Agony was a crown of iron teeth. The star-staples had snapped inward, forming a barbed wreath that bit deep into Li Tian's waist. Blood warmed his robes. The pain was a clean, sharp burn layered over the symphony of his existing injuries: the chest vise, the calf fire, the lacerated ankle, the pins-and-needles forearm, the cracked tooth. The ring pulsed, a metronome counting the beats of his suffering.
He partitioned the pain. The macro cycle ruled everything. On the next radial OUTBLAST, he felt the wreath slacken by a hair's breadth. He exhaled sharply, compressing his torso, and used a torn strip of his belt to wedge between two staples. With his free hand, he pressed the star-map shard to a tiny, almost invisible wreath service glyph for a precise one-count. The staples groaned, not releasing, but aligning just enough. On the following IN-DRAW, he twisted with the centripetal force, threading his hips through the narrowest gap. Metal scraped against bone. The pain spiked, a hot wire through his core. He spiral-bled the shock through his palms and soles the moment he was clear, collapsing into the passage beyond.
He was in the Crown Gallery, a narrow, curved walkway behind the crown's singing vents. The air hummed with complex harmonics that felt like thin wires on his skin. He recalibrated instantly. His Vein Steps were ghost-like, taken only on true NULLs, his Star Lung breaths so faint they left no trace. The ledger was a constant weight: the chest vise, sparkles in his vision, the calf fire flaring with every step, the forearm pins returning with each push-off. The new wound at his waist seeped warmth with every movement.
Ahead, a whistle grid of slits lashed invisible cutting wires during the wind-holds. The walkway's rungs held cross-shear shutters that fired a half-beat after each IN-DRAW. He moved like a shadow, hugging the lee of radial staples. He baited a single suture tick, triggering it early so its star-needle jammed a shutter's frame, buying one clear, precious cycle. No devour. Only rhythm.
A Star Sentry Eye irised open to his left. He kept his pitch perfect, his exhale a steady, low line, his stance impossibly narrow. The pressure hum of a gathering ping swelled, vibrating the cracked tooth in his jaw, then receded as he passed, unseen.
He reached a final pulse shelf before the exit. At its center was the Ridge Hatch glyph, the way out. It required a precise, timed pattern with the shard: a one-count on a NULL, another on the following NULL, then a half-count on an off-beat after an IN-DRAW. He steadied himself, syncing his breath. During the first NULL, he pressed the shard. The first segment of the glyph glowed. He held, a statue amidst quivering crown snares. On the second NULL, he repeated the motion. A second segment ignited.
"On the next breath, then."
The polite line was a razor cut. A talisman popped.
The crown's key shifted. The upcoming NULL he needed for the final touch became a false null, buzzing with hostile energy. The gallery walls felt hairy, charged. A snare began to unspool, lacing toward his bad ankle. A hidden Sentry Eye started to iris open, its lens focusing.
He dropped to a lower breath, widened his stance by a thumb, and stepped on an off-beat half-count. He grounded the disruptive buzz through the heel of his palm against a cold staple. The ring's pulse guided him, a steady beat in the chaos. A minor purifier swirl offered a final readiness boost, scouring the last impurities from his system.
But the hidden Sentry Eye finished opening. At point-blank range, its pressure ping swelled, aimed at his face. There was no cover, no dodging.
He opened a pinpoint micro-devour in his palm, meeting the concussive force.
The backlash was a detonation in his skull. Iron flooded his mouth. His fingertips went dead. The fire in his calf became an inferno. The cracked tooth shattered, a sharp, grinding agony. But the ping was deflected, washing over him in a wave of numb pressure. He spiral-bled instantly, the costs a catastrophic tally in his nerves.
Gasping, half-blind with pain, he recalculated. Through the ringing in his ears, he found the true timing. On the correct off-beat, he pressed the shard to the Ridge Hatch glyph for the final half-count. The entire glyph blazed. The Ridge Hatch irised open—a narrow, wind-shadowed slit to the exterior.
The final traverse was a gauntlet. Snares quivered. Whistle slits ticked. A Sentry Eye watched. He tip-toed the ledge during a clean NULL, his body a whisper. Then, on the following IN-DRAW, he committed, letting the centripetal pull sling him into the hatch.
He was halfway through when the star-staples lining the hatch's interior snapped inward, forming a fresh, barbed wreath around his ribs, the metal teeth biting deep with a sound of grinding bone.