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The autumn wind sweeps across the valley with restless energy, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves and distant rain. Golden and crimson foliage dances through the air in spiraling patterns, some catching momentarily on your robes before being whisked away by the next gust. The rustling of countless leaves creates a symphony that rises and falls like breathing—the mountain itself seeming to inhale and exhale with each powerful breeze. Before you stretches Tianlong City, the Pearl of the Western Provinces, its massive walls rising like ancient cliffs from the valley floor. The stone fortifications, weathered gray by centuries of wind and rain, stand thirty feet high and are crowned with watchtowers that pierce the sky like spears. Red banners snap and flutter from the ramparts, their golden dragons writhing as if alive in the persistent wind. The great bronze gates, each easily twenty feet tall, bear intricate engravings of coiling dragons whose eyes seem to follow movement with an unsettling intelligence. Above the entrance, carved characters proclaim the city’s name in flowing script, while smaller inscriptions warn of the laws that govern all who pass beneath. Even from this distance, the metalwork gleams with an inner light—clearly enhanced by the arts of master craftsmen who understood both steel and spiritual energy. Beyond the walls, the city rises in terraced layers toward the central district where pagoda roofs catch the afternoon light like scattered coins. Smoke rises from countless chimneys, creating lazy columns that the wind bends and shapes before dispersing into the pale sky. The distant sounds of urban life—merchants calling their wares, the clip-clop of horse hooves on stone, the ring of metal on metal from forges—drift across the valley as a low, constant murmur. The road beneath your feet is well-worn stone, polished smooth by the passage of countless travelers, merchants, and martial artists. Autumn leaves skitter across its surface like small animals, accumulating in corners where the wind cannot reach them. To either side, ancient oak trees stand sentinel, their branches now mostly bare save for the occasional stubborn cluster of leaves that rattle with each fresh gust. In the distance, storm clouds gather on the horizon, their dark presence promising rain before nightfall. The wind carries the scent of moisture and ozone, along with something else—the faint trace of incense and exotic spices that speaks of a city where many cultures meet and mingle. The massive gates remain closed, as they have been since your arrival at this vantage point. Guards in crimson armor can be glimpsed moving along the walls, their weapons glinting as they catch the light. Occasionally, a figure pauses to look outward, perhaps noting your presence, before continuing their patrol. The wind gusts again, stronger this time, sending a whirlwind of leaves spiraling upward in a golden column that reaches toward the gray-white clouds above.