The tension upon the mountain road was heavy enough to curdle milk.
A sudden gust of wind blew down from the limestone pass, fluttering the golden silk banners of the royal flagship above. The dragon-guards remained frozen in their combat stances, their axe-spear tips glittering three paces from Lin Tao’s chest. They waited for the single flick of Marquis Zhao’s wrist that would order the slaughter. On the surrounding hillsides, flocks of wild finches fell silent, sensing the deadly shaking of peak Soul Formation spiritual pressure building around the golden warlord.
Yet Marquis Zhao didn’t move.
The Soul Formation commander sat rigidly upon his floating sedan chair, his golden dragon-scale armor shimmering with restrained spiritual pressure. His cold, dark eyes bored into Lin Tao, searching the young mortal’s soot-streaked face for any sign of fear, bluff, or madness. He found none—only the chilling, flat calm of a man who looked upon a royal battle fleet and saw merely a giant plumbing disaster waiting for upkeep.
“You speak of ministerial charters, mortal,” Marquis Zhao said. His voice dropped into a deadly, controlled register that made the loose gravel on the road hum. “You speak as if a quarry laborer possesses legal standing before the High Court of Heaven. A slave has no standing. A rebel has no rights. Under royal law, only an approved Seventh-Rank official or a registered country governor may demand an audit.”
