The floor beneath Lin Ke’s quiet focus bench began to liquefy.
It didn’t melt from heat. It dissolved into loose, grey silt as an earth-burrowing magic charm dissolved the atom-deep holding power of the dark rock flat stone slabs. Two figures clad in the dark, lacquered back shell armor of Zhao Wuji’s private trade ring surfaced like hunting pike from muddy water.
Their faces were masked in black silk. But their auras were clear: Late Golden Core peak guards, their blades drawn and slick with paralyzing viper-venom.
They had bypassed Meng Shan’s outer iron door entirely by tunneling beneath the foundation.
Lin Ke was pinned to the wooden bench. Eight silver needles still projected from his spine, venting leftover steam. His belly incisions throbbed with fresh, painful stitches. Standing up was out of the question.
In zero-point-one seconds, Lin Ke dropped into a two-thread sandbox.
In the frozen stillness of his mind, he watched the two shadow killers leap forward.
They were veterans of corporate debt forced payout. Their twin curved sabers swung in a timed together, linked cross-pattern designed to decapitate the target while slicing the main thigh blood vessels.
