“Outlawed arts?” Targen tilted his head, a frown touching his brow. “Senior Sarnai, that sounds somewhat… permanent. If these gentlemen in serpentine livery were simply fetching a scroll, would exposing my secrets truly be the most polite response?” He gestured vaguely at the prone forms, then considered her face. “Perhaps a gentle word with the Sect Leader first, to clarify their intentions?” Sarnai watched him, her patience worn thin as split bamboo. “Courtesy will earn you a swift burial, Targen. These are not clerks. They were sent to silence me. And you, by your own gentle interventions, have employed arts that could dismantle the pavilion's reputation.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping low. “Grand Elder Baatar has been systematically bleeding our lower-tier ranks dry. His conspirators sit on the high council. We need proof. The Abyssal Treasury holds the sect’s most restricted ledgers and unique relic vaults. It’s where he stashes his secrets. Get in, find something, *anything*, and bring it out. In return, I will ensure your… unusual power remains quiet. Fail, and I will personally lock you in the Azure Cells.” Targen’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, then back to Sarnai. “Draining initiates? That sounds quite unkind. I suppose helping would be the most considerate course of action, wouldn’t it?” He sighed. “Though I confess, Senior Sarnai, I find myself somewhat ill-equipped for clandestine retrieval. My actions tend to be… noisy.” “Precisely why you’re bait,” Sarnai retorted, a flicker of something akin to a smirk gracing her lips before it vanished. “You are the chaos. I will arrange a ‘diversion’ on the western flank of the Treasury. You enter through the service tunnels beneath the main vault. No martial strikes unless absolutely necessary. Just find the ledgers, Targen.” Hours later, a faint, rhythmic *clink-crunch-slurp* echoed through the dimly lit service tunnel beneath the Abyssal Treasury. Targen, hunched low, navigated the cramped, dust-choked passages. Pogo, however, was in his element. The Cloud-Weaver, nose twitching, had burrowed through a loose grate and was now happily gnawing on what appeared to be a fist-sized lump of crystallized core mineral, radiating a soft, sapphire glow. The beast’s eyelids drooped in bliss, its small, spiked tongue flicking out periodically to lap up shattered fragments. “Pogo, my dear friend,” Targen whispered, his voice soft, “we truly must not eat the sect’s resources. It lacks courtesy. And these appear quite expensive.” Pogo merely chittered, nudging another glowing crystal with its snout. The sound, however, was enough. A deep, resonant growl ripped through the tunnel. “Who dares defile the sacred stores of the Iron-Lotus Pavilion?” A figure, tall and gaunt, emerged from a fissure in the rock, wreathed in a faint, sickly green aura. Elder Jaro, a Core Elder known for fanatical loyalty to Grand Elder Baatar and ruthless purges, stalked into the narrow passage. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, narrowed on Targen, then on the gorging pangolin. “A cripple and a beast? Baatar was right. The weak cling to the shadows like vermin.” He sneered, a glint of predatory hunger in his gaze. “To think, a creature like you, Targen, has stumbled upon our sacred work. No matter. Your insignificant life will be put to use. Your flesh, infused with whatever strange energy you possess, will make excellent refinement pills. They will help hasten the Grand Elder’s great work, a small price for your insolence.” Targen’s expression remained perfectly calm, though a subtle stiffness entered his posture. “Elder Jaro, I must apologize profusely. My companion, Pogo, has an unfortunate appetite for ore. We truly did not intend to cause such a disturbance. And as for my flesh, I assure you, it would make for dreadful medicinal pills. A bit tough, I imagine, and prone to indigestion.” He bowed slightly, hands clasped. “Perhaps we could simply depart, and I shall ensure the creature learns proper manners?” Jaro let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Manners? Fool. You will be dissolved! I will personally oversee your slow, agonizing refinement!” He raised a hand, gathering a ball of crackling, emerald energy, its tendrils reaching out like grasping talons. “Prepare to contribute to the Grand Elder’s ascension!” “Oh dear,” Targen murmured. “Such unnecessary unpleasantness.” He extended one hand, not in defense, but almost in a gesture of placation. “Jochi, a small, *very* polite technique, if you please. One that merely discourages, without causing undue harm.” Jochi’s voice, slurred and heavy with wine, rumbled in his mind. *“Hmph. More politeness? Bah! Fine. For the price of a vintage Sunken Dragon Rice Wine… the Dragon’s Apology Strike. A firm, yet humble, repudiation of rudeness.”* A ripple, barely visible, emanated from Targen’s outstretched palm. It wasn’t a blast, nor a beam. It was more like a sigh of displaced air, a silent, almost regretful vibration. It touched Elder Jaro, not with force, but with an unsettling *emptiness*. The emerald energy ball in Jaro’s hand sputtered, then dissolved into nothingness. His pupils dilated, staring in sheer, uncomprehending horror. The sickly green aura that had always surrounded him, the very essence of his cultivation, shimmered, then vanished entirely, like dust swept away by an invisible broom. His gaunt frame seemed to sag, his power gone, leaving him a hollowed-out husk. He stumbled back, collapsing against the stone wall, his face a mask of utter devastation. “My… my cultivation… gone? Impossible!” Targen offered another small bow. “My sincerest apologies, Elder Jaro. I truly hope this does not cause too much inconvenience.” He then calmly stepped over the now-powerless Elder, Pogo scampering after him, a small, spherical ledger clutched firmly in its tiny paws. The little beast had dug it up from behind a loose stone, its cover etched with the Iron-Lotus Pavilion’s crest. Just as Targen began to flip through the surprisingly detailed entries, the heavy vault door at the end of the passage exploded inward. Sarnai burst through, her sword drawn, eyes blazing, expecting to find a pitched battle. Instead, she found Targen, calmly examining a book, Pogo happily chewing on another spirit stone, and Elder Jaro weeping silently in a corner, clutching his chest like a broken man. Her eyes, however, snapped immediately to the small ledger Targen held. She snatched it, her gaze flying across the cryptic notations. The dates, the names, the steep drop in meridian output for specific lower-tier initiates, cross-referenced with massive transfers of rare astral stones to a hidden, experimental array. It was all here. Baatar was siphoning the life force of dozens, not for personal hoard, but to fuel a forbidden ritual to breach the Divine Realm. “The audacity…” Sarnai whispered, her fingers tracing a particularly heinous entry. “He plans to rip open the Veil of Ascendance itself…” As Sarnai stared at the damning evidence, Targen felt a sudden, searing heat ignite in his veins, radiating from his chest. His skin, already taut, began to stretch, tiny cracks forming across his forearms, glowing with an inner crimson light. A gasp escaped his lips. The heat intensified, becoming an unbearable inferno. His vision blurred. *“Oops,”* Jochi slurred, his voice distant and hazy. *“Almost forgot… day thirty tribulation… first major purge… might feel a bit… warm.”* Targen doubled over, his body wracked with an agonizing, internal combustion.

The Dragon's Apology Strike