Three thousand paces beneath the Iron Rift Basin, every breath weighed on Pei Jing’s chest. The air smelled of sulfur and hot iron. A cultivator in Qi Gathering would have struggled to breathe down here. Even someone in Early Foundation would have felt the pressure close around their spirit channels.
To Pei Jing, it was a relief. The lake of liquid silver in his Dantian was so dense that on a mountain peak he had to keep it from pressing outward. Down here the weight of the air and rock held it steady. He could walk without devoting part of his attention to keeping it still.
From his landing at 2,850 paces, he followed a shelf of black glass down the north wall for another 150 paces. A flat stone stood fifty arm-lengths above the magma at the center of the chamber. Its top was three paces wide and had six sides, as though someone had shaped it. Beyond it, eight ancient pillars rose through the magma sea to the ceiling, four hundred paces above.
Pei Jing planted his heel and jumped. His boots struck the middle of the stone with a single thump. He bent his knees to take the weight. Nothing fell into the magma below.
