The horizon split into three distinct, spinning worlds.
To his left eye, the dark rock shrine was a blinding white desert of spark-charged hydrogen.
To his right eye, the cliff face was a howling crimson void of sun-fire discharge.
Through the center of his skull, an icy black deep gap spun at ten thousand turns a minute, threatening to suck his mind into a deep pit of cold shape.
The gyroscopic shear between the three counter-rotating cores tore at Lu Chen’s vestibular nerves.
The mismatch was only four point two percent, but in the body stonework of a True Martial Saint, that fractional variance was an earthquake in the cerebellum.
His spatial orientation dissolved.
Up became down.
