“The time of Qilin’s Rest is over.” Lian Zhen’s voice, flat and devoid of warmth, scraped the stone walls. He raised his fist, the dark blade a sliver of night. The serrated teeth carved along its edge seemed to gnaw at the very air, vibrating with stolen momentum that made the hairs on Mingyu’s neck prickle.
Then, a low tremor rattled the stone floor, swelling into a guttural roar that seemed to shake loose from the bedrock above. A faint, sickeningly sweet scent of burnt ozone drifted down from the ceiling. Above them, somewhere in the cavern’s unseen upper reaches, a distant, piercing scream tore through the din.
“No… that’s…” Lian Xinyue’s eyes snapped upwards, her face draining of color. The scream held a familiar, arrogant inflection. “Pang Tianze!”
Another scream joined the first, then another, a chorus of escalating agony that made Mingyu’s blood boil. He recognized the panicked cries of disciples he’d swept from the arena, the pleas of young masters who thought themselves untouchable. Moqiu wasn’t just harvesting. He was ripping them apart.
“The ritual accelerates,” the stick in Mingyu’s hand hummed, Lord Cangyan’s voice a low growl. “He drains their life essence to fuel his ascension. The greater the fear, the sweeter the harvest.”
Lian Zhen took a stiff step forward, dagger held steady. His amber eyes, unblinking, fixed on Mingyu. There was no hatred in them, no malice—just an empty, mechanical focus.
Fury flared hot behind Mingyu's ribs. Not just for the screaming disciples, not just for the betrayal, but for Xinyue. Her father had been reduced to an empty husk, a pawn in Moqiu's trap. It was an insult to family and loyalty, and Mingyu took insults as a personal challenge.
“You really think you can just march out here, a walking cadaver, and declare the end of an era?” Mingyu spat, brandishing his stick. “Looks like you forgot who you’re talking to, old man. I make my own eras.”
“Such pointless defiance,” Lian Zhen’s voice remained monotone. He lunged, a sudden, unnatural burst of speed. The dark weapon swept in a wide arc, leaving a faint trail of shimmering gloom in its wake. It lacked the elegance of a living master, carrying only the blind thrust of a marionette.
Mingyu met the blow head-on. The stick, vibrating with Cangyan’s indignant sword intent, clashed against the dagger with a loud *CRACK*. Sparks of pure spiritual force sprayed from the clash. The stick shuddered, but held.
“Amateur! Your guard is too wide!” Cangyan roared from within the stick. “A true master would have redirected, not blocked! This is an insult to the Sky-Shattering Form!”
“Quiet, you old windbag!” Mingyu snapped back, already spinning out of the parry. He ducked under another robotic slash, the serrated edge whistling past his ear. “You try blocking a corpse that doesn't feel pain!”
Lian Xinyue, her face a mask of cold resolve, moved with chilling grace. Ice shards, sharp as razors, materialized from the air around her, lancing towards Lian Zhen’s joints. The patriarch twisted with jarring speed, deflecting most of the spikes with his hilt or swatting them aside with bursts of invisible force. One shard pierced his shoulder, leaving a scorch mark that leaked black, foul ichor.
“He’s infused with Moqiu’s parasitic essence,” Xinyue called out, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. “That’s what makes him move!”
“Parasites have hosts, and hosts have weak points!” Mingyu roared, pushing his advantage. He launched into a flurry of strikes, not elegant, but brutal and relentless. The stick became a blur, a wooden battering ram, aimed at every joint, every perceived flaw in Lian Zhen’s unnaturally perfect stance. Each impact sent a jarring shockwave through the puppet, making it twitch and stutter in its movements.
“Focus your ire, you blockhead!” Cangyan bellowed. “Seek the source of the control! There! A faint, shimmering node at the base of his spine! That is where the parasite drives him!”
Mingyu caught the mark: a ripple across Lian Zhen’s silk robes above the hip, where greasy miasma clustered before spreading through his limbs. It was like a knot in a complex web, the anchor point of Moqiu’s control.
“Got it!” Mingyu grinned, a feral flash of white in the dim light. He feigned a high overhead strike, drawing the patriarch's parry skyward, then pivoted as his stick dipped low and jabbed forward. It was a simple, direct thrust, fueled by pure, unadulterated spite.
*THWACK!* The sound was less like an impact and more like something vital being ripped apart. The stick punched through the shimmering node at Lian Zhen’s spine. Black taint burst outward in a sharp hiss against the subterranean damp. The dagger clattered onto the rock, its drone silenced.
Lian Zhen froze, his amber eyes dimming, then flickering. His stiff posture softened, his shoulders slumping. He swayed, strings severed, and collapsed onto the rubble, no longer menacing, just still. A profound weariness settled on his face, erasing the empty mask Moqiu had imposed.
Lian Xinyue rushed forward, falling to her knees beside her father. She didn’t touch him, just stared at his face, her hands trembling. Generations of complicity, clan rot, and blood-soaked pride crumbled away from her slumped shoulders, leaving pure grief.
Above, the cacophony of screams intensified, then suddenly choked off. The stone floor shuddered beneath their boots. A wet *CRACK* shook the chamber, casting a massive shadow across them. The air grew thick with a crushing pressure, heavy with malice.
A roar, deep enough to vibrate the very bones in their chests, ripped through the nexus. It was Moqiu’s voice, but twisted, monstrous, infused with the stolen vitality of hundreds of sacrifices. “YOU FOOLS! YOU DARE INTERFERE WITH MY ASCENSION? I WILL TEAR THAT ANCHOR FROM YOUR CHEST MYSELF, YOU FILTHY BRAT!”
Through a fissure torn across the ceiling, a colossal figure descended. It was Moqiu, but not as they knew him. His flesh had bloated, muscles swollen and veins bulging with foul black sap. His skin stretched taut, glistening with a viscous, dark fluid, and his eyes glowed with an infernal green light. He hung there, a monstrous parody of divinity, dripping with stolen cultivation while his clawed hands twitched with dark pressure.
His gaze locked onto Mingyu, pure, unadulterated hatred blazing in his eyes. With a guttural snarl, he abandoned the ritual entirely, ignoring the throbbing rift. He lunged, a blur of swollen flesh and brutal momentum, straight for Mingyu.
Mingyu barely had time to brace himself. Moqiu’s massive clawed hand slammed into his chest with bone-shattering force. The world exploded into pain. Mingyu felt a searing agony as the colossal fingers plunged *into* his flesh, tearing through skin, muscle, and bone, directly for his heart. He gasped, a strangled sound, black fire igniting in his vision. Moqiu’s eyes gleamed with triumph, his face inches from Mingyu’s, his breath a noxious cloud of decay.
“The anchor is MINE!” Moqiu snarled, his grip tightening, ready to rip out the very core of Mingyu’s existence.
Just as Mingyu’s heart threatened to burst, an ancient, glacial fury flared from his core. The black fire, long contained, exploded outwards, not as pain, but as pure, unadulterated power. Moqiu roared, thrown backwards by the unforeseen blast. The black flames coalesced and swirled, forming a towering, spectral figure directly in front of Mingyu. A man with eyes like ancient embers, hair like midnight, and a sharp, predatory grin slowly materialized from the inferno, his casual posture belying the sheer power radiating from him. He looked at Mingyu, a glint of amusement in his gaze.
“Took you long enough to call for backup, kid.”