A metallic tang, thick as rendered marrow, stained the perpetually cool air of the Black Kiln. Ruan Zhihe hummed a quiet, tuneless melody, her broom a whisper against the slag-dusted floor. Each stroke was precise, a meditation, pushing iridescent flakes of cooled spirit-ash into neat piles. The rhythmic rasp of bristles against the blackened stone was the only sound in the cavernous forge-chamber, save for the distant, guttural sighs of the ghostly flames that fed the great furnace. The Hollow Peak, a monument of petrified ribs and bone, always felt this way – a quiet, forgotten maw. Perfect for uninterrupted work. Her attention, usually a focused beam on the minutiae of ghostly metallurgy, twitched towards the immense forge-heart. The Brazen Maw, as it was known, was a beast of basalt and warped steel, its central crucible a maelstrom of cerulean fire. Today, however, its usual steady roar faltered. A low, wet gurgle vibrated through the floor. Zhihe paused, broom held aloft. The gurgle intensified, swelling into a choked cough. Then, with a sound like a thousand-year-old artery rupturing, the Brazen Maw shrieked. A geyser of viscous, crimson fluid erupted from its core, splattering across the polished forge-runes on the floor, clinging to the skeletal arches of the behemoth's ribcage. It wasn't molten metal; it was raw, pulsing blood, rich with the metallic scent of her own inner marrow. From the apex of the crimson fountain, something spiraled down, tumbling through the gory spray. Zhihe stepped forward, calm, even as the furnace’s blood rained around her. Her pale fingers, unhesitating, plucked the object from the air. It was a scroll, not of parchment or jade, but of tightly woven ghost-silk threads, each strand throbbing with a dark, vital energy. Unfurling it, she saw a schematic, impossibly intricate, glowing with a faint, internal light. The lines, the arcane symbols, the very flow of meridians… they were utterly familiar. Her own meticulous, spidery hand, unmistakable. The Heaven-Mending Crucible. The blueprint. “So, the rumors are true. You’ve truly lost your mind, Ruan Zhihe.” The voice, sharp and laced with disdain, cut through the quiet hum of the forge. Zhihe didn’t startle. Her gaze remained fixed on the blueprint, tracing a particularly complex array of inscription patterns. She registered the cold draft from the newly opened forge-gate, the clatter of armored boots, and the subtle shift in the Kiln's atmosphere, now tainted by a heavy, self-important presence. Feng Yancheng, the prophesied hero, stood framed in the archway, his cerulean robes stark against the fog-shrouded peak outside. Behind him, an entourage of grim-faced disciples formed a silent, judgmental phalanx. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes narrowed in what he likely believed was a display of righteous authority. Zhihe recognized the expression. It was the same one he wore when dispatching minor ghouls, before she had been discarded. “The lease on this facility expired with your engagement annulment, Ruan Zhihe,” Feng Yancheng stated, his voice ringing with forced magnanimity. “The Kiln is designated for disciples of true talent. I am here to facilitate your departure. We’ve even prepared a small,… *hospitable* cottage in the Outer Reaches for you.” He paused, clearly anticipating a tearful plea, a trembling protest, anything to signify her devastation. Zhihe, however, merely folded the blood-stained blueprint carefully. “Thank you, Feng Yancheng,” she said, her voice even, almost serene. “This space has served its purpose. I have the schematics now.” She looked up, her gaze meeting his without a flicker of sentiment. “Though, your ether seems rather… volatile. A slight discoloration around the Golden Core, perhaps? A symptom of emotional dysregulation. Golden Core hysteria is not uncommon in nascent heroes. I could brew you a rehabilitative tea blend, infused with Calming Lotus and Tranquil Silkgrass.” Feng Yancheng’s carefully constructed composure fractured. His eyes flashed. “Hysteria? You—!” His aura, usually an imposing surge, flared outwards, driving down toward the blood-slicked floor. The ground beneath his feet cracked, sending fissures spiderwebbing through the ancient stone. But before the pressure could fully descend, a form solidified beside Zhihe. Gongyi Ren, the forge’s mute sword-spirit, emerged from the very shadows of the Kiln. He was a being of polished gloom and quiet power, his form subtly shifting, like moonlight on dark steel. His eyes, usually downcast, lifted, burning with a cold, pale light. He did not move, did not speak. He simply *looked* at Feng Yancheng. Feng Yancheng’s aura, a moment ago an overbearing press, abruptly dissipated. It didn’t just recede; it shattered, like a pane of ice struck by an invisible hammer. His face contorted, a gasp catching in his throat as he stumbled back a step, his disciples murmuring in alarm. He felt… an acute hollowness where his raging aura had been, a disconcerting silence. From the shadows near Zhihe's feet, a sleek, three-eyed shadow-marten, Moqiu, unfurled itself. Its third eye, a sliver of jet, swiveled towards Feng Yancheng. A barely perceptible tendril of inky mist rose from Feng Yancheng’s chest, thin as a wisp of smoke, and was drawn into the marten’s waiting maw. Moqiu swallowed, a soft, satisfied click. The air around Feng Yancheng lightened, but not pleasantly. It felt… emptied. His gnawing jealousy, his bitter resentment at her composure, had been quietly devoured. Zhihe, oblivious to the silent skirmish, extended a small, chipped ceramic cup. “The tea would truly aid in stabilizing your cultivation, Feng Yancheng. Prolonged emotional instability can lead to Qi deviation.” Feng Yancheng stared at the cup, then at Zhihe’s calm, unblinking face. A dark flush spread across his features. “You mock me,” he hissed, his voice trembling with humiliated fury. He snatched the cup, his fingers closing around it with unnecessary force. The ceramic shrieked, then crumbled to dust, showering his hand with fragments. “You play this game of madness, this indifference, to make me regret. To win me back! You think I don’t see through your pathetic act?!” A tremor shook the entire Hollow Peak. The ghostly flames in the Brazen Maw roared, no longer blood-stained, but burning with an impossible, frigid blue. A voice, ancient and vast, rumbled from the very fabric of the sky, vibrating through bone and stone alike, echoing with divine impatience. “She is not playing, mortal.”

The Blueprint in the Blood