Agony was a vise of star-metal teeth grinding against his ribs. The barbed wreath, triggered by his passage through the Ridge Hatch, bit deep, each staple a needle of cold fire. The exterior gale howled just beyond the hatch, a symphony of scarlet mist and shrieking wind. Li Tian's world narrowed to the rhythm and the pain. The macro cadence was still there, even here: the OUTBLAST that pushed against the hatch, the brief, silent hold, the IN-DRAW that pulled the gale inward.
His eyes, straining, found it—a tiny wreath service glyph nestled among the biting staples. On the next brief hold, he pressed the star-map shard against it for a precise two-count. The staples didn't retract, but their grip loosened by a millimeter. He exhaled hard, compressing his ribs, feeling the metal teeth scrape against bone. On the following IN-DRAW, he twisted with the sucking force, pulling himself free in a spray of blood and torn cloth.
The cost was a searing line of fire around his torso. Iron filled his mouth. His fingers buzzed with a fresh wave of numbness. He spiral-bled the shock immediately, palms and soles flat against the cold metal of the catwalk, the pain receding from a scream to a throbbing, bloody ache.
He was out. On the Crown Ridge catwalk, a wind-shadowed ledge running along the colossus's upper thoracic spine. The world was a tilted nightmare. The bone-reef curved away below into scarlet gloom, and the gravity vector was skewed, pulling him sideways against the catwalk's railing. The wind here had its own cadence, a faster, sharper version of the interior cycle: OUTBLAST, wind-hold, IN-DRAW.
Hazards sang their deadly songs. Whistle vents in the ridge fired invisible cutting wires during the wind-holds. Knife-rain spicules thickened into a metallic hail on the OUTBLAST, thinning to a mist on the holds. Wind-harp filaments, resonant strands woven between staples, hummed and would tighten like snares if his breath fell off-key.
He moved with ghostly precision. Vein Steps only on the true holds, his body angled against the skewed gravity. His Star Lung breaths were silent sips of air. The ledger was a constant, grinding weight: the new wound around his ribs, the chest vise, the calf fire, the lacerated ankle, the pins-and-needles forearm, the shattered tooth. He used a remnant of tendon strip to jam a whistle slit, buying two cycles of safe passage. No devour. Only rhythm and terrain.
A crosswind, aberrant and sudden, slammed into him during a wind-hold, pushing him directly into the path of a lashing whistle wire. There was no dodging.
He opened a pinpoint micro-devour over his shoulder.
The backlash was a frozen hammer. Pins and needles cascaded down his arm. The shattered root of his tooth flared with white-hot agony. But the cutting wire was deflected, screeching harmlessly against the ridge. He spiral-bled while still moving, his gait faltering, his right arm hanging partially numb and useless at his side.
"Do keep pace."
The polite line was a whisper beneath the gale's roar. A talisman detonated somewhere ahead.
The local wind cycle inverted. The expected wind-hold became a violent IN-DRAW. The force yanked him off his feet, dragging him toward a cluster of humming wind-harp filaments. He didn't fight it. He dropped his stance, angling his body to slide under the deadly strands, his breath held in a controlled line. He adapted with pure discipline, his will the only anchor in the chaos.
Ahead, the Crest Anchor rose—a star-stapled pillar humming with power, slightly out of phase with the surrounding ridge. The ring on his finger pulsed, a metronome cutting through the dissonance. He reached the base of the pillar. The keying sequence was a three-touch cadence on true holds. He pressed the shard on the first hold. A segment glowed. He held, a statue against the gale. On the second hold, he touched again. A second segment ignited.
He found the true timing for the final touch through the ring's steady pulse. On the third hold, he pressed the shard home.
The Crest Anchor flared. A section of the ridge irised open, revealing a wind-shadow traverse—a narrow, stable bridge of solidified air leading deeper into the crown's structure. A minor purifier swirl swept through him, a final readiness that offered no power, only clarity.
The air around the traverse thickened, grain by grain, as if frost were forming inside the wind itself. Knife-rain thinned to glittering dust. The wind-harp filaments above him climbed a half-step in pitch, then another—tightening like bowstrings on a single, killing note. Li Tian kept his breath below the line, a thread pulled through a needle. His right arm dragged, half-numb from the earlier deflection; the fresh tear around his ribs scraped with every micro-step. Match the beat, not the breath. He placed one more toe-edge on the lull and felt the world hold its breath with him.
He stepped onto the traverse, the howling gale suddenly muted. For a single, precious moment, the path was clear.
Rhythm is the key; a missed beat is a grave.
