The mountain began to drop its teeth.
Above the bronze circular iris valve at the back of the foundry trench, three huge emergency blast doors—each forged from six-foot-thick plates of cast star-iron—disengaged from their overhead magnetic latches.
Thousands of tons of balance weights screamed down their upright shafts.
The lead door was already thirty feet down its seventy-foot descent. It dropped at eight meters per second, with ear-splitting klaxons that echoed like dying whales through the underground rock.
If those three star-iron doors sealed shut, no physical force on the Canglan Continent could breach the Core Access Shaft.
Worse, through the widening gap beneath the first door, Lin Ke saw the central access console.
The black glass control stone stand inside the transit entry hall had ignited with a blinding, world-ending crimson.
A low-level factory wipe routine had been triggered by Black-Scythe’s dying signal.
