The sun had already climbed high enough to bake the flagstones of the inner court by the time the gongs sounded. Disciples wandered out in twos and threes, shading their eyes, murmuring as a summons went out from the northern pavilion. Word spread like sparks in dry grass:
"Elder Zhu is calling for a disciplinary hearing."
"Something about a servant…"
"It's Mo Han, the one with the spirit crane."
By the time the crowd settled near the granite dais, the air was tight with anticipation. Fatty Lambu stood at the edge of the ring, bruises faded to ugly yellow-green under his skin, clutching a bottle of pills Jia Kai had tossed him at dawn. He bit his lip, worry gnawing deeper than pain.
