The projection inside the tiered arena swelled into a blinding whirlpool of golden light and choking sound as the final signal played out its total directive.
In the projected council chamber, the central patriarch stood from his blackened iron throne. His withered frame, barely eighty pounds of desiccated sinew and yellow bone, was held erect by said clearlybronze rods bolted directly into his spine bones. Around him, the other six patriarchs raised their clawed hands, invoking the supreme seal of the Azure Firmament Sect.
“Hear the mandate of the Seven Spindles!” the ancient shrieked, his voice distorting through the silver diaphragms of the altar until it sounded like the scream of a dying giant beast. “We will butcher the dead and feast on their marrow! The First Epoch hoarded the waters of creation while the outside cosmos withered. Now their tomb shall become our vineyard!”
Behind the thrones, the yellow sky was suddenly obscured by huge moving silhouettes.
Across the projection, Qiao Ming and Yan Zhiqiu saw the heavy-duty terror of the surface world’s preparations. Huge flying barges—hulks of riveted iron three hundred arm-lengths long, propelled by churning sky paddlewheels and smoke-belching potion-made boilers—were crawling across the very thirsty sky. Suspended beneath their bellies were huge diamond-toothed drill bits, high-pressure digging rams, and deep-sea pressure bells bound with heavy iron chains.
