Twenty paces into the basalt passage, Pei Jing lost the last light from the antechamber. The builders had lined the floor and walls with polished black glass. The slabs fit so tightly he could hardly feel the joins. A torch would tell anyone ahead where he was, so he let his eyes adjust and listened. The faint echo of his boots told him the hall was long and wide, with a low, curved ceiling.
A dry buzz came up through the soles of his boots. He stopped and put two fingers to the floor. Beneath the glass, thin channels carried liquid silver. The lines brightened and dimmed as qi moved through the array. He could feel the hum even with his hand off the stone.
Five men in gray Iron Sword robes lay sprawled farther up the passage. One had fallen beside his flying sword. There wasn’t a nick in its edge. The man’s shirt was soaked through with blood, and the veins in his wrists were swollen and black. The others had no sword wounds either. These were students, still whole, and the bodies were fresh. They weren’t the three elders Ye had seen in the west hall.
They’d fed qi into their legs to run the crossing. The floor had picked up the pulse of their qi and sent it back at them, stronger each time. By the time they understood what was happening, the pressure was inside their bodies.
