The silence was the first shock. It was an absolute, suffocating thing, a void so complete it felt like a pressure against their eardrums. After the endless, layered cacophony of the mountain, the grinding stone, the chittering things, the hum of the console, this perfect, featureless quiet was a form of violence in itself.
Yingluo pushed herself up onto her elbows, her body a map of aches and bruises. Every breath she drew was sharp and cold, like inhaling shattered glass. The air was thin and carried a scent of frost and something ancient and sterile, like a tomb that had been opened for the first time in a thousand years.
She looked around. Gao Lian was already standing, a stark silhouette against the black stone, her knife held in a white-knuckled grip. Her body was coiled, a predator ready to strike, but her eyes were wide, scanning a horizon that offered no cover, no landmarks, only an endless, unnerving flatness.
