Across the swirling expanse of the Grand Imperial Jade Terrace, High Eunuch Wei threw his head back and laughed.
The sound was a reedy, piercing castrato screech that echoed off the crumbling green jade vault like rusted shears grinding against glass.
Within his cracked ribs, the Nine-Headed Corpse Hydroid throbbed with bloated satisfaction, its lamprey maws dripping leftover traces of emerald bile.
Four hundred years of royal history had taught Wei a singular, unchanging truth.
No mortal flesh, no bone-forged warrior. No grandmaster of the mortal sects could survive the packed bile of a deep-sea graft.
In ten more breaths, the green mist would settle. It showed nothing on the bronze bridge except a puddle of green liquid marrow and a pair of melted iron boots.
“Mortal dust,” Wei wheezed, his rotten gums twitching with smug ecstasy. “Arrogant, ignorant mortal dust. Your hot blood has become soup for the First Emperor’s floor—”
A sound cut through his laughter.
