The cataclysmic tremor subsided into a low, guttural vibration that rumbled deep within the subterranean bedrock.
Clouds of pulverized slate and gray dust hung thick in the air, slowly drifting across the shoreline where ancient willows had been snapped like dried twigs.
"Is this it?" Tang Lin murmured, squinting through the grit, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared at the stone gates that appeared.
The colossal gate was easily sixty meters in height, carved directly from a monolithic slab of pale, sea-green celadon jade that seemed entirely untouched by the rot of time.
The stonework radiated an unfathomable, primordial vitality—a breath of perpetual spring so dense that the shattered willow branches along the bank began to sprout tiny green buds within seconds of its emergence.
And as the gate locked into the bedrock with a deafening, resonant thud, Tang Lin noticed that the lake was also slowly draining until it was emptied out.
