Ruby light pulsed beneath his skin, the fine fissures on his forearms deepening, threatening to tear open. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and involuntary. The world warped, the carefully organized ledgers on the floor blurring into an indistinguishable smear of ink and terror.
Sarnai snapped her head up, her gaze ripping from the damning documents to Targen’s contorting form. His polite mask had shattered, revealing pure, unadulterated torment. The ambient air around him shimmered with oppressive heat. This wasn’t a mere setback in his training; it was a violent rejection of flesh by the primordial essence within him. He was burning from the inside out.
“Jochi, you incompetent, wine-soaked slug!” Sarnai snarled, not caring if she sounded mad, addressing the void that contained the ancient god. “What is happening to him?!”
*“First purge, little lady,”* Jochi’s voice echoed, slurred with an almost impressive level of indifference. *“The dragon blood… it’s, uh, purifying him. Getting rid of the weak bits. Needs a Tribulation Altar, probably. Or he pops like an overripe gourd.”*
An overripe gourd. Sarnai’s mind raced. Tribulation Altars were rare, sacred sites, built strictly for revered Elders breaking through major breakthrough thresholds. They channeled the volatile celestial energies, making a safe conduit for the body’s transformation. The closest one was deep within the Azure Peaks, a treacherous, rarely-used path.
“Can he move?” Sarnai barked, already discarding the ledgers, which now seemed secondary to Targen’s imminent demise. He was her key, her leverage against Baatar. He couldn’t explode, not now.
Targen struggled to straighten, but his knees buckled. A single, guttural cough escaped him, flecks of scarlet mist staining his lips. “Apologies, Sarnai,” he rasped, his voice strained by the inferno within him. “My core… it feels… rather agitated.”
Agitated. He was on the verge of spontaneous combustion, and he called it ‘agitated.’ Sarnai cursed under her breath. “No time for politeness! This way!”
She gripped Targen’s bicep, ignoring the blistering heat radiating from his skin. His weight was considerable, but she was stronger than most men, her ruthlessness matched only by her physical prowess. She half-dragged, half-carried him out of the treasury, Pogo clinging to Targen’s shoulder, chittering in frantic distress.
They burst from the Abyssal Treasury, the cool night air doing little to abate Targen’s furnace within. Sarnai’s path was direct: through the back alleys of the Outer Sect, avoiding patrols, making for the hidden mountain pass. Every step was a battle against Targen’s weakening body and the oppressive heat. Pogo, typically a source of wild delight, hovered subdued, occasionally nipping at Targen’s ear to offer comfort.
Just as they reached the winding, moonlit path leading up to the Azure Peaks, three figures dropped from the shadows, their robes emblazoned with the shadowy talon insignia of Baatar’s personal guard. Elite sentries. They moved with razor precision, their pressure dense as mountain stone.
“Senior Sarnai,” one of them, a man with a scarred cheek and flint eyes, spoke with flat calm. “Grand Elder Baatar wishes a word. He claims you’ve been consorting with… undesirable elements.” His gaze flickered to Targen, his lips curling in disdain.
Sarnai shoved Targen roughly behind a cluster of ancient pines. “Consorting? I am merely escorting an injured initiate. Step aside.”
“Our orders are explicit,” the scarred sentry replied, drawing a serrated saber. “You, and the crippled one, are to be brought in. Preferably alive, but not strictly necessary.”
“How charming,” Sarnai said, a glint of genuine fury entering her eyes. She drew her own blade, a lean, obsidian-hued saber named ‘Shadow’s Kiss.’ “Then you’ll have to cut through me.”
The clash was immediate and brutal. Sarnai moved like a phantom, her blade a blur of obsidian light. She was outnumbered, but her skill was honed by years of surviving the sect’s cutthroat politics. Each parry, each thrust, was economical and lethal. One enforcer staggered back, a gash opening across his chest. Another grunted as Shadow’s Kiss clipped his shoulder. She fought with a ferocity born of desperation, knowing Targen’s life, and her mission, hung in the balance.
Her focus fractured for a moment as a new, high-pitched shriek split the night. Oyun. Clad in silks the color of new moonlight, she descended from a nearby ridge, her face a mask of furious jealousy. She held a glowing jade talisman, already charging a spell.
