The expansive ground floor of the Vulture Pagoda was not illuminated by dramatic torches, but rather by dozens of perfectly spaced glowing luminescent pearls embedded in the ceiling.
There were endless rows of perfectly polished mahogany desks.
Behind these desks sat dozens of clerks. They were all dressed in identical grey robes. Their eyes were glassy and glazed over, staring blankly at the parchment before them.
The only sound in the massive hall was the frantic scratching of calligraphy brushes and the rhythmic thud of wooden ink stamps.
Their hands moved in rapid movements as they stamped, sorted, calculated, and filed precarious stacks of bamboo slips, tax ledgers, and requisition forms.
At the very far end of the sprawling room, seated on a slightly elevated wooden dais, sat a man behind the largest desk of all. He was Head Registrar Qian.
Qian was a low-level cultivator whose spiritual foundation was wholly devoted to the dark magic of middle management.
