Walking across the floor of Entry hall 950 was like treading the bottom of an extinct sky.
Every step through the eight-inch layer of grey diatomaceous silt produced a slow, billowing wake of crushed stone dust that hung suspended in the dense, freezing salt water for minutes before settling back onto the coarse grey rock flags. The deep water pressure of five hundred and eleven sea-weights pressed against Qiao Ming’s bronze helmet with the weight of an entire mountain range. That turned every breath in into a deliberate, physical hard effort of his chest muscle against the high-pressure sheepskin lungs. Yet through the thin lead soles of his diving boots, the stone beneath the silt sent an unshakable, grounding stillness that banished fatigue from his bones, anchoring his mind to the eternal shape of the foundation.
Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu walked with slow, measured strides. Her left hand grabbed the four-inch deerskin wrap of the Broken Slate, her right hand holding the braided horsehair lifeline that connected her harness to Qiao Ming’s copper belt-ring. The water here was intensely clear, free of the rough churning that plagued the upper channels, allowing the emerald beam of their helmets to light up the floor thirty yards ahead.
