Saída da atmosfera 1000000x mais densa

The roar of the Urlus was a physical force, a violent exhalation that shook the very bones of Osvald. For hours, it had been their singular focus, a testament to Leopoldo’s fevered genius and the collective will of a desperate people. Now, as the crude vessel strained against the planet’s crushing grip, the air inside crackled with a mixture of exhilaration and raw terror. Sacagawea, her face smudged with grease and sweat, clung to a makeshift railing, her knuckles white. Beside her, Joan of Arc, usually a figure of unwavering resolve, had her eyes squeezed shut, a silent prayer escaping her lips.

“We’re ascending,” Leopoldo’s voice, usually so measured, was tight with strain, his eyes glued to a series of rapidly changing dials and gauges he’d salvaged and repurposed. “The atmospheric pressure is… it’s still immense, but we’re gaining.”

Genghis Khan grunted, his massive frame braced against the hull. “Gaining is not enough. We must *escape*.” His gaze, sharp and predatory, swept over the others, a silent challenge to any who might waver.