The words weren’t Lihou’s; they grated like grinding millstones, rising from deep under his breastbone. Hezheng felt his ribs creak under the immense weight. Scarlet fire flared in Lihou’s irises, not the blind glare of a berserker, but a mournful, devouring brand. Hezheng’s cheerful mask flickered. This went far beyond a companion lost to frenzy. “The boy’s blood remembers, Lou’zi,” Grandpa Tuo’s voice, a gravelly whisper in Hezheng’s mind, cut through the pain. “That’s no mere mutation. It’s an awakening. Look closer, you fool. Look through the rage.” Hezheng narrowed his sight past the monstrous bulk, tracing the shifting meridians beneath the skin. The charcoal tendrils twisted into imperial glyphs, sharp and severe as iron brands. As Lihou’s fingers dug in, scalding heat radiated through his palms, blurring Hezheng’s sight. He wasn’t seeing the cavern anymore. Instead, he saw a colossal black fortress, its spires piercing an obsidian sky, banners depicting a snarling, horned beast unfurling in a gale. He saw a throne of shadow-stone, a figure seated upon it, cloaked in an authority that bent reality. Then, the fortress crumbled, devoured by blinding light and the screams of a thousand loyalists. A small, trembling hand, reaching out from the rubble, clutching a carved wooden lion. *A child.* Hezheng’s mind raced. *Lihou.* The pieces clicked into place with a sickening thud. The ruined nether-realm dynasty, the hidden lineages, the puppet-masters. Ding Lihou was its exiled sovereign. Lihou bellowed again, a raw shriek of grief, as if foreign recollections were shredding his lungs from the inside. His scaled hand, still pressing down, shifted, a razor-sharp claw scraping a deep gouge into Hezheng’s shoulder plate. Hezheng grunted, a genuine flash of pain escaping his usual placid expression. He could time-slip, dodge, counter-attack. But he wouldn't. He couldn't shatter the bones of a lost emperor, especially not this one. Hezheng twisted, using his time-bending to subtly lessen the pressure on his chest, creating just enough space to breathe. Another clawed swipe tore at his arm, ripping through his sleeve and leaving a burning trail. He ignored it. He needed Lihou, not the beast. He needed to break through. He searched his memories, past fallen dynasties and netherworld legacies, back to the dust of their boyhood sparring ring. “Hey, Lihou!” Hezheng’s voice, though strained, was light, a familiar chirp. He forced his goofy grin wider, wincing as the motion pulled at his bruised ribs. “Remember that time we snuck into Elder Wei’s garden to steal his ‘sacred spirit-melon’ and you ended up head-first in the koi pond, convinced you were a fish-man?” The guttural bellow faltered. The scarlet glow in Lihou’s eyes dimmed a fraction, replaced by a flicker of bewilderment. His grip loosened, ever so slightly. Hezheng pushed on, his voice filled with a warmth that cut through the darkness. “You splashed water everywhere, yelling about how you’d bring a new era of aquatic martial arts to the Pavilion! And then you cried because the fish wouldn’t ‘apprentice’ under you!” Hezheng chuckled, a genuine, if pained, sound. “You looked like a giant, grumpy, wet squirrel-otter! It was hilarious!” The bizarre imagery, the shared memory of pure, unadulterated childhood idiocy, struck Lihou like a physical blow. The somber, primordial fire in his irises dimmed further. His monstrous features flickered, the scales and claws retracting, struggling against the raw power that still coursed through him. A low, ragged groan escaped his lips, a sound of profound internal conflict. The colossal hand pressing Hezheng down trembled, then withdrew completely. Lihou staggered back, clutching his temples. The umbral miasma drew inward, knotting tight against his skin. His skin still held a faint, obsidian sheen, and his pupils remained elongated, but the murderous intent had vanished, replaced by a deep, pained confusion. He looked at his half-clawed fingers, then stared at the torn flesh along Hezheng’s sleeve. “Hezheng? I… what did I do?” Lihou’s voice was his own, though deeper, raspy. He shuddered, a full-body tremor. “I… I couldn’t control it. It was like a nightmare. I saw… I saw fire and blood, and then… you.” He looked at his hands again, then back at Hezheng, a look of desperate shame on his face. “I’m… I’m a monster.” Hezheng pushed himself up, wincing, but still grinning. “A monster with excellent taste in spirit-melons, apparently. You just had a bit of an identity crisis, old friend. Happens to the best of us.” He struck Lihou’s shoulder, ignoring the glowing veins that throbbed under his partner's skin. “Look at you! You’re magnificent! Who needs an old dull sword when you’ve got… whatever *that* is, boiling in your veins?” Lihou stared at his hands, then at Hezheng. A strange, knowing glint entered his eyes. The dark miasma steadied, tightening into an obedient mantle. “This… this power. It’s not just destruction. It’s… creation. Command. I can feel the very essence of the earth, the flow of Qi through these caverns.” A grim resolve settled on his face, replacing the horror. “If I am the Emperor’s vessel, then this power will serve *my* purpose. And my purpose is to protect you, Hezheng, and tear down those who wronged us.” Before Hezheng could respond, a figure burst into the cavern, a streak of white amidst the shadows. Bao Xiyue, sword drawn, her usually pristine robes smudged with dust and what looked suspiciously like soot. Her pale face was streaked with ash, breath sawing through parted lips. “Lou Hezheng! Ding Lihou! What are you doing down here?” she demanded, taking in Lihou’s scaled hide and clamping her grip around her hilt. “Elder Kuang has initiated the forging ritual! He’s at the Pavilion’s peak, the Obsidian Spire! He’s slaughtering the lower-tier disciples, draining their Qi, their very lives, to fuel the crucible! He’s summoning the Loom!” As Xiyue’s words echoed through the cavern, a sharp, internal crack resonated through Hezheng’s chest. The grin vanished from his face. A searing, unbearable pain erupted from his core, radiating outwards. He stumbled, clutching his chest, a low gasp escaping him. He felt it, distinctly, a high-pitched, resonant *crack* that reverberated through his very soul. The womb-curse coiled through his dantian, tearing at his lifelines as the resonance pulled from above. He had one hour. One agonizing, ticking hour before his soul would completely collapse and the Loom would burst forth, consuming him and everything around it, unless he plunged himself into the blazing inferno of Elder Kuang’s forging crucible.

Blood of the Empire