At the southern crest of Sword Saint Mountain. There, the granite spires gave way to the deep-sea descent of the Weeping Gorge, Lin Tao and Tie Shan stood at the threshold of the unknown.
Behind them lay the shattered proving grounds. Nine peaks littered with the dead iron leftovers of Du Cang’s domain, now quiet and still beneath the afternoon sun. The high granite saddles that had echoed with faster-than-sound fury were now peaceful, returning to the ancient silence of the mountains.
Ahead of them, the mountain plummeted ten thousand paces into a deep gap of unending, oily mist that smelled of damp mold, rotting copper. The cold, stone stench of unallocated memory space. The descent path was a dangerous, hairline fissure carved into the sheer dark rock face of the gorge, winding down through layers of ancient strata that had remained unmapped since the dawn of the Immortal Empire.
Lin Tao adjusted the straps of his land-mapper satchel, ensuring his measuring tongs, silver needles, and star-white-gold metal pen were securely seated. Beside him, Tie Shan checked his heavy quarry mallet and the forged pitons clipped to his belt. It tested the weight of each tool with familiar confidence.
Tie Shan hoisted his fourteen-pound star-iron pry-bar onto his good right shoulder, his left arm now resting comfortably in a clean linen sling Lin Tao had adjusted before leaving the Seventh Peak. The giant uncoiled a thirty-pace length of braided climbing thick ship rope from his pack, checking each hemp fiber…
