The air in the Grand Pavilion tasted of copper dust and cold panic.
Outside the panoramic windows overlooking the peaks of Mount Lingxiao, the sky was a swirling vortex of pitch-black ink and crackling violet lightning. The spiritual pressure streaming from the sky was so intense that the roof tiles chattered in their mortar, and thirty sect elders sat huddled on the carpeted floor, their Golden Cores groaning under the crushing weight.
Elder Song of the punishment hall was already on his feet. His beard shook as he pointed a shaking finger at the ceiling.
“We must submit!” Song cried, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Patriarch Kuang is a Half-step Soul Formation Sovereign! If we don’t offer the sect’s Golden Core register to his Ancestral Tablet, he will grind Mount Lingxiao into coarse dust! Our students will be slaughtered!”
The murmur of scared agreement rippled through the gathering elders like wind through dry reeds.
Then the side doors of the pavilion creaked open.
Lin Ke walked in, his left shoulder resting lightly against Meng Shan’s massive iron-plated frame for support. Lin Ke’s tunic was scorched and torn at the waist, showing the thick linen bandage wrapped around his blistered lower belly. His lips were split and crusted with dried black blood from the splintered ashwood dowel. His skin was deathly pale.
