The crushing pressure of Jian’s phantom had cleared, but the chamber air still crackled with residual power, a metallic tang that set Zong Qian’s teeth on edge. Bo Xun lay sprawled, a shadow of the powerhouse he’d been moments before, shallow breaths rattling in his chest. His skin was pale, almost translucent, the Sky-Stone runes faded to barely visible scars. The crimson stain on his lips was stark against his pallor. Zong Qian knelt, a flicker of something akin to concern crossing his face. “Bo Xun.” He pressed two fingers against his friend’s neck. A faint, thready pulse. The boy was alive, but barely. He had pushed himself beyond all limits to protect his oath, to protect Zong Qian. This simple, loyal youth had just defied a sovereign of the upper realms. Pride warred with a grudging respect Zong Qian had not felt in millennia. Lin Jianyi, her face still pale from the shock of Zong Qian’s true identity, stumbled over. She knelt beside Bo Xun, a hand hovering, uncertain. “What… what was that?” Her voice was a strained whisper, her eyes darting between Zong Qian’s unreadable face and Bo Xun’s unconscious form. “Jian? Your disciple?” Zong Qian rose, turning his gaze to the Soul-Anchoring Bell. It rested where it had fallen, its weathered bronze surface humming softly, completely untouched by the strike from above. “My traitorous disciple,” he corrected, his voice a low growl carrying the authority of his former life. “And that was a warning. A taste of what comes next. He has found my location, thanks to this bauble.” He gestured to the bell. “So, we run?” Lin Jianyi asked, her hand falling to the hilt of her twin sabers, a familiar gesture of defiance. “Or do you have another impossible plan, Ashen Blade?” The title felt strange on her tongue, half a taunt, half a challenge. Zong Qian scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “Run? From the likes of Jian? Never. There is no running from the upper courts. Only confronting. And I have little time. Three years, Jianyi. Three years until this body, this soul, is utterly annihilated. But now, it feels like three hours.” He watched the bell, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “The Soul-Decay Taint. It is a poison, yes. But a poison, when mastered, can become a volatile source of immense power. It feeds on my spiritual marrow, slowly devouring me. But what if I force it to devour faster? What if I consume its source, and in doing so, master its destructive potential?” Lin Jianyi stared, aghast. “You mean… you want to amplify it? Use the very thing that’s killing you?” Her mind raced. It was madness. Pure, suicidal madness. Yet, the way Zong Qian spoke, the cold, calculating certainty in his eyes, made her pause. He wasn’t suggesting death; he was proposing a rebirth through immolation. “This bell,” Zong Qian continued, ignoring her disbelief, “it amplifies the Taint’s signal across the realms. But it can also amplify its effect inside this body. It is a conduit. I will draw in its power, not to stop the curse, but to overclock it. To accelerate the process, to force the Taint to reveal its true nature, and in doing so, make it mine. It is an all-or-nothing gamble. I will either gain the strength to fight back, or my soul will disintegrate within moments.” He met her gaze, burning with terrifying resolve. “Are you with me, Lin Jianyi? Or will you stand aside and watch me reclaim what is mine?” Lin Jianyi froze. She had despised his arrogance, fought his every step, but faced with this unbridled gamble, cold clarity settled over her. This was Zong Qian. The man who saw ants where she saw formidable opponents, who disarmed Feng with a flick, who wrestled a spirit serpent to the ground. He was infuriating, yet he had asked for her help. “Overclocking a celestial curse with a cursed artifact?” She shook her head, a wry smile touching her lips. “Of course, you would. What do you need?” “Stabilization,” Zong Qian said, his focus already returning to the bell. “The surge will be immense, chaotic. Your family’s ‘Whispering Jade’ arts, your ability to harmonize discordant Qi, it might just be enough to anchor the process, to prevent my new vessel from tearing itself apart before I can seize control.” Lin Jianyi nodded, already moving. She pulled an intricately carved jade pendant from beneath her robes, her fingers tracing its worn glyphs, passed down through her bloodline. “It will take everything I have,” she stated, positioning herself opposite