The gravitational chamber had no concept of mercy.
It did not test intention.
It did not care for resolve.
It only measured what remained when everything unnecessary was stripped away.
Lin Shu knelt at its center.
Eighty times gravity pressed down upon her—an invisible mountain that did not crush instantly, but patiently, relentlessly, as if waiting for her bones to remember what surrender felt like.
Sweat soaked her robes. Darkened them. Glued fabric to skin.
Her breathing came slow, measured, forced through a chest that felt caged by iron bands. Each inhale was deliberate. Each exhale a controlled release of pain.
Her immortal body physique was working.
That much was undeniable.
Meridians that would have ruptured long ago remained intact, glowing faintly beneath her skin like lines of restrained starlight. Her bones hummed—not cracking, not bending—but resonating, adjusting themselves millimeter by millimeter to the weight.
