{Rot in your LUST!}
A fathomless voice descended through the absolute emptiness that had swallowed Anarctica, although no air remained for those words to travel through and no ordinary space survived to carry sound. The voice was everywhere at once: inside thought, soul and the primordial depths of instinct that had learned fear long before cultivators invented a name for it.
Every remaining World Transcendent heard the voice with perfect clarity while possessing no idea where it had come from.
Direction had disappeared along with Anarctica. The Coffer could no longer be perceived, the dead winter vanished beneath the same all-consuming absence, and glaciers and heavens had been effaced so thoroughly that the Chained could not determine whether they were standing, floating or falling through infinity.
