Ruan Zhihe held the dark, iridescent ingot, its warmth a living thing in her palm. The inscription gleamed, a silent demand. Feng Yancheng, still pinned by Moqiu’s massive paw, whimpered, a raw sound stripped of all heroic grace. His face was a mask of utter horror, not at the monstrous creature above him, but at the woman who stared at him with such surgical intent. “The tears of a fallen hero,” she repeated, her voice a low murmur, more for herself than for him. She regarded him as one might inspect a rare, difficult specimen. “The first ingredient for the Heaven-Mending Crucible. Remarkable.” Feng Yancheng struggled, his body still locked, his residual spirit still gnawed away. “What… what have you done to me? What is this madness? Let me go, Zhihe! I am the prophesied hero!” Zhihe tilted her head, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing her brow. “Prophecy does not dictate your composition, Feng Yancheng. Only your current spiritual state. And it is, I’m afraid, rather volatile.” She gestured with the glowing ingot towards the courtyard, a desolate patch of scarred earth and skeletal flora outside the main kiln entrance, enclosed by high, crumbling walls. “Moqiu, escort our guest. Confine him to the north corner. He requires quiet.” With a rumbling growl that vibrated through the stone, Moqiu released Feng, then nudged the paralyzed hero with its snout, herding him with alarming gentleness. Feng collapsed, unable to move, and was dragged across the soot-stained ground by the marten's silent compulsion. He let out a choked cry, of pure, unadulterated shame. “Zhihe, you cannot!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “I will not forgive this! The sect elders, the High Sovereign—they will hear of this atrocity!” She watched his slow, undignified passage, her expression utterly unchanged. “The elders are concerned with their quotas. The High Sovereign is preoccupied with the Empyrean Ascent. Neither cares for the emotional output of a solitary blacksmith’s former fiancé.” She turned, dismissing him, and walked back to the furnace. “He’s lost his Core, hasn’t he?” she murmured, more to Gongyi Ren than anyone. “The residual spiritual energy still clings, but the core itself is… fractured. A deep, persistent regret will serve to soften the shell.” She started a new fire in a small, clay brazier, selecting withered sprigs of Nightpetal and dried Sorrow-root from a jar. A delicate, bitter aroma soon filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the forge. She brewed a potent, calming tea, pouring it into a rough clay cup. “This will facilitate the process,” she explained, placing it on a clean stone near the courtyard gate. “Moqiu, ensure he drinks this. Every bell.” Moqiu offered a low, rumbling grumble, its three emerald pupils glowing in the gloom. It settled near Feng, a dark, silent sentinel. Zhihe returned to the furnace, the air thick with the memory of the void soot. She placed the newly forged ingot on a cooled anvil, inspecting its surface. The dark metal shimmered with hidden light, a promise of immense power, but also a profound, unsettling weight. As her fingers traced the archaic script, the furnace flames flickered, and Gongyi Ren’s presence sharpened. *A memory*, pulsed the forge, the words appearing not in sound but in the faint, silvery motes that danced in the air. *Not yours. Not in this thread.* A sudden memory struck behind Zhihe’s eyes: a desolate field, the scent of ash and burnt blood, and her past self—ragged and pale, hollowed by a grief she no longer possessed. She was cradled in strong arms, the face above her contorted in an agony that mirrored her own. It was Feng Yancheng, his features etched with a grief so profound it seemed to tear him apart. He was whispering something, a name, a plea. Then, silence. Oblivion. The glimpse snapped shut. Zhihe staggered back, her hand flying to her temple. The heat of the forge seemed to recede, replaced by an icy void. “What… was that?” she whispered, her voice tight. She had no memory of such a scene. Her past was a blank slate, erased by design, leaving only the crucible blueprint. Yet, the raw despair in that sight, the utter devastation on Feng’s face… it was too real to be an illusion. *An echo of what was*, Gongyi Ren communicated, the sparks around the ingot flaring. *A timeline consumed. A love… ended. By your own design, Mistress. To rebuild.