The ceiling of Entry hall 612 held an ocean that refused to fall.
When Qiao Ming and Yan Zhiqiu emerged onto the outer edge gallery of the chamber, they found themselves standing beneath an inverted dome of dark, stone-hard cedar spanning three hundred paces. Clinging to the concave curve of this wooden vault was a vast, calm lake of emerald salt water, suspended directly above their heads by an extraordinary balance of tiny blood vessel adhesion, water’s skin, and underground air pressure.
The water did not pour downward in a total deluge. The high sky thickness of the deep forest, combined with the dense stone salts dissolved within the fluid, created an elastic knee pad as thick as cured pigskin that held the entire hundred-and-forty-thousand cubic paces of salt water securely against the timber ceiling.
Looking upward, the view was hypnotic. The liquid mirror reflected the soft eerie glow of the lower moss glades, tinting the ceiling with shimmering ripples of jade and liquid gold. Tiny, blind cave-shrimp and semi-clear glass-minnows swam across the upside-down ceiling, their silver bellies visible through the crystal-clear water as they grazed upon upside-down carpets of glowing algae.
Qiao Ming stopped at the center of the outer edge bridge. His bare, calloused feet gripped the fluted cedar planking, his broad toes curling over the margin to anchor his stance. Across his chest, the bridle-leather harness held his slate tablets and brass tools in quiet balance. He leaned his head back, his slate-grey eyes studying the…
