The gravity shear hit the Processing Cathedral with the fury of a collapsing ceiling.
The air screamed as millions of cubic feet of underground air were dragged toward the central focal point of the Archon’s strike. Heavy bronze floor plates tore from their mounting rivets, tumbling end-over-end through the air before vanishing into the swirling vortex of magnetic blades.
Lin Tao stood his ground on the Diagnostic Dais, his left arm wrapped around the star-white-gold end-post stone stand like an anchor chain.
The suction was huge—over six thousand Newtons of lateral drag pulling his feet toward the edge of the steps. His coat whipped wildly around his shoulders, the hem tearing along the seams. He gritted his teeth, his fingers locked around the star-white-gold metal pen. He refused to break the spark connection. The cold stone bit into his ribs as the air pressure plunged.
In load-bearing building, Lin Tao thought through the roar of tearing metal, when a nearby empty pocket is created, the danger is not merely the inward pull. The danger is the rebound blast wave when the vortex collapses. If Tie Shan doesn’t anchor the line, we will both be drawn into the blades and diced into meat.
