The cold that radiated from the nine spectral patriarchs didn’t chill the skin. It froze the rights of men.
Each figure stood twelve feet tall, crowned with star-patterns of ancient Epoch Two jade.
In their semi-clear, starry hands, they held ancient divine armaments. Axe-spears of condensed starlight, mirrors of ancient karma, and swords of unbroken lineage power that hummed with the total mandate of ancient emperors.
“Mortal scum,” the central phantom spoke. His voice was like grinding glaciers sliding into a dead sea. “By what power does a crippled fire slave dare audit the private holdings of the Primordial Houses?”
Elder Wu shrank back, his face white as fresh paper.
“The Grand Ancestor of the Heavenly Luo Dynasty,” Wu whispered, trembling. “He was the one who drew the borders of the Central Continent three hundred million years ago! His bloodline promise is written in the bone-plates of the world!”
The nine phantoms raised their weapons all at once.
The air in the BIOS chamber thickened until it felt like cold honey, choking the lungs and pinning Lin Ke against the dark rock stone stand.
