The sonic boom of the descending hammer parted the clouds of cosmic slag above the spire.
Air pressure slammed into the terrace like an iron roof collapsing, threatening to snap the marble pillars supporting Kaelen’s hammock.
“Draw your sword, boy!” Barnaby Holt roared, his arm tensing as he lunged toward the balustrade. “He is swinging thirty tons of asteroid iron straight at your ears!”
Elder Sterling planted both boots into the terrace flagstones, his scarred hands gripping the hilt of his broadsword. “Kaelen, move! A direct hit from a Sovereign Dao construct will pulverize the bedrock!”
Kaelen did not jump out of the hammock.
He did not draw a weapon, nor did he channel a single drop of offensive Qi.
Instead, he reached out with one languid hand, caught the fringe of his quilted blanket, and pulled it up to his chin.
He let out a pathetic, wheezing groan that would have embarrassed a sick goat.
