The scent of cypress smoke, bitter and solemn, clung to the air of the Bamboo Sea Pavilion. Rain, fine as mist, wept softly onto the moss-covered eaves, a mournful drumbeat accompanying the quiet ceremony. Shen Zimo knelt beside the lacquered coffin, its surface polished to a dark sheen reflecting the flickering jade lamps. His robes, dyed the deepest indigo, draped heavily across his shoulders. The elder was gone—the scholar who taught him not just the balance of charcoal across silk, but the quiet wisdom of patience, of finding power in peace. Beside him, Lin Qingshuang moved with the grace of a willow in a breeze. Her hands, nimble and precise, performed the ceremonial tea service, preparing the 'Dewdrop' blend that their teacher had favored. Each pour fell in rhythm, the soft chime of ceramic against ceramic the only sound beyond the rain and Zimo's unsteady breath. He watched her steady hands, an anchor against the chill of the hall. The ritual was almost complete. Qingshuang poured the final, amber stream into a delicate porcelain cup, its surface painted with a single, unfurling bamboo shoot. She reached for the cup, her fingers brushing the cool glaze. Then, iron split the silence. A roar, like a thunderclap, tore through the culms of the grove. The earth beneath Zimo's knees vibrated. The very air, thick with rain and reverence, was violently rent. A blinding slash of gilded luminescence, sharp and razor-edged, cleaved through the mist-shrouded path leading to the courtyard. Imperial cultivators, clad in polished steel armor that gleamed even in the dim light, burst through the swaying stalks, their heavy boots crushing the delicate moss. At their head stood an imperial officer, tall and lean, his crimson and saffron silks a sharp insult to the courtyard. Feng Chixiao. “Well, well,” Feng Chixiao drawled, his chin tipped high. He surveyed the small gathering, his gaze lingering with disdain on the coffin and Qingshuang’s pristine tea ceremony. “The Bamboo Sea Pavilion. Still clinging to your dusty brushes and stale leaves, I see. Mourning a relic, are we?” Zimo pushed himself to his feet, a tremor running through his usually steady hands. He faced Feng Chixiao, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “This is a vigil, Commander Feng. Step back.” Feng Chixiao let out a short, scoffing laugh. “Respect? For what? Your useless parlor tricks? While true cultivators forge the path to immortality with steel, you play with ink. Your patriarch was a doddering fool who wasted his life on pretty characters.” His gaze fixed on Qingshuang, who stood frozen, the half-poured tea cup still in her hands. “And you, little tea-witch. Brewing spirits from mere leaves? Pathetic.” Without warning, Feng Chixiao’s hand shot out. A burst of sword qi, sharp as a razor, materialized from his palm, not aimed at Zimo, but directly at Qingshuang. It was a casual, dismissive strike, yet utterly lethal, designed to tear through bone. Zimo saw it coming, the bright blade of energy arcing towards Qingshuang’s chest, towards the delicate porcelain cup she held. Qingshuang stiffened, the breath catching in her throat. He saw the fragile tea set, the old man's last gift to her, poised to crack apart. A white-hot spark flared in Zimo's chest, torching away every vow of restraint. Nothing remained but the path between that sword-light and Qingshuang. His hand shot out, not for a sword, but for the closest thing: a weasel-hair brush, long and slender, still damp with the late elder's lingering spiritual ink. He snatched it from its stand beside the coffin. His hand moved, not in a practiced stroke, but with the visceral instinct of a cornered beast. He didn't think. He *wrote*. In the very air before Qingshuang, a single, potent character manifested, glowing with an incandescent vermilion: ‘封’ – *Fēng*. Block. Seal. The character pulsed, expanding into a shimmering, transparent barrier. Feng Chixiao’s casual sword qi, charged with the power of a nascent Sword Sage, slammed into it. Instead of splitting, the calligraphy absorbed the strike, then flared until the surrounding forest rippled in the heat. The force of it recoiled, not just deflecting, but snapping Feng Chixiao’s steel blade in two as he drew it mid-scoff. The blade, renowned across the Taiheng Realm, disintegrated into a shower of incandescent fragments, melting into the misty rain with a hiss. Feng Chixiao stumbled back, his mouth slack and his posture breaking. A thin line of blood welled from his lip, where the shockwave had caught him. He stared at his empty hand, then at Zimo, who stood there, breathing heavily, the brush still clutched in his hand, a primal fury still radiating from him. His men, who had been advancing, stopped dead, their expressions ranging from awe to terror. “You… you broke my sword,” Feng Chixiao whispered, the words ragged, tasting of humiliation and blood. He looked utterly defeated, the haughty arrogance wiped clean from his features by sheer, crushing disbelief. He reached into his robes, his movements slow, almost mechanical, and pulled out a roll of yellow imperial vellum, its edges sealed with the imperial dragon sigil. He let it fall, the heavy scroll thudding onto the wet earth. “This changes nothing, scholar. The Emperor himself arrives at dawn. Submit, or be eradicated.”

The Funeral Crash