The gold-trimmed skiff touched down twenty paces from the mountain road, its copper floating rings humming down to an idle hum that ruffled the clover flowers.
Before the landing ramp had even settled into the damp turf, two squads of royal dragon-guards marched out in disciplined lockstep. Their heavy bronze plate armor clattered with every stride, their five-pace axe-spears glittering with inscribed crimson magic charms. With ruthless smooth speed, they fanned out in a semi-circle across the road. They formed a rigid outer edge that cut off all traffic between the northern pass and the southern plains.
From beneath the silk canopy of the skiff stepped Lord Scribe Wu.
The royal official was a thin, pinched man of sixty years, clad in heavy robes of crimson damask stitched with silver clouds and golden counting frame motifs. Upon his head sat the tall, winged cap of the Central Revenue Ministry, and around his waist hung a heavy iron ring bearing fourteen bronze-wrapped jade office seals. He held a three-foot scroll of stiff, gold-threaded sky silk bound with heavy vermilion wax.
Behind him, raised on a floating sedan chair held aloft by four floating spheres, sat Marquis Zhao himself.
The Marquis was an imposing figure in his late prime, broad-shouldered and clad in amazing golden dragon-scale plate that hummed with the choking, heavy spiritual aura of a peak Soul Formation fighter. His cold, hungry eyes swept across the lush green meadow with open distaste, as if the blossoming wild clover were an…
