The scent of damp pine sawdust and raw lampblack ink filled the Seventh Ward’s lower workshop.
Outside, the second bell of the morning echoed across the misty peaks, counting down the hours until the Grand Conclave. Inside, the heavy wooden screw of an ancient printing press groaned as Meng Shan leaned his full three-hundred-pound weight against the turning bar.
Creak. Clack.
A fresh sheet of rough, yellow wrapping paper peeled away from the carved pear-wood block.
Shen Yue caught the sheet by its dry edges, blowing softly on the dark ink. “That’s three hundred and twelve for the Third Agricultural Terrace,” she whispered, her voice raspy with tiredness. “Lin Ke, will this really disconnect them?”
Lin Ke sat at the long frame stand table, his swollen, bandaged fingers carefully checking the ink posture on the next carved block.
His collarbone burned where the iron pins rested in his flesh. Every breath pulled at the deep cuts across his back. But his mind was running with clean, steady care.
“It will disconnect them,” Lin Ke said. “If they follow the breathing rhythm exactly as printed.”
