The entire foundry of Row Eight fell into a dead, choking silence.
The twelve palace guards froze in mid-stride, their drawn broadswords hovering three inches above the stone floor. Even Grand Potion-maker Yan seemed numbed by Lin Tao’s words, his mouth hanging half-open, his gold-sheathed fingernails trembling against the green jade scepter.
The Chief Censor stepped forward, his purple silk robes rustling quietly in the cooling heat-rising draft.
“Hold,” the Chief Censor ordered. His black glass eyes locked onto Lin Tao with chilling intensity. “No sword will be drawn until this hearing is finished.”
Yan spun toward the censor, his face pale with wild desperation.
“Lord Censor! You can’t listen to this peasant!” Yan wailed, clutching his chest. “This isn’t potion-made craft! This is demonic sorcery! Blood witchcraft! He has used forbidden Precursor curses to corrupt the Imperial Array!”
In legacy bureaucracies, Lin Tao analyzed, his land-mapper metal pen resting lightly against his wrist, when established authorities can’t explain a technological breakthrough, they invariably classify it as witchcraft. It’s the ultimate defense gearwork of an obsolete priesthood trying to preserve its monopoly on power.
“Demonic witchcraft?” Lin Tao asked, his voice calm and test. “Under Royal Alchemical Law, Section Four, Article Twelve: a potion-made claim of witchcraft needs proof of spiritual residue, demonic blood runes, or soul contamination. Examine the vessel, Grand Potion-maker. Where is the blood? Where is the demonic residue?”
