When Yan Zixuan, Han Xue, and Chen Yu stepped through the wisteria gate of Floor 99, they braced for total ruin.
After surviving the lunar eclipses of Floor 50, the boiling volcano bowl of Floor 70, the faster-than-sound hurricanes of Floor 90, and the crushing gravity vortices of Floor 96, every muscle in their bodies was coiled like an iron spring. Yan Zixuan held his star-iron tower shield high, teeth locked. Han Xue lowered her frost dress sword into an instant-thrust stance, her breath suspended. Chen Yu primed four spatial binding slips between his knuckles, ready to build an emergency barrier the moment the sky tore open.
Instead, the morning breeze gently touched their faces.
It was cool, sweet, and fragrant with the fresh scent of wild mountain jasmine, crushed river mint, and damp pine needles.
The three young fighters froze, their boots sinking half an inch into soft emerald moss.
Floor 99 was not a wasteland of broken bones or a deep pit of thunder. It was a sun-dappled bamboo grove of breathtaking peace. Towering emerald culms of iron-bamboo swayed gently in the wind, their slender leaves rustling like soft silk. Beams of amber morning sunlight filtered through the green canopy, dappling the white river pebbles that lined the banks of a crystal-clear mountain stream. The water murmured softly as it curved around smooth, moss-draped boulders, fully empty of any spiritual malice or oppressive pressure.
