As twilight dropped across the cliff edge, the visual fabric of reality began to tear.
Lin Tao stood three paces from the Ancient Boundary Pylon. He looked out toward the northwestern void. He didn’t need his sight HUD to see the distortion. It was now tearing across the sky in violent, naked-eye anomalies that defied every law of nature.
The skybox was splitting into jagged level bands.
High above the deep gap. There, the faint gray dome of the heavens met the black deep pit, two massive level tears ripped across the field of vision. The upper band showed a strip of matte gray sky. But it was displaced fifty paces to the right of the lower band. That created a fractured, staggered image like a mirror that had been shattered and glued back together out of posture.
Through the tears, Lin Tao could see directly into the empty space behind the skybox.
It wasn’t stars or cosmic clouds that lay behind the tears. It was an infinite, featureless expanse of untextured glowing wireframes. It glowed with a faint, ghostly soft glow that made the back of his eyes throb with ache.
The camera frustum—the exact projection matrix that mapped three-space-folding map points onto the visual plane of reality—could no longer calculate depth sorting.
