Victor Sterling scrambled backward across the rubble of the shattered chamber like a wounded crab.
His face was caked in dust and sweat, and his fingers clawed frantically at the wet stone floor. Seeing Lin Mo walking toward him with relaxed steps, Sterling’s eyes darted toward the obsidian altar. A red emergency release lever gleamed on the base. If he could reach it, he could detonate the remaining copper conduits and bury them all alive beneath thousands of tons of granite.
Sterling lunged forward with a desperate, hysterical shriek.
SHING!
A sharp golden streak flashed through the subterranean chamber with dazzling brilliance.
A translucent golden spirit-sword, condensed from pure sword-qi by Chu Lingxiao’s Nine-Phoenix Immortal Blade, pinned the shoulder of Sterling’s bespoke suit jacket straight to the granite floor. The blade passed two millimeters from his neck, anchoring him flat on his stomach without scratching a single drop of blood.
Sterling struggled and flailed, but the spiritual pressure holding the jacket was like a three-ton iron anchor.
“Stay still,” Chu Lingxiao said, her voice quiet, cool, and polite. “Wriggling only ruins the expensive fabric.”
