The wind near the summit of King's Mountain no longer sounded like wind.
It sounded like a war.
Nine thousand eight hundred kilometers above the base, the atmosphere itself had become violent. The sky churned with violet storm clouds so dense that lightning crawled across them continuously like veins of living electricity. The clouds were not below anymore.
They were everywhere.
The mountain pierced through them like the tip of a colossal spear.
What little terrain remained was a network of knife-thin ridges twisting upward toward the summit spire. Black stone formations jutted outward at impossible angles, forcing climbers to weave through jagged corridors of rock and storm.
The summit was visible now.
Only two hundred kilometers away.
But King's Mountain was not finished.
The storm exploded.
The cloud layer beneath the ridge tore open and something massive surged upward.
Then another.
And another.
More than sixty monsters burst into the sky at once.
