The proclamation vibrated through the very stones of the ruined Dragon Cave, the place where Targen’s fate had irrevocably twisted. My name, broadcast with such performative disdain, felt like a brand of ice. Treason. Demonic forces. Destabilize. The words were a bitter parody of my life’s mission. I gripped the tattered edges of my robe, the fabric already torn from the night’s frantic escape. Dawn. That gave us precious few hours. Targen looked at me, false starlight filtering through a ceiling fissure onto his calm face. “Sarnai, are you alright? That seemed quite rude of Grand Elder Baatar.” Rude. I snorted. The man was a viper coiled around the High Sovereign's ambition. “Rude is an understatement, Targen,” I muttered, leaning against moss-covered granite while pressing a palm to my forehead. “The Grand Elder is a puppet. Our master needs a scapegoat, and I made myself convenient by digging where I shouldn’t.” “But why you specifically?” Targen asked, his politeness unwavering even as death loomed over my head. “You seemed quite dedicated to the sect.” “Dedicated enough to keep it from rotting from within.” My gaze drifted to the cracked jade amulet in my palm, its fractured halves separated along a jagged fault. “The High Sovereign wasn't always supreme leader. When I was ten, he was merely an ambitious elder pioneering radical methods to force meridian expansion.” Cold drafts carried grit along the cavern floor. I recalled another smell: bitter copper inside the High Sovereign's private alchemical halls, where my kinfolk Temür had eagerly stepped forward. Temür possessed a spotless jade meridian, an exceptional gift that caught the sovereign's attention with grand pledges of ascending straight past mortality. “He guaranteed my elder kin an express route,” I continued under my breath. “Temür shielded me, coached my stances, shared every scrap of grain. When the sovereign offered entrance into his inner sanctum, Temür bowed in gratitude. He believed he would reach the Upper Heavens and lift our clan out of squalor.” I still remembered Temür's flushed grin, promising spirit stones once he breached the clouds. But Temür never rose. He never walked out. Seasons passed, met only with dismissive evasions about deep meditative seclusion. I had been young and blind. But as I advanced through the ranks, clawing through Yaksha-Var's cutthroat hierarchy, I pulled on the threads. “I uncovered other names,” I said, knuckles blanching. “Dozens of elite initiates disappeared into that courtyard. Kinfolk silenced, ancestral rosters scrubbed clean. The sovereign was never training them. He was butchering them. Their refined marrow was drained directly into his contraption. That portal he constructs above the peak? It is an open furnace, and Temür was raw charcoal.” I stared down at the talisman. A disc carved with an egret, split down the middle when Temür parted with me at the inner gate. In an old flare of rage after discovering the truth, I had snapped my piece across a flagstone. “I am terribly sorry, Sarnai,” Targen said gently. He extended a hand, tracing the fractured mineral. “Such deceit is thoroughly disgraceful. This relic clearly matters to you. May I attempt to restore it?” I scoffed. “The stone has been split for years. Brittle nephrite doesn't weld back together.” Targen kept his fingers steady. A dull amber heat leaked from his skin, wrapping around the green stone. The volatile dragon fluid running through his veins, normally a recipe for detonation, aligned with minute precision. The fracture lines sparkled, fusing until the seam vanished into smooth polish. The egret engraving settled into whole stone, faintly warm against my knuckles. My throat tightened. “How did you align the minerals like that?” Targen smiled, a small, bashful curve of his lips. “Oh, well, the draconic essence is quite… adaptable, I suppose. It just seemed to know where to go. I hope it helps you, Sarnai.” I took the smooth disc back, stone solid beneath my thumb. Looking up, I met his open, unburdened gaze—an absurdity in a world built on backstabbing and poison. I leaned forward, the chill in the hollow forgotten. *WHUMP!* A heavy dull crash rattled the dust loose from the walls. Pogo scrambled out from behind collapsed masonry, pushing a fat ceramic jug across the gravel. Dirt caked the pangolin's snout while its armored tail whipped with triumph. “Oh, Pogo, what did you unearth?” Targen asked, leaning down as the mood dispersed. [Jochi]: *“By the blessed bowels of the Spirit-Beasts! That is it! The Divine Wine of Oblivion! Pogo, you magnificent beast! Hand it over, boy!”* The clay jar bore faded sigils under thick black wax, emitting a rich, fermented vapor that cut through the cavern's dampness. Jochi bellowed through Targen’s mind with sudden greed. “Jochi says it’s important,” Targen relayed, carefully uncorking the vessel. A plume of fragrant, lavender-hued mist wafted out, instantly dissolving into the air. The scent alone felt potent enough to intoxicate an immortal. [Jochi]: *“A single sip, Targen, and your understanding of the cosmos will expand! Two sips, and the very heavens will tremble! Three sips, and you can level a mountain with a flick of your wrist! Give me, give me, give me!”* Targen, ever courteous, uncorked the vessel and guided the rising vapor inward toward the dragon essence. “Certainly, Jochi. I hope it meets your standards.” Silence. Then a satisfied rumble shook Targen's ribs. Pressure flared around him, golden sparks licking his forearms as raw primordial vigor settled into his bones. [Jochi]: *“Ah, that’s the stuff! A thousand years since I tasted such nectar! As agreed, little mortal. The Heaven-Sundering Palm. Unleash its fury upon those who stand in your path. It delivers not just a blow, but complete marrow-scouring ruin. Just… aim carefully. And perhaps… only use it on truly deserving individuals. This vintage has made me generous!”* Targen blinked. “Spiritual annihilation? That sounds rather… permanent. Are you quite certain, Jochi?” “Permanent is exactly what we require against the sovereign,” I cut in, watching the steam fade above the jug. “The tribunal called for my head at dawn. Subtlety is useless. We storm the central square. We make them regret ever crossing us.” Targen’s expression became thoughtful. “But how to do it politely? Perhaps I can offer to ‘assist’ with the execution preparations, then accidentally… misplace… their weaponry? Or maybe I could politely ask Baatar to reconsider?” I almost slapped my own forehead. “Targen, they have a headsman waiting! There is no room for etiquette! You step onto that platform, smash anyone who unsheathes steel with your palm strike, and rip down the sovereign's gate array. We take your lethal techniques and your courteous insanity to cause total upheaval.” Pogo chittered, seemingly understanding, and began to gnaw on a loose stone, clearly excited by the prospect of chaos. Targen considered this. “So, a polite, yet utterly devastating, intervention? I suppose that could work. It would be rather impolite to allow such a grave injustice to occur without offering a… counter-proposal.” “Exactly,” I said with bared teeth. “Your counter-proposal will lay their entire platform in ruins.” I glanced toward the cave mouth, where the protective glyphs flickered. “It is reckless. But we have no other play.” If you die tomorrow, I’m bringing you back just to kill you myself. Just then, the cave’s defensive wards shattered violently.

A Toast to Absolute Ruin