A collective gasp echoed across the trial courtyard.
To speak of mathematics in the sacred court of the Royal Alchemical Conclave was akin to swearing inside an old family shrine. Several elder alchemists clutched their jade amulets in horror. Meanwhile, Grand Potion-maker Yan let out a shrill, mocking laugh that bounced off the dark rock walls.
“Insolent peasant!” Yan jeered. “You dare speak of the sacred Dao of the Cauldron as if it were a butcher’s tally book?! Heat is the breath of the Fire Dragon! Cooling is the tears of the Moon Maiden! How dare you profane three thousand years of scripture with your vulgar Southern prattle!”
Lin Tao didn’t look at Yan. He kept his eyes fixed on High Inquisitor Meng.
“Two attendants brought a four-foot slate blackboard from the forge shop workshop,” Lin Tao said. He gestured to the heavy slate slab standing beside the courtyard gate. “With the court’s permission, I’ll show the exact heat-powered process that produced those twelve pills.”
High Inquisitor Meng rested her chin on her withered hand, her many-sided emerald eye clicking softly as it adjusted its focal length.
Beside her, the Chief Censor leaned forward, whispering into her ear. The censor was not a potion-maker. He was a royal clerk, and clerks understood numbers far better than they understood dragon breath.
