Peak of Stone Ridge Mountain.
The wind had stopped. The chaotic gales that had howled year-round, the instant they touched the palace roof ridge, seemed to slam into an invisible wall of pig iron, sliding along the mountain ridge to either side, not daring to make the slightest sound.
Chu Qing sat on that millstone seat. His spine was ramrod straight, Dark Gold dragon markings crawling from the nape of his neck all the way into his temples. His fingertips tapped lightly on the stone armrest, each tap letting out a dull "thud, thud," as though striking the heart of the entire mountain.
[Profession Column: Chu Qing] [Overall Progress: 89%...] [Warning: Great calamity variable detected. Logic chain restructuring.]
"Still a little short." Chu Qing spoke, his voice dry and rough as though he had a mouthful of gravel.
He could feel the hundreds of thousands of pathways inside him tearing at one another in a frenzy. They were the death-obsessed thoughts of different eras, different civilizations. Some pathways burned like raging fire, some bit like frozen ice, and they rampaged through his veins, trying to find an exit.
His breathing grew heavy. His chest rose and fell violently, and with every inhale and exhale, the air inside the great hall trembled with it. Sweat had only just seeped from his forehead when the True One Aura on the surface of his body instantly evaporated it, leaving behind a layer of fine salt crystals.
This pain was not being torn apart. This was reforging.
He felt like a clay figurine being forcibly kneaded to pieces; every inch of bone, every drop of Purple True Blood, was being ground down by these hundreds of thousands of logics, little by little, into the most primitive slurry.
"My lord, the tea has gone cold."