The response from the outer hall was an explosion of potion-made thunder.
Zhu Heling did not negotiate. Driven past the brink of sanity by the death of his sky sect, he had staked his final hope of survival upon breaching the inner vaults. At his wild command, his armored hired blades jammed four canisters of tightly packed thunder-iron salt into the drilled holes around the intake grate of Chimney pipe 14, touched them off with a fire-magic charm, and dove behind the nearest hard speckled rock columns.
The blast struck the Great Iron Arch with the blast of a falling mountain.
BOOOO-OOOM.
A blinding flash of violet fire tore through the outer pillared hall, followed instantly by a blast wave that rattled the six-foot dark rock walls and showered Qiao Ming in fine, grey limestone dust from the ceiling vaulting. The mica check shutter cracked with a sharp snap, but the thick quartz glass beneath held firm without leaking a wisp of smoke.
Qiao Ming did not flinch. His bare toes dug into the joints between the floor flags, his body absorbing the ground-shock with practiced resilience, his hand leftover steady upon the bronze trip-lever of the weir.
He brought his Folded brass star-compass to the speaking valve and measured the blast tracking data.
