The sterile air inside the inner sanctum was so dry it made Lin Ke’s chapped lips split and bleed.
It was seventy degrees, perfectly climate-controlled, devoid of any moisture, dust, or mold.
Lin Ke stood at the threshold of a cavernous, circular hall three hundred paces across, domed with polished dark rock that curved overhead like the inside of a star tower.
There were no golden thrones. There were no immortal sarcophagi draped in silk, no ancient jade scripture scrolls, no treasure chests of sparkling spirit stones.
In the dead-center of the chamber, resting atop a raised circular dais of black glass, was a single box-shaped stone stand.
It was three feet high, sculpted from an unbroken block of dark matte stone, featuring a flat, angled slate surface tilted forty-five degrees toward the observer.
A precursor end-post.
The floor between Lin Ke and the dais was composed of thousands of polished square tiles of dark stone. He reflected the faint green soft glow of his eyes like black ice.
