The first light of dawn broke.

Several carriages rolled through the morning mist, passing through Mingzhao Lane and Renshou Lane, swaying toward the western city.

The carriages were plain, without ornate carvings, but their golden-hued pearwood bodies hinted at their distinction.

A small gold-threaded flag fluttered outside the carriage, dancing in the brisk spring breeze.

On a crimson satin base, the words “Baolin” were embroidered in bold gold. Back when the Great Shun dynasty’s imperial banners still flew, only three martial halls in Forty-Nine City were deemed worthy of such a standard.

The eastern city was thick with checkpoints, but the patrol officers, armed with gunpowder rifles, saluted respectfully at the sight of the flag.

Years ago, when Lord Xuanzhi reigned, he had decreed: those from gold-flag martial halls need not kneel before officials.

By the old rules, even passersby had to step aside for this flag.

Such was the prestige of Baolin Martial Hall, one of Forty-Nine City’s three great martial halls.

This was a private trip, and the old hall master brought only a small entourage.

But his direct disciples, ever dutiful, accompanied him in the lead carriage if they were in the city.

With the direct disciples present, how could the inner disciples stay behind?

And if the inner disciples came, the outer disciples couldn’t lag.

What started as a few carriages heading west swelled into a bustling crowd of over a hundred.

The old master of Baolin Martial Hall rarely stirred, so this grand departure sparked whispers.

Many martial halls sent scouts to observe, puzzled to see the convoy heading to the western city’s docks. Why would this staunchly traditional old master suddenly take a steam airship?

—

As they neared the western city, the air grew heavy with haze.

Xiangzi lifted the carriage curtain, and a sharp, acrid mist mingled with the chilly breeze.

In the distance, two towering smokestacks pierced the clouds, belching black fog.

Within the haze, a dark iron ladder loomed—or rather, a conveyor belt driven by the massive steam engine in the smokestacks.

The iron ladder, crisscrossed with pipes and valves, slanted at a precise forty-five degrees, one end rooted in the yellow earth, the other piercing the ashen sky.

At the earthbound end, a thousand dock workers shouted in rhythm, hauling baskets of five-colored ore and fresh demon beast flesh onto the belt.

Bundles of silk and cotton were mixed in.

Flanking the belt were intricate layers of dark gears, meshing tightly, as the steaming iron conveyor rose slowly.

At its end stood a towering iron platform—the western city’s sky dock.

Dozens of feet in the air, beyond the dock, airships of varied designs and colors lined up neatly, blotting out the sky.

Few knew where these steam airships, laden with goods and grand in scale, were bound.

—

The faint roar of engines filled the air, and a forest of iron rose before the eyes.

Xiangzi’s vision was dominated by a stark, imposing expanse of gray-black machinery.

He was slightly dazed.

The sky dock lay on the outskirts of the western city, a place Xiangzi had never visited.

This was his first glimpse of these copper-and-iron structures, their intricate yet rugged beauty.

Even with memories of grand spectacles from his past life, he was struck by the raw aesthetic of this retro machinery.

Clearly, this world’s technology had taken a wholly different path.

A technology born from the supernatural power of five-colored ore veins.

Amid his awe, a deep question stirred in Xiangzi’s heart.

Why was this extraordinary technology so rarely seen in Forty-Nine City?

Where were these steam airships headed?

—

Lin Junqing didn’t join the old master, instead sharing a carriage with Liu Tang and Xiangzi.

Perhaps weighed by the sorrow of parting, Liu Tang said little, staring blankly out the window.

The carriage creaked to a halt.

Before the rust-streaked, intricate sky dock, the grand procession paused.

The setting sun tore a blood-red gash through the haze-covered gray sky.

A strong wind tugged at Liu Tang’s disheveled hair.

Once the young martial artist who single-handedly shielded Harmony Rickshaw Yard, revered as “Brother Tang” by the rickshaw pullers, his face now bore an undeniable weariness.

The crowd escorted the old master and Lin Junqing toward the sky dock.

Liu Tang remained silent until the last moment, when he clasped his fists to Xiangzi. “Xiangzi… take care.”

“Brother Tang… take care.”

No more words were needed. The two men who’d fought side by side out of the Li family’s mining district understood the weight of this parting.

The steam engine’s roar pained their ears.

Suddenly, Liu Tang paused, turning to shout, “Xiangzi, wait for me to return.”

