The lead ice-gargoyle dropped from the dark rock ceiling like a falling stalactite.
Six wings of razor-sharp frost snapped tight against its ribs, hurtling its nine-foot frame downward at three hundred paces per breath.
Its talons—eighteen inches of hardened ice-slow marrow—slashed toward Lu Chen’s collar bone.
The beast brought with it a choking wave of negative-sixty-degree frost mist designed to shatter mortal lungs on breath in.
Lu Chen kept his gaze steady and unblinking.
He didn’t raise the forty-two-pound cleaver.
He didn’t even shift his feet from the cracked landing.
Instead, his chest muscle locked downward, compressing his lower belly wall.
