The cold didn’t bite the skin. It seized the pulse.
Before the woman in crimson velvet had finished rolling her ivory dice, a fine, reddish-purple mist seeped from the mortar of the arched nook. She pooled around Lin Ke’s boots like curdled wine.
The air turned sweet, heavy with the iron reek of open veins.
Lin Ke drew breath, and his lungs instantly froze. It wasn’t a physical ice frost. It was an acute chemical coagulant. The Blood-Stasis Mist pierced his mucus membranes, binding directly to his red blood cells, causing his bloodstream to gel into thick, thick, sticky sludge within seconds.
His outer vision narrowed to a grey tunnel. The heart in his chest gave a ragged, struggling thud. Its output dropped by seventy percent as acute blood-starved hypoxia struck his lower brain.
Beside him, Meng Shan dropped to one knee, his massive hands clawing at his throat, veins in his neck bulging like purple cords. Shen Yue slumped against the wet limestone wall, the lead canister slipping from her numb fingers.
“Don’t fight it, little marrow slave,” the woman whispered, gliding forward with soundless, snake-like steps.
Her fingernails were three inches long, painted with glistening black lacquer, hovering toward Lin Ke’s collarbone.
