Inside the circular chamber of the inner Nexus, iron gears grooved into the bedrock spun with a deafening screech.
The walls of the subterranean dome were plated in black star-iron, etched with thousands of interlocking blood-ciphers. At the center of the chamber rose the master obsidian dial, twelve feet wide and carved with the geographic relief of the Central Continent. One hundred and eight hollow silver conduits converged on the central depression, pulsing like hungry veins.
Grand Chancellor Vaelen stood over the dial, his crimson court robes drenched in sweat.
His silver hair hung in tangled strands across his pale forehead. With a jagged obsidian dagger in his right hand, he drew the blade across his left forearm.
Dark, viscous blood poured into the central depression.
“Drink,” Vaelen rasped, his face contorted in fanatic agony. “Drink the essence of a Spirit Domain Late sovereign. Awaken, you stubborn dogs.”
His cultivation flared in ragged, suffocating pulses.
Deep subterranean ley lines shuddered as his lifeblood surged through the silver conduits. Across thousands of miles, dormant altars in thirty provinces answered the call. Runes along the black walls flared with searing scarlet fire, their light casting monstrous, dancing shadows across the ceiling.
