The deluge of memory that crashed into Qiao Ming’s soul was not a gentle stream of recollections. It was an ontological clouded eye of eleven complete cosmic epochs. It poured through his opened dantians with the force of an unsealed floodgate under five crushing deep-sea pressure of Hadal load.
He fell forward upon the hard speckled rock flags, his lead-clad knees striking the six-sided stone with a heavy, muffled clang that rang through the golden water. His bare right hand remained buried in the softened dark rock of the titan’s foot, his fingers locked into the living circuit of the keel. His bronze helmet leaned against the stone toes. His breathing regulators rasped with violent, ragged gasps as his mortal brain struggled to accommodate two million years of stone-built counts, dynastic deaths, and total failures.
Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu fell to her knees, her hands braced against his shoulders, her own breathing matching his ragged rhythm through the sound horn. The golden light wrapping the platform was so intense that her shark-leather suit appeared semi-clear. It showed the dark, braided pathways of her own old family spirit veins glowing like emerald rivers beneath her skin.
“Hold the line, Caspian!” she cried out, her voice cutting through the ringing roar of the safe hall. “Do not let the eleven deaths wash you away! Remember who is breathing inside the suit! You are Qiao Ming! You are the sounder of the high roof ledges!”
