The iron grate covering was shoved aside with a jarring, metallic screech.
Qin Lie clambered out of the sewage outlet, dropping to his knees on the rusted steel plating. The briny stench of seawater, mingled with the putrid decay of the sewers, washed over him. The burn on his left shoulder was still smoking; the flesh and skin—seared by the Holy Light—were peeled back and raw, and every breath sent a jolt of agony through his nerves.
He wiped the filth from his face and pulled out the data storage unit.
The surface of the black cube was scalding to the touch, and its indicator light was flashing red erratically. At the same instant, the short sword at his waist vibrated; the runes etched into its hilt glowed faintly.
A trap.
The Archbishop had not only locked down the laboratory but
