The green cloud billowed, its tendrils snaking around Hezheng’s ankles. Xiyue’s face, a moment ago set with defiant fury, was now a mask of frantic fear, her breath ragged. He saw the tremble in her hand as she clutched the heavy tome, the subtle darkening around her lips. There was no time. The decision, though agonizing, was made. He wouldn’t let her die. Not like this. “Hold on, Ice Blossom!” Hezheng’s grin stretched, a grotesque rictus in the sickly green light. He lunged, wrapping an arm around Xiyue’s waist. Before she could react, before the poisonous tendrils could coil around her throat, the world *fractured*. One instant, the suffocating library, the next, a profound, disorienting void. Xiyue gasped, but no sound came out. The air itself felt thick, cold, silent. Hezheng was still beside her, his arm a firm anchor, but the green gas, the towering shelves, the very concept of *up* or *down*—all had vanished. Her mind screamed, grasping for logical explanation, but there was none. It was impossible. Her vision blurred, not from the gas, but from the sheer, mind-bending displacement. Then, as abruptly as it began, the void *snapped* back into reality. The acrid scent of the gas hit them again, but it was thinner now, retreating. They were still in the library, but they stood in the exact spot where the gas had been thickest, a clear pocket around them. The green haze was now concentrated near the sealed doors, swirling impotently. A mere fraction of a breath had passed in the mundane world. Xiyue stumbled back, ripping herself from Hezheng’s grasp, her sword clattering against the stone floor. Her chest heaved, not from exertion, but from terror. Her pupils contracted to pinpricks, stark against the marble pale of her skin. “What… What was that?” Her voice was a raw whisper, barely audible. “Where did we go? What did you do?” She pointed a trembling finger at him, her entire being radiating suspicion and disbelief. Hezheng rubbed the back of his neck, his smile never wavering. “Just a little… shortcut, Ice Blossom. Nothing to fuss about. See? All safe and sound. Though your hair’s a bit messy, still pretty though!” “Don’t joke!” Xiyue spat, regaining a sliver of her composure, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “That wasn’t a trick of light. That wasn’t a mere technique. No known cultivation can bend space like that, let alone time! What are you hiding, Lou Hezheng? Tell me, or I swear by the Sky-Shard Blade, I will find out!” Hezheng’s smile momentarily faltered, just a twitch at the corner of his lips. The mask was cracking. “Alright, alright,” he sighed, his voice losing its usual jocular lilt, though the smile remained fixed. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. Something that could get us both killed a thousand times over. Swear it, Xiyue. Swear on everything you hold dear, on your sword, on your very soul, that you will never speak of this. Not to anyone. Not even a whisper.” His eyes, for once, held a depth that banished all trace of the clown, an intensity that made Xiyue involuntarily flinch. It was a gaze that promised utter, ruthless destruction if she dared cross him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Xiyue stared into his eyes, seeing a power she couldn't comprehend, a cold threat cloaked in a grin. She knew, with chilling certainty, that he was utterly serious. “I… I swear,” she finally said, her voice strained. “On the purity of my sword-heart, I will never speak of what I glimpsed. But you owe me answers, Hezheng. Many answers.” “Fine, fine, later,” he waved a dismissive hand, already back to his usual self, though the underlying tension remained. “But first, let’s see what goodies this little book has.” He picked up the ledger, its leather cover singed by a stray wisp of the retreating poison gas. His gaze scanned the cryptic entries, the lists of names and bizarre artifact descriptions. Inside his mind, Grandpa Tuo’s ancient voice echoed, devoid of its usual insults, replaced by a chilling clarity. *“Hezheng, you idiot! Give that here! Let this old master take a proper look! Hmph, I knew there was something rotten here, but this…”* Grandpa Tuo’s presence in his mind solidified, taking a spectral hold of the ledger Hezheng held. *“By the Black River, this isn’t just about hoarding demonic trinkets! They’re building a weapon, boy! The Heaven-Piercing Loom! And the core… the core of that monstrous contraption…”* Hezheng felt a cold dread seep into his core, a premonition of something truly terrible. He maintained his outward grin, but his insides churned. *“The core is a living artifact,”* Grandpa Tuo continued, his voice heavy with ancient knowledge. *“A unique, self-sustaining spiritual furnace. And the perfect incubator for such a thing… would be a human body, carefully prepared from birth. A body infused with elemental Qi, resilient, but also… cursed to weaken over time as the core consumes its life force.”