The astral siege-engines, each spire-sized and composed of condensed star-mist, locked onto the small, ruined Jade Cauldron Pavilion. Their muzzles, intricate as frozen nebulae, hummed with a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the very fabric of the lower world. Huangfu Chuan, still recovering from his failed strike against Su Wenji, looked up at the sky's raw wound, teeth bared in vicious anticipation. This was it. The true path of iron. The gods had arrived to obliterate this insolent scholar. Teng Shilong, iron pot still clutched in white-knuckled hands, felt the crushing pressure grate against his ribs. The force alone threatened to splinter bone, an ancient weight that set his pulse thudding behind his temples. He stood before Su Wenji, a frail barrier against the void, his gaze pinned to the shimmering barrels, ready to intercept the incoming blast. Su Wenji, his petrified legs pinned flat to the floor mat, only tilted his chin. His pupils narrowed as he studied the towering armaments. “Crude,” he murmured, his dry tone cutting through the rumbling heavens like a bronze bell. “Utterly lacking in finesse. The heat distribution is entirely uneven. One might as well steep a common nettle in a cold puddle.” Huangfu Chuan's head snapped around, his expression a mask of pure disbelief. “Lacking… finesse? Madman, those are the weapons of the Heavens! They will erase us from existence!” “Precisely,” Su Wenji replied, a faint frown touching his lips. “They are designed for erasure, not refinement. A proper brew requires patient, even infusion. This… this is just scalding water and expecting enlightenment. A gross misuse of elemental Qi.” He sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. “It’s like trying to achieve a mellow, nuanced infusion by slamming the pot against a rock.” Teng Shilong nearly stumbled. The immortals above prepared total annihilation, and Su Wenji sat critiquing their artillery for flawed steeping technique. “Teacher,” Shilong shouted, his throat dry, “What do we do? They are preparing to fire!” Su Wenji ignored him, his gaze fixed on the gleaming batteries. “No subtlety. No respect for the leaf. It’s a barbarism, frankly.” He shifted on his mat, his motions stiff due to his petrified legs. “We must educate them.” He reached into his sleeve, producing a small, intricately carved wooden box. From within, he carefully extracted a handful of dried, pale green blossoms. “Chamomile of Mortal Humility,” he announced, almost to himself. “A deceptively simple brew. Often overlooked, yet profoundly effective at settling the spirit and reminding one of their true place.” He gestured to the Heavenly Dew bubbling inside the vessel beside him, its column of steam propping open the rent in the firmament. “Shilong, pour one cup. And fetch our sovereign.” Shilong blinked, swallowing hard. “Bring… the sovereign?” “Indeed,” Su Wenji confirmed, as if asking for a common errand. “He requires a lesson in humility, and this brew is precisely the catalyst.” Huangfu Chuan, who had been listening in a state of utter bewilderment, finally found his voice. “You dare suggest… *I* need humility? I am the Son of Heaven, ruler of the nine provinces! You will not touch me with your peasant’s dregs!” He drew his Ancestral Dragon Sword, which had reformed after its earlier humiliation, its blade now glowing with a furious, crimson aura. “I will strike you down before I allow such an indignity!” “Shilong,” Su Wenji said, his tone unchanging. “The tea requires ninety-two degrees Celsius. Not a degree more, not a degree less. Do not disappoint.” Understanding flashed in Shilong’s eyes. He had tasted his master’s tea, felt its terrifying power. He understood what one properly steeped cup could do. With a sharp exhale, he lunged, not at the invaders above, but at the imperial monarch. Huangfu Chuan met the charge with a sweeping cut. But Shilong, abandoning rigid sword stances, swayed aside by a hair’s breadth. He brought the heavy iron pot around like an unpolished buckler, turning the sovereign's strikes aside with ringing clangs. “You foolish disciple!” Huangfu Chuan roared, his face contorted in rage. “You think to challenge me with… cookware?” “Master’s orders!” Shilong grunted, sidestepping another wild swing, his movements now infused with a strange, tea-inspired focus. He had learned to move like flowing water, guided by Su Wenji’s silent instruction. He sought no victory over the monarch, seeking only to pin him. Meanwhile, Su Wenji, with painstaking effort, used his withered hands to measure the blossoms into a small, unglazed clay cup. The Heavenly Dew, cooled to the exact temperature by Shilong’s earlier efforts, was poured. A wisp of steam, thick with the subtle, earthy aroma of chamomile, rose from the cup, instantly calming the frenetic energy in the room, dampening even the dull drone of the high batteries. “Secure him, Shilong,” Su Wenji instructed, his voice still level. “It is time.” With a sudden wrench, Shilong locked his arms around the ruler, pinning both wrists against the imperial spine. Huangfu Chuan roared, thrashing wildly, but hauling boiling iron across flagstones had granted the disciple an unyielding grip. He clamped down, holding the monarch motionless. Su Wenji, with a surprising burst of speed from his upper body, extended the cup. “Drink.” “Never!” Huangfu Chuan spat, still struggling. “I will not be…!” Su Wenji, without a word, tilted the cup, and the fragrant liquid spilled over the Emperor’s lips. Some dribbled down his chin, but enough entered his mouth. For a moment, Huangfu Chuan froze. His stare froze, pupils expanding as the hot liquid hit his tongue. The crimson aura around his Ancestral Dragon Sword flickered, then vanished. The blade itself dulled, reduced to dead iron in his slack fingers. His body, once rippling with cultivation energy, felt… softer. His struggles ceased. He stared at the small clay cup, then at his own hands, then at Shilong’s face, as if seeing them for the first time. Tears tracked through the soot on his cheeks. He looked up at the sky's gash, at the looming batteries, seeing not absolute dominion, but hollow, frigid brass. He slumped, his proud posture collapsing, and began to sob. Not tears of rage or humiliation, but of a profound, overwhelming peace. He tasted the remnants of the tea on his tongue, a soft, floral sweetness. The world, once a battlefield of ambition, suddenly felt… quiet. “The notes,” he choked out, his voice broken, “The peace… the utter, breathtaking peace…” He looked at Su Wenji, no longer with hatred, but with a gaze filled with desperate clarity. “All my life… I chased power. Swords. Battles. And all I needed… was this.” His martial ego, his reign, and his unyielding vanity peeled away like dry bark, leaving a stunned mortal cradling the memory of pale blossoms. Beyond the celestial rift, the blazing light wavered. The towering artillery barrels ground across their housings, realigning their focus. Instead, their ethereal forms pulsed with a furious crimson light. A chorus of unseen, booming voices echoed through the rent in the sky, a sound like grinding cosmic gears. “Heresy!” the voices thundered, their fury shaking the very fabric of reality. “To strip a mortal of their ambition, their drive for power, with a mere *brew*! This mockery of the Grand Path, this insult to the Mandate of Iron, cannot stand!” The upper reaches warped and buckled. The towering spires warped, the bridges of light rippled, and the air thickened with an oppressive, agonizing weight. From the depths of the Immortal Plane, a vast, shimmering wave of purple-black energy began to coalesce. It pulsed, growing larger, faster, descending towards the Chongming Realm with terrifying speed. This was not an assault meant to crush stone walls, but a tide primed to rewind centuries, devouring every breath ever taken across the Chongming Realm.

Chamomile of Humility