The ledgers smelled of stale vault damp and scorched paper.
Zhao Wuji turned the heavy sheepskin pages with trembling fingers. His fingernails were split and black with grime, proof of a man who had dug through the bedrock himself to verify the horrifying arithmetic.
“The Iron Mountain veins in the north,” Zhao said, his breath hitching. “Three days ago, grade-three spirit stones were coming out with seventy percent spiritual purity. By noon yesterday, the ore came out grey. It crumbles to chalk between your fingers if you press it with a thumb.”
Lin Ke picked up a sample chunk of spirit ore Zhao had tossed onto the table.
He didn’t need divine sense to know what had happened. The stone was porous, light, and cold as a dead hearth. When he squeezed it, the crystal-clear lattice collapsed into a mound of dry, brittle dust that drifted like ash across the tabletop.
“The springs at Dragon’s Throat Gorge have dropped twelve feet,” Zhao continued. His voice dropped into a desperate hush. “Elderly Foundation Establishment fighters across forty mortal cities woke up coughing blood this morning—their dantians are backsliding. The surrounding pressure is dropping so fast their living channels can’t sustain internal balance.”
