The afternoon sun burned with an oppressive, golden intensity over the Isle of Whispering Petals, hanging low and heavy in the sky like a giant, unblinking eye. The humidity was thick enough to taste, a damp, cloying heat that made the air shimmer above the intricate stone pathways and turned the distant horizon into a haze of blue and white. While the majority of the sect's disciples sought refuge in the cool, subterranean meditation grottoes or the climate-controlled interiors of the alchemy halls to escape the sweltering temperature, Wang Jian found himself pacing the polished floors of the Cloud-Peak Pavilion, a restless energy coiling in his gut that no amount of meditation could quell.
