The sound of Lu Chen’s launch was not a footstep.
It was the dull, bone-shaking report of a quarry hammer striking solid granite.
The limestone flat stone slab beneath his heel turned to fine white gravel as four thousand pounds of striking force drove him forward.
The twenty paces separating him from the boiling bronze cooking pots vanished in three-tenths of a second.
Venom-Tongue’s yellow eyes dilated until the pupils almost swallowed the white of the eye.
The elder didn’t possess the physical speed to track Lu Chen’s first gaining speed.
He only saw a wall of bronze flesh, wreathed in scalding white steam. It tore through the green foul fog like a falling iron gate.
“Die, beast!” the elder shrieked through his split palate.
