The phantom blood was thick, hot, and tasted of zinc.
Even inside the simulated void of his Sea of Mind, the sensation of Lin Ke’s own parietal bone fracturing outward was sickeningly distinct. A sound like dry oak splitting beneath a clockwork axe, followed right away by the scalding boil of high-pressure cerebrospinal fluid vaporizing against sixty sea-weights of runaway Qi.
Lin Ke gasped, his real body wildly jerking upright on the straw quiet focus mat.
Air hit his real throat pipe like dry gravel. His fingers clawed into his thighs, his heart hammering against his ribs at one hundred and sixty beats per minute.
The seclusion chamber in the rear pavilion of Mount Lingxiao was quiet. The small bronze lamp on the wall cast flickering orange shadows against the dark rock walls. Shen Yue sat ten feet away near the door, her delicate hands weaving a defensive magic charm in mid-air, concurrent golden threads humming between her fingers.
Lin Ke didn’t look at her.
His hand moved by sheer survival instinct, diving into his waistband and pulling the sharp iron metal pen free.
He jammed the point into the calloused meat of his left thumb pad. Deep. Past the outer skin, until the cold iron grated against the dense bone-skin of the fingertip bone.
