At step six hundred and thirty, the Grand Stairs entered the Heavy-duty Hall. The high-pressure shift zone where Zhu Heling’s engineers had redirected the main drainage gutters to carry away the waste products of their casting foundries.
Here, the ancient pale limestone stone railings had been fully torn away, replaced by crude wooden frame stands supporting heavy cast-iron troughs. Through these troughs flowed a thick, sluggish river of black machine oil, molten melted rock waste, and chemical salt water, bubbling and smoking as it dropped toward the lower drain pits. The heat streaming from the troughs was blistering, turning the air into a shimmering, choking fire draft that stung the eyes and coated the tongue in grease.
Qiao Ming walked along the narrow three-foot margin of stone that remained between the oil troughs and the sheer drop into the lower stairwell. The marble here was dangerous, coated in a fine spray of atomized animal fat and soot that made every step a test of balance.
Yet his bare feet did not falter. His splayed toes gripped the stone with the gut sensitivity of a sailor walking the yardarm of a storm-tossed mast. Where an iron boot would have slipped and plunged over the edge, his bare calloused soles detected the subtle texture of the ancient chisel marks beneath the grease, anchoring his weight with easy grace.
