The stench of simmering river eels and fermented millet wine usually delighted Targen, but today, the vibrant clamor of the Crimson-Spine Bazaar was a suffocating cage. Footfalls thumped behind him—not the casual wanderings of shoppers, but the heavy, synchronized strides of the Horned-Serpent disciples. Three of them, led by the perpetually sneering Gurun, had been dogging him since he’d politely offered to carry an elderly spice merchant’s heavy sacks. “Look, it’s Targen, the Iron-Lotus’s esteemed invalid!” Gurun’s voice, sharp as a whetted blade, cut through the din. “Still tripping over his own two feet, eh? A shame, really. Such a waste of a good uniform.” Targen, his perpetually bowed back aching from a recent ‘training’ session, merely offered a small, apologetic smile over his shoulder. “My sincerest apologies for my continued existence, Honored Brother Gurun. I shall endeavor to be less… cumbersome.” Gurun spat. “Your apologies are as worthless as your spiritual meridians. You’re a blight on the Iron-Lotus. My Master says we should prune such weak branches.” He cracked his knuckles, and his two cronies, bulky men named Katu and Bolg, grinned, their gauntlets glinting in the afternoon sun. They were blocking the alley exit. Trapped between a stall selling iridescent beetle-silk and Gurun’s fists, Targen scanned frantically for an escape. He didn’t want a brawl. He *really* didn’t want a brawl. It always ended with him on the ground, spitting blood, and his persecutors claiming ‘self-defense’ in the arena. His current state, a result of his inner spiritual channels being twisted and sealed from birth, meant he couldn’t even summon a wisp of Qi for protection. His gaze caught on a dark, barely visible crevice between two overflowing storage sheds at the very edge of the bazaar, choked by overgrown thorny vines. It looked like a forgotten cave entrance, long sealed. Perfect. A place to discreetly avoid conflict. “Excuse me, good sirs,” Targen murmured, ducking abruptly under a merchant’s display of dried fish, eliciting a squawk of protest. He weaved through the throng, startling a basket of clucking poultry, and slipped into the shadowy gap before Gurun could react. The air immediately grew cooler, thicker with the scent of damp earth and primeval stone. The passage narrowed quickly, forcing him to squeeze through. Once inside, he nudged a loose boulder into the opening, blocking the meager light and, hopefully, Gurun’s pursuit. The silence was profound, broken only by his ragged breathing. He was in a forgotten cavern, deeper than he’d expected. The darkness was absolute, pressing in. He fumbled for the small flint and steel he always carried, striking a spark. A tiny, flickering flame bloomed, illuminating a vast, natural chamber, its walls slick with moisture. Intricate carvings, faded by centuries, adorned the rock face, depicting strange, winged beasts and serpentine figures. And in the very center, suspended in the air like a drop of solidified blood, pulsed a crimson tear. It was no larger than his thumb, yet it radiated a primordial heat that hummed against his very bones. Drawn by an inexplicable fascination, a morbid curiosity, Targen reached out. His fingers brushed its surface, and it instantly dissolved, flowing into his palm like warm oil, then down his arm, burning its way to his chest. His entire being convulsed. A searing pain erupted in his core, followed by a dizzying rush of power, vast and untamed, tearing through his crippled meridians, smashing through the dormant pathways that had bound him since birth. He gasped, falling to his knees as an archaic, booming voice echoed directly in his mind, resonant as a thousand gongs. *“Finally! After a thousand cycles, a morsel of that delicious draconic essence finds its way to a living vessel! And what a delightfully pathetic vessel it is!”* Targen, clutching his head, struggled to speak. “Who… who are you? What was that?” *“I am Jochi, Ancient of the Scaled Depths, Lord of the Sky-Serpents! And you, my dear, polite little morsel, have just ingested a tear of pure Chaotic Dragon Blood. A rare delicacy, indeed! Though, I must admit, I was expecting a more… formidable host.”* Bile surged into Targen's throat. “Dragon blood? Chaotic… what does that mean? I merely wished to avoid a minor altercation.” Jochi’s voice rumbled with amusement. *“Minor altercation? My boy, you now have a rather significant one. That blood, pure and potent, needs an outlet. And it has chosen you. A Qi-less human. Quite amusing. But here’s the rub, little blossom: breakthrough to the Divine Realm in exactly 365 days, or that violent flame will combust you into a glorious, sun-like inferno.”* Targen’s breath caught. “Spontaneous combustion? In a year? That’s impossible! Ascending to the Divine Realm takes centuries for even the most gifted disciples!” *“Indeed! But you have me, Jochi! And this delicious dragon blood! It will force you. Now, let us test this magnificent upgrade. Channel the energy, little sprout. Just a tiny push.”* “A push? But I don’t know how!” Targen protested, his mind reeling. “I’ve never drawn breath into a core in my life!” *“Nonsense! The blood remembers. Feel it, swirling, powerful. Imagine it flowing to your hand. Focus. Now, project!”* He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the crimson flame that now coursed through him. A strange warmth gathered in his right palm. He hesitantly pushed it outward, towards the sealed cave entrance. There was no explosion. No roar. Just a gentle *thrum*. The gray granite, however, shivered. Then, with a sound like a thousand crashing waves, the entire face of the cave entrance disintegrated into dust, showering the chamber with splintered light and debris. The power had been far more immense than he, or perhaps even Jochi, had anticipated. The sudden rush of fresh air revealed the devastated bazaar outside, several market stalls now overturned by the shockwave, and a cloud of dust obscuring the terrified faces of Gurun and his cronies, who were scrambling backward. *“Oh, splendid! A bit overzealous, perhaps, but quite the display!”* Jochi chuckled in his mind. *“You’re going to need resources, little detonation device. Lots of them. That wild beast of a flame is hungry. And from the looks of it, you’re about as wealthy as a mud-snail.”* Targen stared at his hand, then at the gaping maw of the ruined cave. He had just casually obliterated an entire rock face. He, Targen, the sect's favorite punching bag. This was… unexpected. And terrifying. He was flat broke, a nobody, and now he had a countdown to detonation. How was he supposed to get cultivation resources? As the dust settled, a small, furry creature, startled by the collapse, scurried out from a crevice beneath where the boulder had been. It was a Cloud-Weaver Pangolin, its scales shimmering with iridescent hues, its snout twitching. Pogo, Targen instinctively thought, a name conjured by the sheer, unbridled chaos the creature embodied. Pogo immediately began sniffing the disturbed earth, its sharp claws digging with surprising speed. It let out a soft chirp of excitement, unearthing something small and glowing from the freshly disturbed soil. A jade token, intricately carved with the symbol of the Iron-Lotus, radiating a faint, cold light. It was Oyun’s—his ex-fiancée’s—identity token. And buried right beside it, partially revealed, was the bleached-white dome of a human skull.

The Most Polite Apology for Spontaneous Combustion