Then, high above on the crown's skin, a massive Storm Eye irised open. It was a Sentinel on a colossal scale, its cold lens focusing, a sector-wide pressure beam gathering at its center, the air itself crystallizing with lethal intent around him.Chapter 38 – Crest in the Gale
Agony was a vise of star-metal teeth grinding against his ribs. The barbed wreath, triggered by his passage through the Ridge Hatch, bit deep, each staple a needle of cold fire. The exterior gale howled just beyond the hatch, a symphony of scarlet mist and shrieking wind. Li Tian's world narrowed to the rhythm and the pain. The macro cadence was still there, even here: the OUTBLAST that pushed against the hatch, the brief, silent hold, the IN-DRAW that pulled the gale inward.
His eyes, straining, found it—a tiny wreath service glyph nestled among the biting staples. On the next brief hold, he pressed the star-map shard against it for a precise two-count. The staples didn't retract, but their grip loosened by a millimeter. He exhaled hard, compressing his ribs, feeling the metal teeth scrape against bone. On the following IN-DRAW, he twisted with the sucking force, pulling himself free in a spray of blood and torn cloth.
The cost was a searing line of fire around his torso. Iron filled his mouth. His fingers buzzed with a fresh wave of numbness. He spiral-bled the shock immediately, palms and soles flat against the cold metal of the catwalk, the pain receding from a scream to a throbbing, bloody ache.
He was out. On the Crown Ridge catwalk, a wind-shadowed ledge running along the colossus's upper thoracic spine. The world was a tilted nightmare. The bone-reef curved away below into scarlet gloom, and the gravity vector was skewed, pulling him sideways against the catwalk's railing. The wind here had its own cadence, a faster, sharper version of the interior cycle: OUTBLAST, wind-hold, IN-DRAW.
Hazards sang their deadly songs. Whistle vents in the ridge fired invisible cutting wires during the wind-holds. Knife-rain spicules thickened into a metallic hail on the OUTBLAST, thinning to a mist on the holds. Wind-harp filaments, resonant strands woven between staples, hummed and would tighten like snares if his breath fell off-key.
He moved with ghostly precision. Vein Steps only on the true holds, his body angled against the skewed gravity. His Star Lung breaths were silent sips of air. The ledger was a constant, grinding weight: the new wound around his ribs, the chest vise, the calf fire, the lacerated ankle, the pins-and-needles forearm, the shattered tooth. He used a remnant of tendon strip to jam a whistle slit, buying two cycles of safe passage. No devour. Only rhythm and terrain.
A crosswind, aberrant and sudden, slammed into him during a wind-hold, pushing him directly into the path of a lashing whistle wire. There was no dodging.
He opened a pinpoint micro-devour over his shoulder.
The backlash was a frozen hammer. Pins and needles cascaded down his arm. The shattered root of his tooth flared with white-hot agony. But the cutting wire was deflected, screeching harmlessly against the ridge. He spiral-bled while still moving, his gait faltering, his right arm hanging partially numb and useless at his side.
"Do keep pace."
The polite line was a whisper beneath the gale's roar. A talisman detonated somewhere ahead.
The local wind cycle inverted. The expected wind-hold became a violent IN-DRAW. The force yanked him off his feet, dragging him toward a cluster of humming wind-harp filaments. He didn't fight it. He dropped his stance, angling his body to slide under the deadly strands, his breath held in a controlled line. He adapted with pure discipline, his will the only anchor in the chaos.
Ahead, the Crest Anchor rose—a star-stapled pillar humming with power, slightly out of phase with the surrounding ridge. The ring on his finger pulsed, a metronome cutting through the dissonance. He reached the base of the pillar. The keying sequence was a three-touch cadence on true holds. He pressed the shard on the first hold. A segment glowed. He held, a statue against the gale. On the second hold, he touched again. A second segment ignited.
He found the true timing for the final touch through the ring's steady pulse. On the third hold, he pressed the shard home.
The Crest Anchor flared. A section of the ridge irised open, revealing a wind-shadow traverse—a narrow, stable bridge of solidified air leading deeper into the crown's structure. A minor purifier swirl swept through him, a final readiness that offered no power, only clarity.
The air around the traverse thickened, grain by grain, as if frost were forming inside the wind itself. Knife-rain thinned to glittering dust. The wind-harp filaments above him climbed a half-step in pitch, then another—tightening like bowstrings on a single, killing note. Li Tian kept his breath below the line, a thread pulled through a needle. His right arm dragged, half-numb from the earlier deflection; the fresh tear around his ribs scraped with every micro-step. Match the beat, not the breath. He placed one more toe-edge on the lull and felt the world hold its breath with him.
He stepped onto the traverse, the howling gale suddenly muted. For a single, precious moment, the path was clear.
Rhythm is the key; a missed beat is a grave.
Then, high above on the crown's skin, a massive Storm Eye irised open. It was a Sentinel on a colossal scale, its cold lens focusing, a sector-wide pressure beam gathering at its center, the air itself crystallizing with lethal intent around him.