The internal pressure within Caleb Conway’s chest reached a point of absolute saturation, vibrating like an iron boiler stoked past its capacity.
He sat cross-legged upon the rush mat in the master chamber of Falcon Ridge, his breathing slow and measured while the dense mist from the four subterranean spirit springs swirled around his frame. Deep within his dantian, the crystalline golden root spun with relentless speed, radiating a pure, warm light that flooded his twelve primary meridians. Yet despite absorbing the entire eighteen thousand silver bars converted from the municipal armory sale and cycling the concentrated energy of the peak for three consecutive days, his cultivation had ground to a complete, unyielding standstill.
The gaseous Qi filling his channels was packed so densel
