The deeper they marched into the ancient forest, the heavier the underground air pressed upon their mortal frames.
By the time they reached the southern margin of Entry hall 608, they were more than fifteen thousand deep-water lengths beneath the keel of the Nadir. The air pressure had risen to nearly two and a half sea-weights, turning the air into a dense, thick, sticky medium that resisted every spreading of the ribs. The humidity was soaked with volatile pine-terpenes, stone lime, and tiny spores that clung to their skin like a warm, damp fleece.
For Qiao Ming, whose bare feet and oilskin coat were accustomed to the punishing drafts of deep-sea diving, the pressure was an old friend. Yet even for him, the injury in his left shoulder began to report a resurgence of discordance.
The puncture where Zhu Heling’s spirit-spear had pierced his shoulder muscle throbbed with a dull, sickening heat. Beneath the linen bandage and dried bitter-lichen salve, the dormant traces of Azure High sky spirit-venom—reacting to the huge surrounding pressure—were attempting to liquefy the surrounding scar tissue. Thin, spider-web tendrils of violet discoloration were seeping through the edges of the white dressing, staining the linen with greasy, rainbow-bright rings.
