In the eight hundred and ninety-sixth entry hall, the terrifying gravity compaction that had stone-hard the underground sea began its stately, calculated relaxation.
The ten mountain-crushing pressure of outward mass streaming from the Obsidian Throne did not vanish in an uncontrolled snap. Instead, the force withdrew with the smooth, high-pressure slowdown of an ancient water gate closing against a high tide. Along the two-league outer edge of the hadal basin, the solid silver floor of crystal-clear liquid silver began to soften, transitioning from rigid metal armor back into its natural liquid state.
The transformation was with a strange, musical ringing—a chorus of high-pitched crystal-clear pings as the metal lattice unlocked atom by atom.
Yet the quicksilver did not return to the chaotic, boiling fury that had characterized it under the Conclave’s steam drills and acid cannons. The chemical poisons, the rotten-egg nitrates, and the greasy residues of whale oil had been fully crushed out of the fluid matrix during the compaction. What remained was two leagues of virgin, mirror-bright liquid silver, settling into a state of total smooth-flowing balance.
Not a single wave ruffled the huge expanse. The surface was so perfectly flat that the knee pad along the towering granite walls showed zero bending. The dense liquid met the dark stone at an exact ninety-degree plane, forming a level mirror two leagues wide.