“Sarnai!” Oyun’s voice, usually modulated to a delicate pitch, was shrill with rage. “You think you can hide him? You think you can escape Vane’s wrath? And *you*,” she spat, her eyes fixing on Targen, “You refuse my gracious rejection, then hobble off with *her*? I’ll finish what the tribulation started!”
The jade talisman flared, and a torrent of azure fire erupted, arcing directly at Targen. It was a potent, soul-scorching attack, designed to incinerate a body’s core.
Targen, still doubled over, felt the raw, volatile force rushing toward him. It was excruciating, but amidst the agony, Jochi’s slurred voice returned, *“A bit of… ambient essence… might help stabilize… the purge. Absorb… don’t resist.”*
With a superhuman effort, Targen straightened just enough to face the oncoming blast. He wasn’t resisting. He was, with his characteristic politeness, receiving. He held out his hands, palms open, as if accepting a gift. The azure fire slammed into him, engulfing him in a blinding flash. Sarnai cried out, momentarily distracted from her fight.
But the expected scream of agony didn’t come. Instead, a low, resonant hum emanated from Targen’s core. The dragon blood, ravenous for fuel, greedily devoured Oyun’s gathered fire. The azure flames didn’t burn him; they coalesced, swirling around him, then were sucked inward, vanishing into his very being. The red glow beneath his skin flared bright, then began to recede, the fissures on his forearms knitting shut.
Targen let out a long, shuddering breath, the terrible internal pressure easing, replaced by a profound, if still overwhelming, warmth. He opened his eyes, now clear and steady. “Oh, Oyun,” he said, his voice steadying, if slightly hoarse. “That was… truly bracing. A magnificent application of power. Thank you so much for the assistance; it seems to have quite settled my agitation.”
Oyun stared, her jaw slack. The feedback from her attack, instead of obliterating Targen, backlashed, emptying her core. Her face paled, then flushed with indignant fury. A harsh wheeze escaped her, and she clutched her ribcage, coughing up a mouthful of thick blood. She collapsed to her knees, utterly humiliated and depleted.
Sarnai, seeing Oyun’s utter defeat and Targen’s impossible recovery, pressed her advantage. Shadow’s Kiss moved with renewed speed, dispatching the remaining sentries with ruthless efficiency. They lay sprawled, incapacitated, but not dead. Sarnai had no time for kills; she needed information.
She helped Targen to his feet. His skin was no longer splitting, the red glow faint. He looked tired, but whole. “How did you…?” she began, but Jochi’s voice cut her off.
*“He needs that altar, still. Purge isn’t finished. But listen here, little politeness machine,”* Jochi’s voice, clearer now, held a rare tremor of seriousness. *“That Grand Elder Baatar… his little ‘gate to the Divine Realm’? It’s not just for him. He’s draining this whole continent’s life force. This isn’t a personal ascension. It’s a trap, a funnel. It’ll suck Yaksha-Var dry.”*
Targen blinked, the implications washing over him. “A trap? But… he wishes to reach the Divine Realm.”
*“He seeks to rip a hole to it, but he can’t control it,”* Jochi explained, genuine alarm in his drawl. *“It’ll be like a cosmic vacuum cleaner, pulling everything in. Not just a few souls. The entire realm. Targen, you can’t just ascend quietly anymore. You have to hijack his gate. Turn it into your own. It’s the only way to save yourself, and this whole damn, backward continent.”*
“Hijack his gate?” Targen murmured, his brow furrowed. The thought of stealing someone else’s painstakingly constructed gateway felt… rather impolite. But the alternative… the destruction of Yaksha-Var. His kind nature, often a hindrance, hardened into sharp purpose. He couldn’t let that happen. He would hijack it.
A deafening, resonant boom then echoed from the sky, shaking the very mountains. It was Grand Elder Baatar’s voice, amplified by massive arrays, resounding across the entire Iron-Lotus Pavilion and the crags beyond.
“People of Iron-Lotus! And citizens of Yaksha-Var!” Baatar’s voice thundered, laced with false sorrow. “It is with gravest regret that I announce the betrayal of Sarnai. She has been found guilty of high treason, conspiring with outside demonic forces, and attempting to destabilize our sacred sect. Her public execution, for all to witness, is scheduled for dawn.”