Three miles above the artisan quarter, in the highest ivory tower of the Sky Palace, the Central Fortune-telling Star tower hummed with cold, office terror.
The chamber was a sphere of polished black glass thirty paces across, suspended in the clouds above the golden roofs of the Imperial Palace. Floating in the center of the void was the Imperial Ley-Line Map. A three-space-folding sky projection rendered in spinning golden threads that traced every flow of spiritual Qi, every high-tier fighter. Every registered pill cooking pot across the seventy-four provinces of the Central Empire.
Chief stood before the projection was Commander Zhao. He of the Emperor’s Shadow Guard.
Zhao was a thin, ascetic man dressed in seamless black silk. His hair was bound in a silver冠 topped with a single raven feather. His eyes were cold, dead pools of dark glass. He reflected the spinning golden threads with total, emotionless calm distance.
Behind him, twelve fortune-telling clerks in white robes sat cross-legged around a brass math trough, their fingers flying across jade abacuses as they logged the morning tracking data.
A sharp, clashing bell echoed from the western sector of the map.
A fortune-telling clerk scrambled to his feet, holding a damp silk transcript with trembling hands.
