At step seven hundred, the grand flight opened onto the high terrace of the Iron Arch—the massive gateway that separated the outer stairwell from the inside chamber of the Grand Central Round hall. Here, the ancient pale limestone of the mountain had been carved into a huge portal twenty-four arm-lengths wide and forty arm-lengths high, framed by four fluted columns of black dark rock.
This was the inner sanctum of Zhu Heling’s forward defense. Across the terrace, standing in three disciplined ranks, stood one hundred and twenty elite guards of the Iron Mountain Sect. Unlike the conscripts and backup troops below, these men were veterans of the outer wars, clad in full suits of black star-fallen iron that had been treated with potion-made lacquer to resist acid and salt.
Each warrior held a heavy fire-lance. A five-arm-length iron staff tipped with a high-pressure metal tube of potion-made pyro-resin, capable of projecting a nonstop stream of liquid fire across fifty paces. At their backs were slung heavy curved cleavers whose edges glowed with a dull, menacing crimson from the internal heating coils embedded in their handles.
Qiao Ming stepped onto the terrace. Then, accompanied only by the four winded guards who had followed him from the lower landing, the ranks of the Iron Guard did not advance. They stood in rigid, disciplined formation, their visored faces turned toward him in evil uniformity.
