The passage into the underground palace was narrower than imagined, and the humming of the bronze gears grinding shook the very membranes of one's ears.
Gu Qinghuan’s grip on Pi Yanlin’s wrist was slick with sweat, her scabbard scraping sparks against the stone wall. They had just narrowly evaded a third trap of poison-tipped copper needles. At their feet lay a half-rotted suit of iron armor, its bones corroded, the "Temple Guard" inscription on its waist tag already eaten away into illegibility.
"Three steps to the left," Pi Yanlin stopped abruptly, his fingertips grazing a faint etching on the stone wall. "The pressure plate is the third grey brick."
Chapter 170