The Grand Tournament of the Obsidian Sparrow Institute opened not with a bronze chime, but with the roar of three thousand spectators shaking the Sunstone Arena. Cultivators from across Cangming packed the tiered stone tiers, iron talismans rattling against lacquered armor. Below, on the crimson-stained sand of the first ring, Baili Chen stood. The familiar heat of the Iron Husk, Yaoluo’s essence, pulsed beneath his ribs, a ravenous hunger he could barely contain. His borrowed face, Gongsun Yang’s proud, aloof features, already felt stretched, like thin parchment pulled taut over a furnace. His first opponent, a thick-set fighter from Dragonfang Peak, charged with an obsidian mace. Chen did not even draw his blade. A brief flick of Chen's sleeve, and the brute flew backward, smashing against the boundary ward with a sharp crack. The mace, now a twisted wreck, clattered uselessly beside him. Silence, then a ripple of murmurs. Another opponent, wielding twin scimitars, tried a flanking maneuver. Chen moved like a phantom, his true speed masked by a casual flick of his wrist. A gust of wind, a ripple in the air, and the scimitars were stripped from the man’s grasp, embedded in the ground twenty paces away. The swordsman stumbled, clutching raw palms, staring at his empty hands. Four more bouts ended identically, decided in the span of an intake of breath. Each time, Chen felt the subtle shift, the tell-tale tingle beneath the skin of his jaw. The porcelain was heating, softening. “The disguise is weakening with each exertion, host,” Yaoluo’s voice slithered in his mind, sharp as a razor. “That petty display of power costs you. You must conserve.” “I am conserving,” Chen thought back, holding his stone facade. “I can’t afford prolonged battles. This face… it will betray me.” He had only moments between rounds. He strode toward the staging pavilion, an oiled-silk canopy set back from the ring. The air inside was cooler, a blessed reprieve from the arena’s glare. A serving girl, her head bowed low, offered him a cup of steaming herbal tea. Just as he reached for it, a sudden flash of movement caught his eye. A shadow detached itself from a corner of the tent, moving with the deceptive grace of a predator. It was Song Jiao. Her eyes, usually so calculating, were narrowed with a venomous intent as she intercepted the serving girl. “You are dismissed,” she purred, her voice dripping honey. She took the cup, her slender digits brushing the rim, and produced a tiny vial from her sleeve. The liquid inside glinted, a sickly, pale green. With a practiced motion, she poured a single, viscous drop into the tea, stirring it with a delicate, silver spoon. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the cup. “My dear Gongsun Yang must be at his best,” she said, her voice just loud enough for Chen to hear, laced with a false sweetness that made his stomach churn. She made to offer the cup, her gaze sweeping past him to where Baili Ming was now visible, preening in the stands. But before she could take another step, a hand, swift and precise, materialized from the shadows behind her. Su Wanyan. Her brow remained flat, her motion as spare as a balanced scale. With a whisper of silk, she intercepted Song Jiao’s arm, her grip firm, unyielding. “Lady Song, your kindness is admirable,” Su Wanyan’s voice was calm, almost melodic, but with an underlying edge of steel. “However, the Institute’s medicinal traditions dictate that all refreshments for combatants must pass through a full spiritual appraisal. A simple precaution.” Song Jiao’s composure faltered. “What nonsense is this? I merely wished to offer my betrothed comfort.” Her tone was strained, her eyes darting nervously between Su Wanyan and the cup she held. “Indeed,” Su Wanyan conceded, her gaze unwavering. “But rules are rules, even for those as esteemed as yourself.” Her free hand, quicker than the eye could follow, took another identical cup from the serving girl’s tray, already filled with the same steaming tea. With a subtle, almost imperceptible sleight, she performed a flawless switch. The cup Song Jiao had drugged was now in her fingers, while the clean porcelain sat in Song Jiao's palm. Song Jiao, caught between maintaining her facade and risking exposure, hesitated. She looked at the fresh cup, then at Su Wanyan’s unreadable face. “Very well,” she forced out, her voice tight. “A wise precaution.” She took the *clean* cup, her eyes still narrowed with suspicion. Su Wanyan then turned, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “Allow me, Lady Song. A toast, perhaps, to the coming victory?” Without waiting for a reply, she raised the poisoned cup to her own lips, taking a small, elegant sip. Song Jiao, momentarily distracted by the unexpected gesture, mirrored her, bringing the *clean* tea to her mouth. She drank deeply, her gaze still fixed on Su Wanyan’s impassive face, searching for a sign of trickery. Su Wanyan lowered her rim without a twitch. “Excellent vintage,” she commented softly, then extended the poisoned cup to Chen. “Young Master Gongsun, your tea.” Chen took the cup, his eyes meeting Su Wanyan’s for a fleeting instant. He caught the barest glint of iron humor in her pupils before her features set like stone. He brought the cup to his lips, taking a deliberate, slow swallow. The taste was normal, earthy and warm. The real poison, he knew, was now slowly seeping into Song Jiao’s system. Mere moments later, as the next round was called, Song Jiao’s eyes, fixed on the arena, began to glaze over. A strange rigidity settled over her elegant posture. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Her hand, clutching the empty cup, began to tremble violently. Then her torso slumped sideways against the bench, jaw frozen shut like pinned silk. Her face, usually so vibrant, was now a pale, mottled green. She was paralyzed, mute, a living statue witnessing the tournament unfold, powerless to intervene or even cry out. Su Wanyan, standing beside Chen, spared a brief, clinical glance at the collapsed woman. “Perhaps she overexerted herself,” she mused, her voice devoid of pity. “The pressure of the tournament can be quite overwhelming for some.” Chen merely nodded, a cold satisfaction blossoming in his chest. He felt the porcelain skin of his face grow hotter, the demonic energy within him surging with renewed fervor. The final round. It was time. He walked onto the crimson sand, the roar of the crowd washing over him. Baili Ming stood opposite, a sneer plastered across his handsome features, the Baili Bloodstone Sword glinting malevolently at his hip. The ancestral blade, stolen from Chen’s father, now poised to be defiled by a coward. Rage, cold and precise, sharpened Chen’s every nerve. He felt a searing heat bloom across his right cheek, a sudden, intense pressure. And then, with a sound like ancient pottery cracking, a massive crack split down the center of Chen’s cheek.

Cracks in the Porcelain