The blinding glare of the miniature sun hanging in the high stratosphere painted the leaden clouds in strokes of furious, molten gold.
Down in the lower sky, the air was choked with ozone, rotting bile, and the sickening stench of boiling sulfur.
The chattering mouths lining Haoran's blackened shoulder clicked and ground their needle-thin fangs against one another, their discordant, maddening whispers clawing at Lin Yun's sanity.
Azathoth remained locked in Lin Yun's left grip, its obsidian spine shuddering with dark, oily tremors that threatened to dissolve the fabric of the atmosphere itself.
Lin Yun stared at Huo Yue, his eyes burning with rabid, cornered fury.
