The ringing in Lin Yue's ears didn't fade; it shifted. It transitioned from the chaotic scream of shattering glass into a heavy, rhythmic thrum, like the heartbeat of a colossal machine buried deep beneath the city.
Lin Yue lay where he'd fallen, ears ringing, the taste of pulverized stone thick on his tongue. Around him, the others were coughing themselves upright one by one — Tang Xin first, then Mu Cheng, hauling Fang Jie up by the collar like a man dragging dead weight out of a burning building.
He pushed himself up, his palms scraping against grit that felt like powdered diamonds. Around him, the world was a monochromatic blur of silver and grey. The sky-shard had carved a jagged wound into the center of the district, a crater of scorched obsidian and crystalline splinters. The air was thick with a shimmering, suspended dust that refused to settle, drifting in slow, hypnotic spirals.
"Everyone—" Shen Rui's voice came out cracked, scraped raw. "Everyone still here? Sound off."
