The courtyard vanished in a blinding flash of imperial light. The colossal figure of Huangfu Chuan, formed from compressed golden decrees, slammed into the courtyard flagstones. Its foot, a crushing plate of solidified decree, slammed down precisely where Su Wenji’s tea table stood. The downward blast flattened the perimeter tea-spirit formations and sheared foundation stone away from the courtyard floor. Teng Shilong, still clutching his chest from the earlier shock, was thrown against a pillar, the air violently expelled from his lungs. He slid to the ground, gasping, his vision swimming. The roaring wind and displaced earth filled the space, a maelstrom of raw power. When his eyes finally cleared, he saw the aftermath. The projection stood motionless, its boot planted over the crushed tea table. Splinters of scorched wood mixed with gray powder. Shilong stared past the flattened timber toward Su Wenji. Su Wenji stood ten paces from the golden greave, rigid beneath his scholar's robes. His eyelids did not blink as he stared down at the split flagstones. A sliver of russet clay lay amidst the dust and debris. It was the curved snout of his Yixing pot, seasoned across two lifetimes and ruined in a breath. Su Wenji’s usual placid expression had cracked. A corded vein throbbed along the tea artisan's throat. “My… my Yixing,” Su Wenji whispered, his voice dangerously low, stripped of its customary deadpan. He did not raise it, yet the sound cut through the lingering echoes of the impact, sharper than any blade. “My perfect, irreplaceable… Yixing.” He crouched, reaching past scorched splinters to gather the broken earthenware. His fingers, usually so delicate and precise in their movements, trembled slightly as they closed around a razor-sharp crescent of clay. The golden apparition remained stationary, humming with sovereign decree. “Barbarian,” Su Wenji muttered, teeth clenched. He flung the crescent shard. It spun through the air, not with the force of a cultivator’s projectile, but with an unnerving, temporal resonance. The shard struck the apparition's left knee, ringing like fractured crystal. A gray stain spread outward from the impact, rotting the polished gold plating. The knee joint, a moment ago solid as a decree, began to pixelate, dissolving into fleeting motes of light. Shilong watched the armored knee liquefy. Mountains had parted for tea leaves before, but this strike smelled of spite. Su Wenji didn’t wait. He moved with a speed Shilong had never witnessed, a blurred silhouette amidst the debris. Both hands scooped clay shards from the dirt in rhythmic sweeps. He whipped the shards forward, each missile humming with gray rot as it struck the joints of the sovereign armor. A jagged triangular shard tore through the apparition's shoulder, dropping the sword hand into ash. Another shard drilled through the golden breastplate, opening a hollow black cavity. The apparition shuddered as its seams frayed into whistling vapor. Su Wenji’s face remained a mask of furious intensity, his movements fluid and deadly. He wasn't merely attacking; he was disassembling, erasing the divine entity piece by piece. A final piece of curved rim shattered the apparition's crown, collapsing the remaining gold into a swirling vortex that snapped shut. The courtyard fell dead quiet save for the clatter of dropped clay against gravel. Where the giant had stood, an etched outline glowed faintly in the stone. It was not a scorch mark, but an intricate, almost invisible brand, pulsating with a faint, malevolent glow. Shilong cautiously approached, squinting. A lattice of gray threads radiated from the center, surrounding a carved hourglass whose grit drifted upward. “What is that?” Shilong asked, rubbing the dust from his ribs. Su Wenji knelt, running a finger along the etched groove. “This is no ascension seal. It is a siphon. The upper realms are draining the Cloud-Well Dew through Huangfu Chuan's bloodline, consuming our lifespan to fuel their courts.” He stood, his gaze sweeping across the ruined courtyard, then up to the heavens. “Ascension?” Su Wenji spat onto the scorched stone. “I will dismantle their gates first.” A wet cough tore through Su Wenji's chest. He bent double, spitting silver liquid across his knuckles—viscous, odorless fluid that hissed against the stone. “Master!” Shilong cried, rushing forward. Su Wenji stared at the silver pooling in his palm, counting the motes as they evaporated. “Three cups left.”

Shattered Clay