the bell, her hands beginning to form complex seals, her body humming with a nascent spiritual flow. Outside the grotto, distant shouts and the clang of steel grew louder. The golden projection had shattered, but the commotion had alerted the district. The academy’s elders would be converging, and Zhao would be leading them, hunting for answers, lusting for spoils, hunting Zong Qian. Bo Xun stirred, a weak groan escaping his lips. His eyes, though still clouded, found Zong Qian’s face. “My… oath…” he mumbled, trying to push himself up, even in his weakened state. “I will… stand guard.” “Rest,” Zong Qian commanded, but a faint, almost imperceptible warmth entered his tone. “You have done enough. But if you insist…” He glanced at Lin Jianyi, whose brow was already furrowed in concentration. “Keep them away from here. Even in this state, your Sky-Stone lineage should be enough to deter them for a short while. Just buy me moments.” Bo Xun nodded, a faint grin returning as he hauled himself upright against the stone wall. His eyes hardened, a stubborn focus replacing the daze as he squared his shoulders to guard the passage. Zong Qian turned his full attention to the Soul-Anchoring Bell. He sat cross-legged before it, his mind reaching out, probing its primordial mechanisms and its link to the Soul-Decay Taint festering in his chest. He took a deep breath, the scent of ozone and wet rock filling his lungs. This was it. Three years condensed into a night. Oblivion or rebirth. He extended his hands, palms flat, and slowly, deliberately, placed them on the humming bronze surface of the bell. The cold seeped into his skin, then a searing heat. Images flashed through his mind: the blinding light of his ascension tribulation, the taste of betrayal on his tongue, the agony of his defeat, Jian’s cruel smile, the slow, agonizing decay of his soul in this fragile, mortal shell. The curse pulsed like a venomous knot, straining to devour his core. But Zong Qian pushed back, not with resistance, but with hunger. He began to absorb. The bronze bell pulsed violently, its tone deepening to a resonant thrum that shook the bedrock beneath them. Lin Jianyi’s jade pendant glowed, a soft, emerald light radiating from her hands as she channeled her family’s arts, a stabilizing web of Qi forming around Zong Qian, attempting to bind the chaotic torrent of energy. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her face strained with effort. This was far beyond anything she had ever attempted. Inside Zong Qian, the Soul-Decay Taint screamed. It was a thousand tiny blades, tearing at his spiritual foundation, trying to rip him apart. But with each agonizing tear, Zong Qian seized a fragment of its essence, forcing it to bend, to yield. He wasn't just enduring; he was consuming. He pulled on the bell’s amplifying nature, not just letting it flow, but *drawing* it, a vortex of spiritual hunger. The Taint, once his executioner, was becoming a furnace, stoked by his will. His vision blurred with pain, his teeth gritted, but a fierce, triumphant light began to burn in his eyes. He felt the ashen grey power of the Taint surging through his meridians, volatile and destructive, yet undeniably *his*. It was the power that had nearly annihilated him, now becoming his own weapon. He pushed past the pain, mastering the surge and bending the rotting force to his will. The grotto shook, a low rumble echoing from its depths. Lin Jianyi gasped, her focus wavering for a fraction of a second, but she forced herself back, her hands glowing brighter, the jade pendant throbbing with light. Then, with a final, guttural roar that ripped from Zong Qian’s throat, the chaotic energies within him coalesced. The ashen grey light that had momentarily engulfed him receded, leaving behind a subtle, yet profound change. His Qi, once a faint, ethereal blue, now held a deep, unyielding tinge of the same ashen grey, a stable, controlled power that hummed beneath his skin. He opened his eyes, and they glowed with a renewed, terrifying clarity, the wisdom of an Emperor and the primal strength of one who had stared into oblivion and snatched its essence. The tunnel entrance exploded inward with a deafening crash, rock fragments raining down. A figure, wreathed in shadows and blazing with undisguised fury, stood amidst the dust. Elder Brother Zhao, his face contorted with jealousy and rage, screamed, “Whatever power you’ve found, it belongs to me!”

Three Years in a Night