Air turned to hands. The Well's inhalation was a physical force, yanking Li Tian into the vertical shaft. He didn't fight the fall; he rode it, his body scraping against the cold, ribbed inner wall. The only control was rhythm. He synced his breath to the shaft's pulse—the Star Lung. Inhale deeply during the brief lull in the suction, a two-count exhale as the pressure built. The first time he mistimed it, exhaling a moment too soon, an invisible ring of force constricted around his chest. A stitch of pure cold lanced between his ribs. He pressed his palm against the wall, spiral-bleeding the pain into the living stone as he fell. Spend only what returns.
Ahead, the shaft narrowed, a constrictor band of condensed starlight glowing brighter. The suction intensified, aiming to slam him into it. He twisted in the air, flipping sideways to skim the curved wall. A phantom step of light flickered under his boot, but its pulse was wrong. He adjusted instantly, applying the Vein Step principle to the air itself, pushing off only as the light dimmed. He shot through the narrowing gap with inches to spare.
The victory was short-lived. The cold vapor of the shaft coalesced beside him, weaving itself into a familiar humanoid outline of shifting runes—the Mist-Wraith, reborn. In the tight confines, it had no room for fancy attacks. It simply lashed out with a palm strike that carried the weight of the entire Well's pressure.
There was no space to dodge. Only endure.
At the lethal instant, Li Tian opened a thread-thin devour channel at his wrist, meeting the wraith's strike. The energy that flooded him was the Well's own breath, frozen and alien. His fingertips erupted in pins-and-needles agony, his chest cramped, and he coughed, spraying a fine mist of blood into the rushing air. But he'd shaved the edge off the blow. Using the wraith's own momentum, he slammed it backward into a protruding rib in the shaft. The rib shuddered and emitted a sharp, exhaling gust that disrupted the creature's form. Li Tian didn't hesitate. A short, hard palm to the flickering core glyph at its center scattered it into dissipating, bitter motes.
He was already spiral-bleeding, the cold static exiting through his feet as he slid down the wall. The cost was etched into his trembling muscles.
From high above, a polite voice threaded its way down the shaft, faint but clear. "Adept footwork." A distinct click echoed, followed by a deeper tremor that ran through the stone. The air pressure grew erratic, jagged. Dust and small pebbles sifted down. A delayed detonation talisman. The intruder was not just following; they were sealing the exit, turning the Well into a tomb. A soft, rhythmic counting began to echo, a grim countdown.
Desperation clawed at him, but he forced it down. Discipline was the only way out. On the third descending coil, a side glyph, almost hidden between two breathing ribs, glowed with a faint, familiar pattern. The star-map shard in his palm hummed in response. He didn't think; he acted, slapping the shard against the glyph.
The wall irised open without a sound, revealing a narrow, ribbed vein tunnel exhaling a cooler, metallic breath. No energy cost, just resonance. The ring on his finger warmed in recognition. He shoved himself through the opening just as the Well's pulse beneath him became a frantic, shuddering race toward implosion.
The vein tunnel was a tight, claustrophobic crawl. The walls themselves seemed to breathe, their rhythm a subtle variation on the Well's. He moved with painstaking care, matching his breath to the new cadence. A misstep—a hand placed on a rising pulse instead of a lull—sent a needle-sting of cold energy lancing up his forearm. He spiral-bleed it instantly, the numbness a constant companion. His jolted knee throbbed with every movement.
The tunnel ended, dropping him into a wider space. A cold-light basin. The floor was a shallow pool of liquid light, its sigils fluid and shifting. It was eerily calm. But above, the ceiling was alive. Threads of cold starlight were weaving themselves together, knitting a complex, descending guardian net that hummed with a faint, interrogative frequency. It wasn't tracking his speed. It was listening to the disruption of his motion.
He stood frozen at the edge of the basin, every instinct screaming that a single step would trigger the trap.
Threads woke overhead. I moved—and the ceiling answered.