The northern wind died the moment they crossed the stone marker.
A towering limestone pillar, split down the middle by hundreds of years of acid runoff, bore three gouged characters weeping red stone: Hundred Poison Gorges.
Beyond the marker, the mountain road ceased to be a road.
It became a jagged limestone fissure sinking into the earth, choked by a dense, curdled emerald fog that clung to the pale limestone walls like rotting fleece.
The two pack mules snorted in panic, their iron-shod hooves skittering against wet river stone.
Lu Chen tightened his grip on the hemp lead rope of the lead mule.
His broad back muscles shifted under his wolf-skin cloak, the black glass melted rock waste-plating over his ribs adjusting with a faint, metal click.
The air inside the fissure didn’t move.
