The sprint up the frozen shale ridge from Watchpost Seven to Boundary Pylon Three was eighty paces of pure, upright cardiovascular torment.
The sub-zero alpine wind ripped through the seams of Lin Tao’s charcoal linen tunic, freezing the sweat on his throat into needle-sharp ice crystals. Beneath his heavy iron-toed boots, the loose scree shifted with every stride, threatening to send him sliding down the sheer granite face into the darkness of Raven’s Ravine.
Yet Lin Tao didn’t slow his pace. His heart was hammering at one hundred and sixty-eight beats per minute, his breathing measured into strict three-stride intervals to maximize oxygen intake in the thin mountain air. His left collar bone, fully knit and dense with hardened bone, bore the clockwork strain of his pumping arms without a single twinge of pain. The physical triage of last weeks had forged his body into a durable, tough vessel, hardened by trauma and stripped of mortal frailty.
Behind him, Tie Shan climbed with the terrifying, rhythmic speed of a bronze siege engine. The giant’s bare heels gripped the black ice without slipping. His twelve-pound iron pry-bar rested across his broad shoulder, his dark eyes fixed on the treeline below where the vanguard of the Flying Crane Sect was already emerging into the moonlight.
