Beyond the void deep gap of Floor Sixty, the outside work frames of the Hundred-Floor Demon Trial Pagoda entered a realm of brutal, ancient extremes.
The height had reached seven hundred and twenty feet above the volcano bowl floor. Here, the air pressure had plummeted to sixty kilopascals, thin and oxygen-starved. Meanwhile, the heat hovered at a bitter ten degrees below zero. Ice glazed the star-iron ribs in thick, semi-clear sheets of rime frost that crackled like breaking bone beneath their boots.
Tie Shan unslung his spare iron crowbar from his travel pack—a six-pound work bar he had kept in reserve—and used it as an ice ax, chipping steps into the frozen glaze with rhythmic, chopping strokes.
Beside him, Lin Tao conducted a rapid body triage of his hands and feet.
He wiggled his toes inside his triple-soled boots. Sensation was dull but intact, protected by the dense sheep fat grease and double-layered wool socks. His fingers were stiff, the skin around his knuckles cracked and pale from the freezing crosswinds. But his motor control remained precise.
He brought the star-white-gold needle of his land-mapper metal pen down upon his right thumb callus. He pressed firmly until the familiar sharp sting cut through the creeping numbness of the frost.