* The last words resonated with a mournful clarity, a bittersweet echo of a love that Zhihe herself had meticulously eradicated from her being. Zhihe pressed her fingers against the cool metal of the anvil, her mind racing. A love? For Feng Yancheng? The concept was so alien, so impossible for her current self. What kind of self-erasure had she truly performed? A sudden, jarring crack rent the air, not from the forge, but from the very heavens. A column of yellow brilliance plunged through the rent in the behemoth’s ribcage, slamming into the Kiln gravel. Zong Kuang, the Archon, stood amidst the shattered stone, his pale robes billowing around him. His face, usually sculpted in sacred disdain, was now twisted into an expression of frustrated fury. “Ruan Zhihe!” he roared, his voice shaking the remaining walls. “You dare ignore me for so long? Do you not understand my intent? My sacred patience wears thin! Look at me, woman! A single glance of recognition as a man, not a patient!” He strode into the forge, the heat of his anger warping the air. Zhihe merely looked up, her gaze calm, analytical, still processing Gongyi Ren’s revelation. She saw him, yes, but only as another spiritual anomaly. “Lord Zong,” she replied, her tone devoid of all awe or fear. “Your inner vessel seems to be under stress. Perhaps a different approach to your temper might be beneficial. Over-exertion will provoke an internal collapse.” Zong Kuang stared at her, his amber irises blazing. His frustration, already at its peak, seemed to curdle into something truly dangerous. “You… you infernal, infuriating mortal!” In a blur of radiant light, he closed the distance, slamming her back against the scorching metal of the furnace. The heat was immense, capable of incinerating a Lesser God, but Zhihe felt only a faint warmth against her back. He trapped her, his face inches from hers, his breath hot with fury. “Look at me!” he commanded, his voice a low growl, meant to dominate, to instill fear, to elicit *something*. “Look upon me, not as a patient, not as a source of material, but as a being worthy of your attention, your fear, your… desire!” Zhihe met his gaze, her own eyes like still pools of midnight water. She felt nothing. No fear, no desire, no flutter of pulse. Only the methodical hum of the forge, the faint residue of the umbral soot, and the lingering confusion from Gongyi Ren’s revelation. She studied his proximity, the way his lips thinned, the frantic light in his eyes. “Your inner vessel, Lord Zong,” she stated calmly, her voice a stark contrast to his raging presence, “it is indeed fracturing. The strain is manifesting as emotional volatility.” Suddenly, Zong Kuang gasped, stepping back. A hairline crack, shimmering with faint amber light, fractured the skin of his chest, directly over his core. The air around him rippled violently, as if a great bell had been struck. He recoiled, tearing himself away from Zhihe as if burned, clutching his chest. His face contorted, not in anger, but in a profound, terrifying agony. “Impossible!” he roared, stumbling back, his power flaring wildly, creating small craters in the stone floor. “My spirit seat… it is cracking from… from *nothing*? From your utter apathy?” He glared at her, a mixture of rage and inexplicable terror in his eyes. “You are a void, Ruan Zhihe! A black hole of non-existence that devours even divine intent!” He vanished in a crack of white lightning, leaving behind only the acrid scent of ozone and shattered stone. Zhihe watched him go, then calmly turned back to her ingot, her expression thoughtful. “A void,” she repeated softly. “Perhaps. A void that must be filled. With the Crucible.” As the last echoes of Zong Kuang’s fury faded, a guttural retch tore through the quiet of the courtyard. Moqiu, still guarding Feng Yancheng, shuddered violently. The shadow-marten heaved, and from its mouth spilled not bile, but a writhing, pulsing mass of pure darkness, like a piece of the Abyss itself. It swirled, coalesced, and then projected a horrific image into the air above the courtyard. The phantasm hung vivid and stark: the starry vault above was turning inside out, tearing wide like a gaping maw. Two colossal astral bodies were colliding in a silent, cataclysmic tear. A tendril of black, hungry emptiness, far larger and more ancient than the Abyssal shadow in her kiln, reached out from the tear, engulfing the entire realm. Then, the moon, a sliver of silver light, was consumed. The image fractured, then shattered, leaving only cold ash in the air. The star eclipse. Moqiu chittered, a frantic sound, its three eyes glowing with an urgent, desperate light. It nudged the quivering shadow-mass, then projected another, smaller image: a calendar scroll, marked with tomorrow’s date, weeks ahead of any predicted schedule. The Abyss. The collapse. Tomorrow. Zhihe stared at the fading murk, iron stillness settling into her chest. The kiln, her crucible, the entire Hollow Peak, was an isolated pocket. If the celestial eclipse triggered tomorrow, weeks earlier than predicted, the Abyssal tear would consume the realm. Her kiln, designed to harness the energy of the dead, would become a direct conduit to the encroaching emptiness. She would be trapped. Forever.

Tea and Nightmares