"Not 'active,' but 'waiting.'"
They had waited a long time.
But they could wait.
The abyss had already waited ten epochs; it did not care if it had to wait a little longer.
At the center of the platform, that door slowly closed.
The two halves of the door drew together from either side, like a pair of hands coming together in prayer.
As they closed, the threads of law reconnected at their breaks.
The bridge remembered what it was supposed to look like, so it returned to its original form.
The door closed.
On its surface, the glow of the six runes faded from bright to dim, from dim to grayish white.
The hexagram pattern went from clear to blurred, from blurred to nonexistent.
All that remained was an ordinary door, three zhang high and two zhang wide, its frame condensed from laws.
The Lord of the Abyss stood there, looking at that door.
He did not need to hurry, did not need to worry, did not need to be anxious.
He merely sat there, watching the clock, waiting.
The clock was ticking.
The train would come.
The void beyond the door was not a bridge deck.
The instant Chu Ming stepped inside, he sensed a change in "space."
It was not "going from one place to another," but "changing from one form of existence into another."
Like stepping off a ship and onto solid ground.
The ship swayed, while the ground was steady.
The bridge deck was a "road"; the hall was "space."
The hall was circular, with a diameter of ten thousand zhang.
Its shape had not been "constructed," but "excavated."
Like a hollowed-out planet—the walls were the planet's inner shell, and the ground was its heart.
Countless dense runes flowed across the walls. They had not