The chill of underground stone seeped through the soles of Lin Ke’s boots, numb and unrelenting.
A fine film of dried sweat, crushed dark rock dust, and clotted blood crusted across his cheeks, itching fiercely as the cool air of the upkeep trench drafted past. Every pulse of his Nine-Turn Glass Core sent a sound thrum shaking against his breastbone. That sharp reminder his glassy channels were running on raw willpower and low-thickness spiritual dampeners.
Before him, Zhao Wuji still waved the sheaf of royal debt scrolls, his knuckles yellow with strain.
“You have ten breaths to grovel, Lin Ke!” Zhao spat, his chest heaving under his shredded gold tunic. “Kneel, swear blood-fealty to the Grand Fortune Clan, and maybe I’ll only foreclose on half your outer students’ rations!”
Lin Ke didn’t blink. He took one step forward.
Before Zhao could draw breath to scream for his butchered guards, Lin Ke’s hand shot out with the speed of an uncoiling spring. His iron-calloused fingers clamped down onto Zhao’s right wrist, twisting the joint with precise, clockwork leverage.
CRACK.
The radius and forearm bone locked in extreme twisting force. Zhao let out a high-pitched shriek of pure agony as his fingers reflexively splayed wide. He dropped the yellow scrolls into the gravel.
