A low, wet groan echoed through the Hollow Peak as ancient jade turned brittle, then crumbled, falling like diseased snow from the giant's spine. The air grew dense, clotted with the stench of rot and iron scraped raw against calcified rib. Zhihe, her cheeks caked in soot and brine, held her footing without blinking. Her eyes, usually placid as deep river pools, now burned with a focused intensity that bordered on manic. She paid no heed to the spreading gloom, the grinding bedrock, or the sharp intakes of breath from Zong Kuang and Feng Yancheng behind her. “The void ichor destabilizes the celestial alloy too rapidly,” she murmured, her tone flat amidst the clatter of shale and thin shrieks. “It will consume the whole Peak if not integrated. Gongyi Ren, prepare the Soul-Anchoring Hammer. I need the Blood-Forged Mallet, quickly.” Her mute sword-spirit, a faint shimmer of pain and devotion, detached from the hearth wall. Gongyi Ren's translucent silhouette gathered density, his silvered blade humming with pale ward-light as he drew the heavy tools from the rack. He did not need to be told how close the danger was; his essence, bound to the coals, shuddered against the encroaching rot. Feng Yancheng, finally breaking free of the strange paralysis that had held him, lunged forward. “Zhihe, what in the name of the Celestial Emperor are you doing?!” His voice cracked, a desperate plea tinged with outrage. “The entire Peak is collapsing! This… this isn't a forging mishap, it's a void rupture! You must retreat!” He reached for her, his hand seizing her arm with a desperate grip. His touch, steeped in the heat of a Golden Core, felt icy against her wrist. Zhihe merely glanced at his hand, then back to the hearth throat, her expression blank. She tried to pull away, her focus unwavering. “Unhand me, Feng Yancheng,” she said, her tone devoid of anger, merely a mild inconvenience. “This ore is unstable. You risk rupturing its binding cycle.” “Scattering?! It’s going to devour you!” he roared, tightening his hold, his grip leaving crimson marks on her pale skin. He tried to drag her back, away from the kiln mouth, away from the black filaments whipping the fog. Before he could take another step, a low growl rumbled from the soot beneath Zhihe’s hem. Moqiu, usually a creature of subtle malice, swelled. Its three eyes, normally pinpricks of dark intelligence, flared into sickly green orbs. Its shade stretched across the flags, thickening into a lupine bulk taller than Feng, bristling with spiked bristles. A guttural snarl tore from its throat, echoing the dying groans of the Peak. “Get away from her, hero,” the marten's voice, a chorus of scraped bone and dry husks, rasped inside Feng’s skull. Moqiu lunged, not at Feng’s flesh, but at his splayed silhouette. Its fangs, coated in bitter mire, sank through the cast outline on the stone. Feng screamed, a sound of pure terror and agony. His inner flame sputtered and snuffed out, as though severed at the root. He staggered, then collapsed, his body writhing, his eyes staring blankly at the crumbling ceiling, his silhouette torn and crumpled beside his knees. Zong Kuang, the Supreme Deity, watched with a mixture of awe and profound irritation. The black tar surged forward, greasy ribbons creeping over the flags toward the boots of the celestial lord. He tasted its decay, a bitter bile contrary to his immortal rank. With a mere thought, he could incinerate it, purge it from existence. But she had to ask. She *had* to acknowledge his power, his male presence in this collapsing realm. “Mortal,” Zong Kuang’s voice boomed, cutting through the din of destruction. His golden aura, though dimmed by the encroaching Abyss, still radiated immense power. “This is a primal threat. A primeval blight, not raw stock for a smith. Beg me. Ask for my intervention, and I shall obliterate it. I shall scour this stain from your masonry and your soil with a flick of my wrist. Acknowledge my strength, woman. Acknowledge me.” Zhihe did not look up. Gongyi Ren returned, his spectral hands holding a heavy, gnarled mallet of obsidian, banded with veins of dull cinnabar. She took it, her slender fingers wrapping around the cold, scarred handle. Her other hand, already scraped raw from earlier work, gripped a chisel of dark iron. The ink-slick mire heaved inside the belly of the kiln, the alloy screeching beneath the pressure. “The integration is failing,” she declared, her voice sharp with urgency. Her eyes, bright with an almost mad brilliance, locked upon the bubbling pitch within the coals. “It requires direct physical intervention. Gongyi Ren, steady the crucible’s anchor points. Moqiu, keep Feng Yancheng alive, but incapacitated. He is still a potential resource.” Ignoring Zong Kuang’s thunderous silence, ignoring the black filaments that whipped across her cheek, Zhihe stepped closer to the Brazen Maw. With a fierce cry, she plunged her bare, bloodied hand directly into the flue, blistering skin and charring fat in an instant. Her fingers, tempered by secret arts, sank into the greasy sludge that smothered the celestial core. She gripped it, then began to hammer. The obsidian mallet rose and fell, striking her own burning hand, striking the bubbling mire, striking the unyielding core. Each impact sent showers of sparks, not of sparks, but of cold blue fire. Her face was a mask of pain and utter focus, her movements precise, obsessive. Her blood, sizzling and evaporating on the slag, bound with the mire, forcing the amorphous rot into alignment. Gongyi Ren, his own spectral form vibrating with silent agony, braced the stone hearth. Moqiu loomed over the paralyzed hero, three green pupils slit narrow. The black mass screeched beneath the iron, thinning, hardening, beaten into the grain of the bar. Zhihe continued to hammer, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes fixed on the evolving material. Finally, with a final blow, the darkness locked tight. The flue shuddered, then went quiet. The blue flames returned, pure and steady. Inside, a single, glowing ingot of dark, iridescent metal pulsed with an eerie light. It floated, shimmering, perfectly formed. As the soot settled, the bar hardened, its skin bearing an etched inscription in archaic script. Zhihe reached in, her hand now scarred and reborn, and pulled it out. She read the inscription aloud, her voice raspy but clear, “The tears of a fallen hero.” She turned, her gaze, sharp as a honed blade, fixing on the paralyzed, horrified Feng Yancheng.

Hammering the Abyss