The center of the Grand Central Colosseum was as quiet as the heart of a frozen star.
The howling alpine winds, the distant groaning of the seven star-iron mid-air chains, the desperate breathing of ten thousand stunned spectators. All sound seemed to vanish into the yawning deep gap that split the dueling floor in two.
Hovering three feet above the smoking deep pit was Sword Prodigy Jian Chen.
His right hand still gripped the handle of the Star-Shattering Sword, its five-foot blade of meteor core buried directly through the center of Lin Tao’s chest. Smoke drifted from the steel. It curled into the cold mountain air with the scent of blazing bright iron and ancient starlight.
Yet there was no blood.
Not a single crimson droplet welled upon the rough charcoal linen of Lin Tao’s tunic.
Not a single muscle in Lin Tao’s chest spasmed in agony.
The blade rested inside Lin Tao’s torso like an image cast upon a surface of perfectly calm water. Through the semi-clear edges of the astral sword, the unbroken weave of his linen shirt was clearly visible, unsevered, unstained, and utterly whole.
