The narrow, pitch-black corridors of the seventh floor groaned beneath an overwhelming, suffocating pressure.
Every breath of air was foul, tasting of old copper, volcanic ash, and the necrotic rot that wept from the walls.
The dark floor were slick with drops of Qian Yunxi's blood, reflecting the faint, trembling glow of the holy sword held tightly in her white-knuckled grip.
Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving in shallow, burning gasps that sent searing needles of pain through her cracked ribs.
The hideous, blackened scar running from her left temple down to her jawline throbbed with a sickening, rhythmic heat, gnawing at her soul sea.
Standing ten paces away was Qing Yan.
His robes hung in shredded, blood-crusted tatters, framing a posture twisted by delusion and malice.
The grey, curved scimitar in his right hand hummed with a soul-rending frequency, dripping drops of corrosive dark mist that hissed as they ate into the stone.
