Pei Jing followed one of the Celestial Seam’s intake lines east from Sky-Piercing Peak. It bent toward the Cloud Mist range and rose above the highest crags. An old ward held a shelf of slate in the air at thirty-two thousand feet. He set his boots down there.
Wind carried tiny ice needles across the shelf. They rattled against his bracers and scraped the loose threads off his robe. He tucked the cloth into his belt and let Turtle Breathing take over. In four minutes he took one full breath. His hands stayed warm.
The old sect scrolls called this the threshold of the heavens. They spoke of jade clouds and lotus blossoms drifting down to meet a cultivator who’d paid every mortal debt. Pei Jing could see purple air fading into black. The only things drifting down were ice and scraps of frost.
He took a clay jar from his pack and scraped the wax off the lid. Inside were three thick slices of frost-dragon tendon in marrow broth. He ate them with bamboo chopsticks. The cold meat took time to chew. Warmth spread across his chest once it reached his stomach. He wiped the chopsticks, sealed the jar, and tied it back to the pack.
