Inside the sewer chimney pipe, the air turned into a shimmering wall of glass.
At eighteen thousand cycles per second, the sound hum generated by the Bone Flute of the Weeping Maiden passed beyond the boundary of heard sound and became pure, destructive moving pressure. The stale black water in the drainage trough didn’t splash. It atomized, rising into a mid-air of dense. It shook gray vapor that hovered three feet above the flat stone slabs.
Along the curved brick ceiling, cracks zigzagged through the stonework like jagged lightning.
The surviving guard, pinned beneath the corpse of his partner, clawed desperately at his ears. The black pitch-wax plugs inside his ears had melted under the sheer friction of the sonic shaking. Thick, dark blood gushed from his nose and eyes, puddling into the foul slime. The high-pitched frequencies melted the delicate membranes of his sinuses.
Song Chen didn’t care about his dying retainers.
His eyes were fully bloodshot, the whites entirely eclipsed by burst tiny blood vessels. His fingers danced across the seven jagged holes of the human shinbone with manic, wild speed. The purple soft glow streaming from the bone flute flared brighter, carving deep, ghostly furrows into the wet air as the cone of sound pressure hammered straight at Lu Chen’s forehead.
