The golden patterns on his palm were still burning, like threads of fire crawling along his meridians toward his heart. But the pain was no longer mere torment. Instead, it became an anchor—something that let him cling to a shred of clarity beneath the nearly suffocating pressure.
Blue light from the seven depressions stretched like chains, nailing the entire secret chamber fast within this tide of cold. Bai Zhi's fingers finally closed around her sword hilt, her knuckles whitening from the strain. Blood slipped from her sleeve, trailing a long, thin red mark across the stone. Mo Feng knelt on one knee, his folded fan pressed to the ground. A thin layer of moisture gathered in his palm, yet he did not dare detonate it lightly.
The leader stood in the center, his short blade hanging at his side. His gaze swept over the three of them as though he were looking at three withered trees about to topple.
"You say I was wrong?" Chen Wuya spoke slowly, his voice hoarse but steady.
Without waiting for an answer, he slowly lowered his right hand. Rather than forcibly gathering in his palm, the Misaligned Force scattered like gossamer threads into his limbs and bones. He knew that what mattered now was not strength, but eyes.
The last time he had cracked a mechanism had been in that spike-filled passage. Everyone else had wanted to go around it, evade it, or force their way through. Only he had gone against the current—when others retreated, he advanced; when others gathered strength, he charged forward. And somehow, he had stepped exactly into the rhythm. Back then, he had thought it was luck. Only now did he understand: some rules could only reveal their seams when you walked against them.
He closed his eyes for