The nine Elder Masters of the Imperial Conclave conferred in hushed, urgent whispers for less than three minutes.
To the elders, the situation was terrifyingly simple. If they carried out Lin Tao for witchcraft, they would preserve Yan’s fragile pride. But they would destroy the only person who understood how to produce twelve Grade-Nine Divine Pills from discarded waste scum. With the Northern War Fleet preparing to sail and the Emperor demanding marrow-tempering elixirs on pain of death, losing this method was equivalent to signing their own death warrants.
High Inquisitor Meng raised her carved dark wood gavel one final time.
CLACK.
The sharp impact silenced the murmurs of the three hundred spectators gathered in the courtyard.
“The Conclave Trial has reached its unanimous judgment,” Meng announced, her raspy voice echoing off the dark rock pagoda walls. “The defendant, Lin Tao, is acquitted of all charges of witchcraft, sabotage, and demonic subversion. His methods have been checked by this court as lawful, hands-on craft running in accordance with ancient Precursor principles.”
A loud sigh of relief escaped from the master artisans and fire stokers gathered at the outer edge.
Grand Potion-maker Yan remained kneeling in the dust, his head hanging between his shoulders, his prestige shattered beyond repair.
