The sound of the titan’s sigh did not scatter into the Hadal salt water. It swelled, rolling across the coarse grey rock floor of Entry hall 950 like an underground tidal bore. It carried with it a physical pressure wave that flattened the loose diatomaceous silt into nested ripples of dark stone, streaming five hundred paces from the base of the huge stone stand to the outer edge of the drowned row of stone pillars.
At the point of contact between Qiao Ming’s bare forefinger and the softened dark rock toe, the stone matrix of the statue was no longer black. It had become a semi-clear, glowing amber, lit from within by a deep, fiery warmth that lit up the bones and tendons of his hand through his flesh. Through the thin lead of his diving boots, through the calloused soles of his bare feet resting upon the coarse grey rock flags, through the brass casing of the Folded Star wheel strapped against his ribs, the entire underground mountain began to vibrate in sympathy with his pulse.
Then, the veil fractured.
It didn’t break with an explosion. It parted with the dry, tearing sound of ancient silk being pulled apart along a woven seam, shaking through the sound diaphragms of their bronze helmets.
