In Entry hall 856, sight was the first faculty to be surrendered.
The white-hot steam rising from the magma fractures of the upper shelf had met the freezing air of the lower vault. That created a white, churning fog so dense that a man could not see his own knuckles when his arm was outstretched. The vapor did not drift. It boiled in violent, circular eddies, laden with tiny droplets of salt water and suspended quartz dust that coated the eyelashes with a fine, gritty crust within seconds. Every breath tasted of damp quartz and fiery salt, coating the tongue in a dry, stone bitterness that stayed even after swallowing.
Qiao Ming did not try to open his eyes beyond a narrow slit. He didn’t need them. His soles were bare against the cold banded limestone ledge, feeling the minute shakes of the rock face beneath him. The stone was damp and icy, slick with condensed moisture that trickled downward in thousands of silent rivulets, each seeking the edge of the sheer cliff edge three paces ahead. His toes, calloused and wide from decades of gripping slick cut stone and salt-eaten stepped stone bases, curved over the micro-fissures in the stone. He anchored his balance point with easy certainty.
