In five paces, the air in the underground tunnel dropped twelve degrees.
Lu Chen glided along the damp dark rock walls, his boots making zero sound against the ancient flat stone slabs.
Ahead of him, the iron-rimmed wheels of the organ carts ground through pools of stale water, their hollow squeals echoing down the vast stone hall.
The tunnel smelled of old bitter pine-resin wax, liquid silver vapors, and the bitter grease of funeral animal fat.
Two hundred paces into the mountain, the tunnel opened into an underground cave so huge that the lantern light of the eunuchs barely touched the ceiling.
This was the Sacred Tablet Hall of the First Emperor.
A hundred-foot-high vaulted roof of black dark rock arched overhead, carved with the writhing forms of twenty-four five-clawed dragons.
Water drops gathered along the dragons’ stone claws, dripping down into the darkness in steady, rhythmic taps.