* Hezheng felt the familiar ache in his lower abdomen, the faint, icy tendrils of the demonic womb-curse that had plagued him since before memory. His smile twitched. “You mean… the curse isn’t just a curse?” he muttered, almost to himself, though Xiyue heard the strange inflection in his tone. “It’s… a piece of their weapon?” *“Precisely!”* Grandpa Tuo snarled, a wave of ancient fury emanating from the black bead. *“Elder Kuang didn’t just curse you out of malice, boy. He chose you! Your unique constitution, your family lineage, it all made you the perfect vessel. The ‘curse’ is the Loom’s core, slowly draining your life, growing within you, until it’s ripe for extraction. This entire sect conspiracy, this grand plan for the Heaven-Piercing Loom, hinges on you, Lou Hezheng! Your life is their ultimate resource!”* Hezheng's veins turned to ice, followed instantly by a surge of white heat. He wasn’t just a target; he was a component. A living battery. His grin widened, but it was no longer goofy. It was sharp, predatory. The goal had shifted. Survival wasn’t enough. Humiliation wasn’t enough. He would rip their weapon from his own flesh, then he would tear apart their entire conspiracy, piece by agonizing piece. “How do we get out of here?” Xiyue demanded, pulling him back to the immediate danger. “The doors are sealed by a powerful array. We don’t have time.” Hezheng’s eyes, now devoid of all mirth, swept over the massive oak doors, tracing the intricate patterns of the sealing array. “We make time, Ice Blossom,” he said, his voice low, a promise of violence in its depths. “You want to smash something? Let’s tear this place open.” He positioned himself, a strange stillness descending upon him. Xiyue, sensing the shift in his aura, drew her sword, its silver gleam cutting through the dim light. “What’s the plan?” “Simple,” Hezheng’s grin returned, a flash of white teeth. “You hit the door. I’ll make sure it breaks.” Xiyue didn’t question it. With a fierce cry, she channeled her pure frost Qi into her blade, unleashing a devastating Arc-Cleave Slash. The air hummed, then screamed, as a crescent arc of frigid silver light tore toward the door. Hezheng, moving with impossible speed, flickered behind the strike, his hand brushing the air just before the crescent arc impacted. A subtle *distortion* rippled through the space, amplifying Xiyue’s attack a hundredfold, twisting the very fabric of the array’s defense. The massive oak doors exploded inward, splintering into thousands of sharp shards that sprayed across the deserted corridor. They emerged into the quiet night, the ruined library behind them. The air was crisp, free of poison. Hezheng’s gaze, however, was already distant. His best friend. He had to check on Lihou. They moved swiftly, silent as shadows, through the darkened halls of the Outer Peaks dormitory. Lihou’s quarters were in the lower tier, near the training grounds. As they approached, a cold knot formed in Hezheng’s gut. The door was ajar, hanging precariously from one hinge. Hezheng pushed it open, his grin frozen on his face. The room was a wreck. Furniture was overturned, bedding torn, scrolls scattered and shredded. The faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air. A broken ceramic vase lay on the floor, its contents – a small, carefully tended jade flower – crushed. Lihou would never leave his flower like that. He was gone. Xiyue gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Hezheng, what…?” Hezheng knelt, his eyes scanning the scene, picking up subtle clues: a scuff mark on the floor, the distinct pattern of a boot print, a tiny fragment of a silk ribbon, embroidered with a stylized phoenix. Mu Feiyan’s faction. His grin tightened, becoming a mask of pure, controlled fury. Just then, Hezheng’s gaze fell upon his own door, directly opposite Lihou’s. Pinned to the center, by a wicked, curved blade of blackened steel, was a piece of parchment. It was stained dark, not with ink, but with something else. Something still wet. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool, rough surface of the paper, then the hilt of the demonic dagger. He pulled the note free, his eyes flicking over the scrawled, jagged characters. The frost in his chest gave way to an infernal heat. His smile vanished. All pretense, all amusement, evaporated, leaving behind a raw, terrifying wrath. The womb-curse pulsed with agonizing intensity, but he barely noticed it. Only one phrase burned into his vision. ‘Come to the Weeping Caverns alone, or your dog friend dies.’

The Womb-Curse Truth