The chasm above the Obsidian Kiln bled darkness, disgorging horrors that writhed like disjointed limbs of a greater, unseen entity. Segmented vermin, their bodies slick with ichor, skittered down the bone-walls, mandibles clattering against the petrified ribs of the behemoth. Their multiple eyes, like chips of malachite, fixed on the pulse of light from Ruan Zhihe’s forge. A guttural shriek tore through the air as Elder Xifan, his robes tattered and stained with the black ichor of the Abyss, lunged forward. His staff, once a symbol of scholarly wisdom, now pulsed with sickly violet vapor, tearing further fissures into the kiln's inner structure. Zong Kuang, having crumpled against the marrow-wall, clawed his way back to his feet, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His celestial plate, still fractured from the karmic backlash, crackled with suppressed force. “*Filth!*” he roared, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. He extended a hand, calling forth a torrent of golden fire that incinerated the first wave of chittering beasts, turning them to smoking ash before they could touch the forge. But for every one he destroyed, three more poured through the ever-widening breach. Ruan Zhihe, oblivious to the encroaching chaos, maintained her precise movements. The tears of regret, collected in a frosted jade vial, now dripped with measured cadence into the bubbling slag within the vessel. Her bare arms, already dusted with metallic ash, moved with a surgical precision, her gaze utterly fixed on the swirling, iridescent liquid. A shard of bone, dislodged from the ceiling by a falling beast, grazed her cheek, leaving a faint streak of blood. She didn't flinch, merely tilted her head slightly, adjusting her posture to avoid further interruption. Feng Yancheng, still reeling from the intimate humiliation of the 'Sterile Romantic Consultation Chamber,' found a strange clarity amidst the terror. His core, though weakened, flared with a desperate, familiar resolve. He drew his blade, 'Veridian's Wail,' the polished steel reflecting the grotesque forms of the invaders. He struck out in ragged rhythm, deflecting chitinous claws and parrying the sweeping limbs of lesser vermin. His eyes, however, kept straying to Zhihe, whose serene focus amidst such carnage felt like a personal challenge, an affront to his very existence. Moqiu, meanwhile, had grown. Its shadow form expanded, a three-eyed marten of nightmare proportions, its fur rippling like disturbed water. It moved with a terrifying fluidity, swallowing whole swaths of the subterranean horrors. Each devoured horror left behind a wisp of dark intention, which Moqiu absorbed, its eyes gleaming. The shadow-marten became a living wall, protecting the immediate vicinity of the forge, its growls a low, rhythmic counterpoint to the clang of steel and the shrieks of the beasts. “You foolish girl! They will consume you!” Zong Kuang bellowed, incinerating another wave of crawlers. Heat rolled off him in jagged waves, thick with the stench of scorched ozone. He saw her, a dark silhouette against the glowing vessel, utterly ignoring the collapse above. It was infuriating. *Why would she not acknowledge the danger? Why would she not acknowledge *him*?* Elder Xifan, laughing with a voice like stones tumbling down a well, slipped past Zong Kuang’s golden inferno, his twisted form a blur of dark intent. He saw Zhihe, her back to him, her focus a beacon. A cruel smile peeled back his cracked lips. “The Heart-Mending Crucible… it shall mend nothing but *my* master’s hunger!” He raised his staff, a spire of corrupted jade, and unleashed a bolt of condensed gloom, aimed directly at Zhihe’s exposed back. Feng Yancheng saw the attack. He saw Zhihe’s turned back, the trace of violet gloom, the certainty of impact. *No.* Not like this. Not after everything. He didn't think; he simply moved. With a desperate, choked cry, he threw himself forward, interposing his body between Zhihe and the corrupted Elder’s strike. The corrupted bolt slammed into his chest, erupting in a dry crackle. He fell, a gasp escaping his lips, a wound blooming dark and vile across his torso. He expected her to turn, to gasp, to perhaps even reach for him. He envisioned her eyes, filled with dawning horror, then gratitude, then perhaps… something more. A flicker of the old affection, the recognition of his sacrifice. He expected a lament, a whispered name. Instead, Zhihe barely glanced at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the furnace as she reached into a pouch at her waist. Without looking, she flicked a small, dark red pill towards him. It landed with a soft *clink* beside his head. “Aspirin of the Blood-Lotus. Take it,” she stated, her voice calm and even, devoid of any emotional inflection. Then, a faint frown touched her lips. “And please, try to bleed *away* from the forge. Your spiritual contamination will affect the smelting.” Feng Yancheng lay there, choking on his own blood, the dark wound searing, his vision blurring. Her words, flat and preoccupied with slag, bit deeper than the void-born puncture. His sacrifice… meant nothing but an inconvenience. A source of contamination. It was then that Gongyi Ren moved. The sword-spirit, who had stood like a stoic sentinel by the forge, now pulsed with a fierce, ethereal light. He shimmered, his form elongating, coalescing into a storm of blades. Thousands of spectral swords, each a razor-thin sliver of concentrated will, erupted from his being. They moved as one, a silent vortex of death that tore through the subterranean horde. Chitin shattered, ichor sprayed, and the shrieks of the horrors were cut short as they fell into ribbons of shadow. The sheer, silent power was terrifying, absolute. But as each blade found its mark, Gongyi Ren’s physical form, still tethered to the forge, began to crack. Fine lines, like spiderwebs, spread across his jade-like skin, and tiny motes of ash, luminous and sorrowful, began to drift from his shoulders. His eyes, fixed on Zhihe, held a profound, bittersweet knowledge. With Moqiu and Gongyi Ren decimating the horde, the immediate vicinity of the forge became momentarily clear. Zong Kuang watched the spirit's fracture with bared teeth. “*Finally*,” he muttered, “some genuine effort.” He turned his attention fully to Elder Xifan, who now stood exposed, his dark staff crackling. But the corrupted elder was cunning. He ignored the supreme deity’s charge, his eyes darting to the only thing Zhihe truly cared about. With a guttural snarl, he channeled the last of his forbidden power into his staff, unleashing a focused, devastating blow directly at the Heaven-Mending Crucible itself. A sharp *CRACK* split the Obsidian Kiln as the Heaven-Mending Crucible, glowing faintly with the merged sheen of molten alloy and hero's tears, fractured down the middle.

Contamination in the Kiln