The Fluted Weir of Entry hall 857 was a masterpiece of high-pressure stonework, built from blocks of dark green snake-like that seemed to drink the meager light of the deep pit without returning a single glow.
The basin was three hundred paces across, designed to receive the condensed overflow from the upper heat chimney pipes and calm the water before it passed into the lower foundational underground water beds. Here, the water was barely knee-deep, perfectly clear and freezing cold, carrying the sharp stone taste of copper carbonate and iron pyrite. Beneath the liquid surface, the snake-like floor was carved with fine, detailed, linked spirals. Flutes that channeled the flow into nested counter-currents, bleeding off every trace of moving rough churning until the surface lay as flat and motionless as a black glass mirror.
Qiao Ming stepped down into the water, his bare feet splashing softly in the dark pool. The cold of the salt water was a shock after the choking steam of the upper ledge, but it was a familiar, honest cold that cleared his head and tightened his senses. His toes spread wide against the snake-like spirals, gripping the stone with gut familiarity.
Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu waded into the pool, her soaked linen tunic clinging to her thighs. She held the Broken Slate above the waterline, its fractured edge casting rippling ribbons of emerald light across the dark green floor.
