The labyrinthine corridor was an endless tomb of suffocating gloom, reeking of ancient brimstone, ozone, and the fresh, metallic tang of her own blood.
Qian Yunxi was running, breathing heavily.
Every stride was an agony that scraped against her soul, her lungs felt as if they were lined with broken glass, each ragged inhalation wheezing through dry, parched lips.
Her left arm hung limp, fractured at the forearm from the earlier kinetic clash, pressed tight against her shattered ribs to suppress the sharp, agonizing stabs with every footfall.
Her crippled right wing dragged uselessly across the damp floor like a tattered, blood-soaked fan, shedding pale embers of dying golden light that hissed out upon touching the cold, slimy rock.
The deep, cursed scar carving from her left temple down to her jawline throbbed with a sickening, rhythmic heat, weeping dark crimson down her neck, continuously eroding her divine sense.
