The cracks were widening.
Little Stone could feel it. The Tyrant Body blood energy inside him was sinking of its own accord, burrowing into the gaps between his bones, as though it had encountered something it instinctively feared.
There were no fluctuations of spiritual power in the forward cabin. That made his skin crawl.
Breaking through from Golden Core to Nascent Soul usually sent the spiritual energy of heaven and earth surging, forming a vortex accompanied by extraordinary phenomena. For four thousand years, whenever a Spirit Sword Pavilion disciple broke through to Nascent Soul, the bells on the mountain always rang on their own. Nothing of the sort happened around Zhou Xuan. Everything was quiet.
The last trace of blood in the cabin air vanished. All the foulness the seventeen Spirit Sword Pavilion disciples had brought out of the ruins was pressed down onto the floor, pinned tightly against the metal plates.
Little Stone looked down at his boots. The gray-black debris stuck to the soles lay motionless, clinging tightly to the iron plating.
The Apocalypse shuddered again.
The vessel emerged from the final stretch of the Cross-Region Passage, and wind from the Northern Lands poured through the rift. Laden with shards of ice and frozen spiritual energy, it slammed against the hull. The metal walls gave a low, resonant hum.
A muffled thud of something tumbling came from the rear cabin, followed immediately by Tan Lei's hushed curse.
"The rune circuit on the right side of the third row has come loose again—Zhou Ye, help me hold this down."
"With which hand?" Zhou Ye's voice carried a note of self-mockery.
"...Squat over it and hold it down with your knee."
The two of them struggled in the rear cabin. Spiritual power poured into the auxiliary stabilizing formation patterns, barely