At mile forty of the Thousand-Array Deep gap, martial dignity was being ground into fine silver scrap.
The backup war-skiff of the Zhang Sage Clan—a forty-ton vessel forged from astral silver—was listing thirty degrees to port, trailing clouds of oily black smoke into the purple fog. Three major hull breaches had opened along the vessel’s lower keel where jagged spatial shears had sliced through plate silver like wire through lard. Crew members lay sprawled across the canted deck. He grabbed burst dantians as the vessel’s defensive formations flickered at twelve percent strength.
Standing on the battered bridge, his head wrapped in bloodstained healing gauze, Young Master Zhang Wuheng gripped the warped steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Pump more spirit stones!” Zhang Wuheng shouted. “Channel the Nine-Dragon barrier! We’re drifting into a gravity vortex!”
“Young Master!” the chief helmsman called back, soot streaking his face. “The crushing force exceeds eight hundred thousand pounds! The engines are overheating. The hull can’t survive another ten miles!”
Outside the cockpit window, a drifting spatial rift glowing with violet lightning drifted into their flight path. Zhang Wuheng closed his eyes, bracing for impact.
Then came the whistle.
Fweee-fweet.
