The subterranean hall had become a pressure cooker of volatile, borrowed divinity.
The air itself groaned, heavy with the sharp reek of scorched marrow, ozone, and the coppery tang of the dark crimson qi that had poured from Ling Luochen's flayed flesh.
The walls, carved from thousands of tons of ancient subterranean granite, wept fine streams of pulverized sand as fissures raced across the stone ceiling, illuminated by the blinding, unstable golden aura roaring around Yun Ming's hovering frame.
Twenty paces away, Ling Luochen's boots finally bit into the floor, halting her backwards momentum.
Her knees bent, her center of gravity dropping low like an apex predator unbothered by the sudden shift in the wind.
The black tribal markings covering her skin pulsed with violent, rhythmic heat, hissing as they drank in the residual shockwaves that had thrown her back.
