The air at nine thousand feet tasted of cold tin and static electricity.
Every hair on Lin Ke’s forearms stood straight out from the skin, pulled upward by an invisible magnetic tether that made his clothes cling to his ribs like wet parchment.
Above his skull, the storm cloud was not grey. It was the color of a bruised spleen. It was deep violet, curdled with veins of pulsing bright purple fire that cast no shadows.
*
A three-foot arc of pale blue static crawled up the side of the granite crag. It hissed like an angry viper before jumping into the heel of his boot.
Lin Ke’s leg twitched wildly, his toes curling involuntarily against the rock.
It sees me, Lin Ke thought, his breath coming in short, frozen gasps.
His Early Nascent Soul container, nestled within his lower belly, rotated with wild, crystal-clear speed. His glassy glass spirit veins—hardened into high-throughput fiber waveguides—hummed at high pitch, acting as unintentional receiving antennas for the gathering sky charge.
