The private underground vault beneath Deacon Sun’s manor was a fancy treasury of stolen sect wealth, hidden behind a false flat stone slab floor in his wine cellar.
Lin Tao and Tie Shan dropped the narrow spiral stone stairs. Then, the smell of damp cellar mold gave way to the rich, dry scent of aged bitter pine-resin wood, musk incense, and silver bullion. Lantern light revealed rows of ironbound sandalwood chests stacked four high against the whitewashed granite walls. The floor was covered in thick woolen carpets imported from the western oasis kingdoms, and on the side tables sat jade carvings of sky beasts that had cost thousands of silver bits each.
Deacon Sun shuffled down the stairs on trembling knees, his peacock silk gown torn to shreds. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with high-pulling hemp cord. Every step sent him groaning in terror, his soft, high-born flesh shivering in the cold cellar air.
Tie Shan set down his wicker pack and pried open the lid of the nearest chest with a flick of his iron bar.
CLINK.
Inside lay four hundred fifty-ounce bars of pure royal silver bullion, each stamped with the double-headed eagle crest of the Southern Maritime Trading Guild. Beside it sat smaller wicker baskets filled with low-grade spirit stones, vials of refined healing concentrates, and thirty rolls of yellowed parchment records.
