The gilded edict-blade stuck in the courtyard pulsed with an imperious thrum, an amber spike pinning the courtyard dust. Its high-pitched scream vibrated through the ruined rafters, rattling the roof tiles. Su Wenji hummed an off-key tune, lifting a silver spoon from his lacquer box. He scooped a portion of dried green leaves into an unglazed clay pot, his hands steady and slow. “The… the Way of the Leaf… I must learn it! Master, teach me!” Teng Shilong croaked, choking down dry spit against the golden weapon's racket. His knees remained planted on the stone, eyes locked onto the tea tray. Su Wenji glanced up, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered from the quivering edict-blade to Shilong, then to the crushed remnants of the Prodigy’s Dragonfang blade scattered across the flagstones. He exhaled, checking the soot beneath his charcoal braziers. “You wish to learn?” Su Wenji’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Good. The water, young one. It is not boiling.” Shilong blinked. “The… the water?” He gestured at the gilded hilt vibrating in the flagstones. “The imperial court sends an edict-blade! It summons me!” “Nonsense,” Su Wenji said, dismissively waving a hand. “A proper steep requires fresh runoff brought to a boil over charcoal heated to five hundred and seven degrees. The mountain creek runs past the lower ravine, two li down. Fetch me six gourds. Quickly. Time wastes.” He gestured vaguely towards a stack of empty, woven-reed gourds beside a crumbling stone pillar. Shilong stared, dumbfounded. The sheer audacity. The utter indifference to the screaming golden weapon. He, Teng Shilong, once hailed across the province for his northern blade arts, had just been ordered to haul creek runoff. Like a common scullery boy. His pride, though shattered, still tried to assert itself. “Sir, surely you jest! I am a swordsman of the Zenith Blade Sect! My spirit force alone could—” “Your aura, at this moment, smells faintly of stale despair and burnt metal,” Su Wenji interrupted, peering into his empty clay pot with intense focus. “It will contaminate the delicate aroma of the Spring Bloom Puerh. Now, do you wish to learn the Way of the Leaf, or do you prefer to stand there, radiating your bruised pride while the basin runs dry?” Shilong’s mouth opened and shut; his ears burned crimson. Yet, the memory of that porcelain cup, stopping his ultimate strike, the taste of that tea that had rearranged his very understanding of reality… He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “Understood,” he bit out, scraping his knuckles on the paving stones. He grabbed six hollow gourds from the rack. He cast a bitter scowl at the vibrating hilt. Shouldering the straps, he trotted down the mountain trail, gait unsteady beneath the load. Su Wenji set the clay vessel upon a small brass spirit-stove. He did not watch Shilong go. His gaze remained on the crimson fluid in his glass thermometer. An hour passed while the blade's shriek went unanswered. Shilong returned, his clothes damp with sweat, his face flushed, a thin stream of steam rising from the mouths of the six filled gourds. He set them down with a thud, his chest heaving. “The water, as ordered. Boiled to standard.” He wiped soot from his brow, awaiting an evaluation. Su Wenji sniffed the vessel. “Slightly scalded. Mineral silt along the creek accelerated heat absorption. Barely passable for an apprentice, but we will adjust.” He dipped a silver ladle into the gourd, tipping a draft over the dark leaves. The rich scent of the Puerh began to unfurl. As tea steam rose toward the rafters, the golden edict-blade fractured. The hilt caved inward, collapsing before spewing shards of gilded bronze across the stone. Eight figures dropped out of the metallic debris, hitting the floor on silent soles. They were clad in obsidian-black silks, their faces obscured by grim, featureless masks forged of dark iron. Each held a wickedly curved dao saber, its blade drinking the scant light within the pavilion. Their pressure fell over the hall like damp granite, silent and sharp. “Shadow Hand operatives!” Shilong shouted. He swept his arm toward the splintered scraps of his Dragonfang blade. “You dare breach this sanctuary! Stand down, or taste—” Before he drew breath, the tallest infiltrator lunged. A blur of black silk, a flash of steel, and a crushing impact sent Shilong sprawling. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, his body skidding across the flagstones, the wind knocked from his lungs. Su Wenji sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He frowned at the puddle spreading from Shilong’s gourd, then surveyed the eight cloaked killers fanning out across the room. One of them, a lithe woman whose mask gleamed with a faint violet sheen, lunged towards his brewing station, her saber aimed for the delicate clay pot. The sheer audacity of it. To interrupt a perfectly timed brew. Su Wenji dipped his ladle back into the nearest vessel, ladling out boiling water. The steam plumed around his face, a momentary halo. He flicked his wrist, not with martial force, but with the measured grace of a tea master pouring a libation. The arc of shimmering, scalding water soared through the air, catching the lead assassin and the violet-masked woman mid-stride, then splashing over the other six. It was not a violent torrent, but a gentle, almost ethereal spray. As the droplets touched their obsidian silks, the assassins froze. Not in a martial stance, but perfectly, uncannily still. The violet-masked woman, saber raised to strike, was suspended mid-lunge. The lead assassin, who had just struck Shilong, was caught in the act of turning, his grim mask fixed. A shimmering, almost invisible temporal mist rippled outwards from Su Wenji’s hand, clinging to the assassins like dew. Their movements simply… stopped. Their eyes, visible through the slits of their masks, held a sudden, dawning terror, locked in an instant of frozen awareness. Su Wenji coughed, a soft, dry sound, and a wisp of that same temporal mist, tinged with a faint, silvery-grey, escaped his lips. He quickly pressed a hand to his chest, the gesture subtle, almost imperceptible. He adjusted the flame beneath his brewing pot, then looked at the eight statues. “Hmph. The water was slightly too hot, but the thermal shock to their temporal coherence is satisfactory.” He turned his attention back to his tea, seemingly unfazed by the sudden, profound silence. One of the frozen assassins, the violet-masked woman, twitched. A single, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her arm. Her lips, visible just beneath her mask, parted. A ragged, desperate breath escaped her, and a single, dreadful line rasped out, breaking the quiet: “The court army sits at the mountain’s base.”

Boiling Point