The words were a hammer blow from creation itself. The very air splintered, cracking into luminous fissures above the ribcage of the fallen behemoth. Amber arcs, thick as a serpent, lashed down, striking the jagged spine of the peak. A deafening crack ripped through the air, followed by a groan of ancient stone. The colossal ribs buckled and collapsed inward, showering the flagstones in pulverized calcified marrow.
Feng Yancheng, still standing amidst the debris of his teacup, wheezed as the descending aura crushed him. It pressed him down, an invisible fist crushing his spiritual cultivation. His joints failed, driving him into the split slate. His face, already blotched with fury, now twisted in a mask of impotent terror. He tried to push himself up, but the force was absolute, pinning him like an insect.
From the rent sky, a figure descended. He was wreathed in crackling fulgurite arcs, his silhouette a towering pillar of incandescence against the churning storm clouds. His raiment was woven from stellar thread, stiff with radiant sigils. He landed with a silent impact, the stone beneath his boots vitrifying, the draft pungent with scorched copper.
Zong Kuang stepped past the shattered archway. His eyes, the color of dawn breaking over a mountain range, swept over Feng Yancheng, who now lay prostrate, gasping for breath. The deity’s gaze dismissed him as casually as one would brush away dust. Then, they settled on Ruan Zhihe.
Zhihe remained standing, her grey robes unstirred by the violent descent, her expression still serenely calm. The blue fire in the furnace had subsided to a steady, frigid simmer, tinting her jaw in cold cobalt. Moqiu, the three-eyed marten, stirred upon her shoulder, stretching along her collarbone as its third iris dilated to swallow the pungent, lingering ozone.
“You,” Zong Kuang’s voice boomed, resonating with a power that shook the very foundations of Zhihe’s forge. “You dare disregard my presence? To mistake sacred frustration for a common cough?” His ochre irises narrowed. “Acknowledge me, Ruan Zhihe. Acknowledge the sovereign standing before you!”
He extended an arm, and a seam of violent static tore directly toward her ribs. It was a strike meant to humble, to enforce worship, to burn away any defiance. It screamed through the air, leaving a scorching trail of ozone.
Zhihe, however, did not flinch. She simply took a step forward, directly into the path of the discharge. The lightning engulfed her, a blinding flash, a roar of raw power. Feng Yancheng shut his eyes against the blast, braced for the stink of vaporized flesh.
But when the light faded, Zhihe was still there. Unscathed. The lightning seemed to ripple around her, grounding out harmlessly across the stone floor. Her grey robes were untouched, her pale skin unmarred. Not even a strand of her dark hair was singed. She looked utterly indifferent, as if she had merely walked through a light mist.
Zong Kuang scowled. His expression shifted from imperious demand to bewildered annoyance. He raised his palm anew; the arcs coalesced, yet sputtered into dull beads against her soot-stained cuffs.
“Remarkable,” Zhihe murmured, her voice soft and even, completely devoid of fear or reverence. She tilted her head, her gaze fixed not on Zong Kuang’s face, but on his extended hand. “The discharge is erratic. Highly unstable. It indicates a severe imbalance in your inner channels.”
She took another step, closing the distance between them. The static receded as she drew near, hissing like wet timber. Zong Kuang, the Supreme Deity, found himself inexplicably backing up a step, his aura stalling before her indifferent scrutiny.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, a flicker of true confusion crossing his face.
Zhihe reached out, her slender fingers, smudged with soot, gently taking his wrist. Her touch was cool, calm, and utterly devoid of desire or fear. It was the touch of a healer, assessing a patient. Zong Kuang stiffened, caught off guard. His skin, usually dense as cut nephrite, yielded slightly beneath her calloused fingers. He felt a faint, almost imperceptible warmth from her fingers, her soot-steeped spiritual weight settling directly into his meridians.
Her brow furrowed in concentration. She closed her eyes for a moment, her thumb pressing lightly against his pulse point. “Your immortal qi is stagnated,” she announced, opening her eyes. Her gaze met his, not with awe, but with a clinical assessment. “A severe case of immortal stagnation. Your core is suffocating, unable to circulate its reservoirs. It manifests as uncontrolled bursts and erratic discharge. It’s quite serious. Left untreated, it will shatter the seat of your soul.”
Zong Kuang pulled his chin back. Diagnosed like a conscript with lung-rot by a woman who smelled of slag. The sheer audacity was staggering. He tried to pull his hand back, but her grip, though gentle, was surprisingly firm.
“However,” Zhihe continued, ignoring his sputtering indignation, her eyes already scanning his divine raiment with a newfound intensity. “This presents an opportunity. Your divine armor… it’s saturated with pure celestial essence, yet also contains traces of Abyssal suppression. An intriguing paradox.”
Before Zong Kuang could react, Zhihe’s other hand shot out, grabbing a shimmering, golden pauldron from his shoulder. It detached with a faint *snick*, leaving a visible gap in the mantle. Zong Kuang stared as she tucked the metal plate under her arm.
“A perfect starting material for the Heaven-Mending Crucible,” she declared, turning swiftly. With a practiced, fluid motion, she hurled the plate into the furnace throat. The metal sailed through the smog and plunged directly into the blue embers.
There was no sound of metal hitting stone, no clang of a foreign object entering the furnace. Instead, a shriek, ancient and hungry, tore through the kiln. The blue flames erupted, twisting into bloated, jagged silhouettes. The alloy, instead of yielding, bubbled into tar.
From its core, an inky spine broke through the slag—cold, hungry, and ancient. It pulsed, grew, and then coalesced into a monstrous, formless mass that lunged out of the Brazen Maw. It choked out the furnace draft, swelling into the ribcage vault until the soot-stinking gloom crowded out all light.
The black tendrils dragged along the behemoth bones, cracking the calcified arches and spilling winter-chill venom into the lower shafts.