The shaking didn’t feel like an ordinary earthquake.
It wasn’t a sharp, violent jolt that snapped tree branches or toppled chimneys with sudden brute force.
It was a slow, sickening, rhythmic back-and-forth swing that pulsed at exactly seven point eight three hertz—the deepest ringing hum of the Jiuzhou Continent’s lithosphere.
Every zero point one two eight seconds, the earth-shaking plate tightly packed by three tiny fractions of an inch, then swelled by three tiny fractions of an inch.
Twelve thousand miles above, on the surface of the mortal plane, the ocean began to behave like water trapped in a shaking wine glass.
Tidal waves formed standing ripples across the Eastern Sea. He refused to break against the shore, instead stacking forty feet high in eerie, frozen nested ridges.
In the royal palaces of the Great Da-Qi Dynasty, ancient glazed fine china plates shook across hardwood dining tables, inching steadily toward the edges before shattering on the floor.
Fighters in seclusion gasped as their nascent souls began to resonate in sympathy with the earth. Their spiritual blood shook so wildly that their teeth began to chatter wildly.
