The flat stone slabs of the Azure Cloud plaza were hot enough to cook fat.
Thirty outer sect elders knelt in the dust. Their wrists bound in glowed crimson Fire-Binding Shackles that bit into their skin. It filled the morning air with the greasy smell of roasted pork.
Patriarch Zuo Zhen stood before them, his six-foot frame streaming waves of distorted, shimmering heat.
The Mid Soul Formation patriarch was fifty years old. But his skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones like very thirsty sheepskin, colored a deep, feverish scarlet. In his right hand, he spun a massive solar wheel carved from pure fiery black glass, trailing tongues of white-hot Yang fire that left smoking grooves across the stone.
“Where is Lin Ke?” Zuo Zhen roared, his voice cracking like dry timber in a hearth. “Where is the arrogant scribe who claims mortal iron is worth more than Heaven’s gold? Bring him out, or I begin severing arms!”
He raised his black glass solar wheel, positioning the burning blade over the neck of Azure Cloud’s Seventh Pavilion Master.
“I’m here, Patriarch Zuo.”
The voice was neither loud nor hurried. It came from the top of the grand marble stairs leading to the Great Hall.
