The whirlwind of star-iron and dark rock sped up into a blinding storm of moving destruction.
Bao Shan let loose his sect’s premier nonstop martial art: the Eighteen-Fold Mountain-Crushing Cyclone.
With every rotation of his massive torso, the sixty pounds of star-fallen iron in his hands gathered terrifying outward-pulling driving force. The whistling of the displaced air escalated into an ear-splitting, clockwork roar, like a heavy-duty threshing machine tearing through dry timber. Yellow waves of packed earth-aura detached from the spinning hammerheads, carving deep circular gouges into the Precursor flat stone slabs within a twenty-pace radius. The displaced air rushed upward in violent vortex currents, blowing loose gravel against the shimmering sapphire barrier until sparks of static lightning danced across the dome.
“Die! Die! Die!” Bao Shan bellowed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he entered a state of berserk blood-madness.
The front row of spectators scrambled backward in their seats, scared that a hammerhead might break free from its bindings and shatter the protective wards.
Lin Tao didn’t run.
He didn’t dive, roll, or scramble for the outer edge railings.
He stood inside the boundary of the storm, moving only his feet.
