The western gates of the Imperial Capital towered thirty cubits above the cobblestone highway, constructed from massive blocks of gray granite that bore the deep magical seals of the imperial guards. Thousands of merchants, wagon drivers, and traveling pilgrims choked the staging lanes as imperial inspectors scrutinized travel scrolls and taxed every crate of goods entering the city. Han Ping adjusted the frayed collar of his coarse traveler cloak, keeping his head bowed slightly as he walked past the checkpoint with a modest wooden chest balanced on his shoulder. Beneath the plain fabric of his vest, the heavy leather pouch containing Ye Chen's high purity spirit stones rested firmly against his ribs, carrying the wealth needed to carve out a foothold in the heart of the empire.
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