety rule-break under Sect Bylaw Forty-Two.”