Xiangzi smiled and nodded lightly.

—

At that moment, the old master and Lin Junqing boarded the steam elevator.

Two thick cables, pulled by hexagonal gears, hoisted the rosewood elevator cabin upward.

Several direct disciples stood below the suspended dock, respectfully clasping their fists in salute.

The other disciples followed suit, and over a hundred martial hall members, rarely seen together, stood in the brisk spring breeze—a grand spectacle.

Such a display naturally drew eyes.

Even nearby passersby stopped to watch, some paying extra coins to halt their rickshaws for a better view.

—

Across the road, a young, boyish face gazed at the rising elevator, eyes brimming with fervor, fists clenched in excitement.

He looked thirteen or fourteen, neither tall nor short, clad in the gray robes of a Baolin Martial Hall apprentice.

At Baolin, gray robes marked apprentices, too lowly to join the main group, only able to watch from afar like the crowd.

“Little Ma, what’s got you so excited? We’re just here for the show,” a fair-skinned youth nudged his shoulder, teasing.

Little Ma, absorbed by the elevator, didn’t seem to hear.

His companions, knowing his nature, didn’t mind, chatting and laughing about where to eat later.

Thanks to the old master and Senior Brother Lin, Baolin Martial Hall was closed for the day, giving the apprentices a rare break.

As they bantered, Little Ma suddenly raised an arm. “I will pass the apprentice exam and become a ranked martial artist!”

His voice was loud but drowned by the street’s clamor and the steam engine’s roar, heard only by his companions.

Their faces stiffened, each showing a different expression.

Baolin’s apprentices were divided into three tiers: third-tier for beginners, second-tier for those breaking the Blood Energy Barrier before fifteen, and first-tier for those with a shot at ninth-rank.

These youths were second-tier, with full blood energy, their talent decent among commoners.

But first-tier?

As young men, pride mattered. They only dared dream of it privately, yet Little Ma had shouted it aloud.

—

By the roadside, an old rickshaw puller gripped his handles, slightly hunched—after decades at the trade, Old Ma knew how to conserve energy.

His passenger, picked up in the southern city and headed to the central district, was well-dressed and generous, likely a clerk for the embassy district’s bigwigs.

The passenger tossed a few copper coins to pause the rickshaw and watch Baolin’s spectacle, letting Old Ma rest and earn extra.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out.

Old Ma froze, then spotted a familiar face in the distance.

“Little Ma!” A smile broke on his face, but his grandson quickly turned away.

Old Ma paused, realization dawning.

“Hey, old man, we going or not?” the passenger called, done with the show.

At the urging, Old Ma turned with a grin. “Going, going! Hold tight, here we go!”

Perhaps he’d pulled too long that day, for Old Ma stumbled as he started, startling the passenger.

His experience saved him; a few quick steps steadied the rickshaw.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, sinking into the deep wrinkles of his weathered face.

As he pulled, his eyes drifted back to where he’d seen his grandson.

The rickshaw’s copper bell jingled with Old Ma’s steps, soon lost in the western city’s bustling traffic.

—

“Little Ma, who was that? Sounded like he called you,” a companion said, pointing at a rickshaw.

Little Ma forced a smile. “Don’t know him. Probably a puller trying to snag us—those guys are persistent.”

Another youth, excited, chimed in, “We’re finally out! How about Deyun Tower for a feast?”

The group cheered, and a youth in silk robes said casually, “Sure, I’m in the mood. My treat.”

They shouted, “Young Master Qi’s generous!”

Qi’s smile showed little pride—pocket change meant nothing to his family.

Only Little Ma looked awkward, muttering, “Nah, I’ve got to practice later.”

Young Master Qi’s face soured, feeling slighted. “Why’re you always so standoffish? We’re all here, and you practice daily but show no results.”

Little Ma’s face flushed, veins bulging.

Did he not want to go?

Deyun Tower wasn’t a place just anyone could afford.

Even if Young Master Qi was paying, he couldn’t keep owing favors—what if it was his turn someday?

Could he afford it?

“I’m not like you. In two months, it’s the first-tier apprentice selection. If you fail, your families can still support you. If I fail, I’m stuck as a guard.”

“I can’t compare with you.”

His peers, from wealthy families, often looked down on him. Little Ma usually endured it, but today, his temper flared.

Regret hit as soon as he spoke.

The group’s mood soured, their enthusiasm gone.