Four days later, the darkness had not lifted.
The ten-mile obsidian hull of the Star-Fall warship remained anchored in the upper atmosphere. It hung like an artificial mountain of black metal and polished bone, blocking out the sun and stars alike.
A perpetual twilight bathed the imperial capital.
The Saint-level hull pressure bore down upon every street, alley, and rooftop. It was a slow, crushing density that thickened the air and made every breath feel heavy.
Clay tiles slid from the roofs of the outer pavilions, shattering on the paving stones. Ancient timber beams groaned under the weight.
In the courtyard of the Royal Censorate, thirty sect patriarchs huddled in a tight knot.
Their faces were pale and beaded with cold sweat. Patriarch Cloud-Sigh clutched his trembling chest, unable to circulate his nascent qi against the crushing atmospheric tide.
“We cannot endure this much longer,” Cloud-Sigh wheezed, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against a stone pillar. “The Saint Vessel’s gravity is sinking into our bone marrow. If that ship descends another mile, our golden cores will crack like dried walnuts.”
