Haoran took a deep breath.
The barren, wind carved granite of the mountain ridge seemed to tilt violently beneath his boots.
The jagged horizon dipped at an unnatural angle, the purple clouds turning into a dark, smeared spiral in his vision.
The immense pressure that had held his spine rigid through the battle with the Sword Emperor suddenly fractured, the sheer spiritual backlash crashing through his meridians like a river bursting its dams.
His knees went soft, the fine black and gold fabric of his imperial robes swaying as his balance slipped away.
But then, the pool of darkness beneath his heels rippled without a sound as Qing'er's slender, dark clad frame materialized instantly.
"Young master!"
Disregarding the ache lingering in her own recently mended ribs, her arms shot forward, wrapping securely around his broad shoulders and chest to brace his falling weight.
She stared at him worriedly, "Young master, you—"
