The sound emerging from the throat of the shattered machine was thin, raspy, and distorted by the crackle of burning spirit-wire, but its rhythm was clearly human.
Inside the beast’s ruined chest cavity, mounted behind the crushed flechette launcher, was a concave sound horn forged from ringing bell-bronze. Through this speaker, driven by a spark carrier wave sent down the drill-shaft from Fathom 120, a voice was speaking.
It was the dry, arrogant, and breathy voice of Zhu Heling—the Scholar of the Azure Firmament Sect.
“Do you hear me, little scroll-keeper?” the speaker crackled, the sound echoing through the cold fluted row of stone pillars like the voice of a ghost trapped inside a brass kettle. “Do you hear me, daughter of the dead kings of Yan-Luo?”
Yan Zhiqiu froze. Her bow remained raised, the iron needle-point arrow pointed directly at the trembling bronze horn in the machine’s chest. Her knuckles were white against the silk grip.
“Zhu Heling,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of hatred and cold disgust.
Qiao Ming stepped forward, his bare feet stopping three inches from the shattered hound’s ribs. He knelt upon the flat stone slabs, his Folded brass star-compass held open in his hand, observing the tiny sparks of crimson light that flickered across the speaker’s chest muscle.
