The climb through Air-flow Chimney pipe 144 was a battle against sound fury.
Qiao Ming hauled the crippled Scholar upward through the narrow stone shaft. Then, the sound feedback from the uncompleted drill-hole below began to detonate through the air-chimney pipes. The two-hundred-and-eighty-eight-hertz hum—the clashing inversion pitch the Scholar had let loose with his diamond drill—was ricocheting through the upright channels, colliding with the four-part requiem of the sixty Choral Kings in Entry hall 140.
The sound was not music; it was a physical blast wave.
The air inside the chimney pipe tightly packed and swelled with bone-shaking violence, popping Qiao Ming’s ears and sending clouds of white chalk-stone dust raining down from the ceiling like a winter blizzard.
Yet Qiao Ming’s bare feet did not slip on the bronze rungs.
His calloused toes curled around the metal bars with total, clockwork certainty. With every step, he braced his shoulder against the stone wall, shielding the sobbing Scholar from the falling debris, his balance point low and unmoving against the buffeting drafts.
He reached the top of the shaft.
He dragged the Scholar through the opening onto the sixth tier of the coarse grey rock tiered arena. He dropped the broken man onto the dry stone floor beside the throne of the King of the Azure River.
