He stumbled, clutching at his robes, his knuckles white against the dark fabric. Black veins pulsed beneath his skin, spiderwebbing from his sternum. The womb-curse coiled, pulling him apart from within as the resonance from above called to it. One hour. The thought was a rasp, choked by the searing pain. “Hezheng!” Ding Lihou roared, his eyes blazing with newly awakened crimson light. He caught Hezheng just as his knees buckled, his newly muscular arm a steel band around his friend’s waist. “What is this? What’s happening?” Bao Xiyue was already moving, her sapphire gaze scanning the crumbling cavern ceiling, then locking onto Hezheng’s contorted face. “The curse… it’s reacting to the Loom’s summoning. You have to reach the forging vat, now!” Her voice, usually a cold cascade, held a rare urgency. “Right.” Hezheng forced a wet cough, tasting copper. The grin tried to return, a weak, lopsided thing. “Guess I’m the main ingredient, then. Wouldn’t want to be late for my own party.” He pushed himself upright, swaying. “Lihou, Xiyue… let’s crash this ceremony.” They burst from the Weeping Caverns, a blur of motion, towards the Iron-Crane Pavilion’s highest spire—the Vermilion Peak, now renamed the Obsidian Spire by Elder Kuang’s decree. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and burnt Qi. Disciples, young and old, lay slumped and lifeless along the winding ascent, their spiritual veins drained, their faces frozen in silent screams. Elder Kuang had wasted no time. “The hypocrites,” Lihou snarled, his voice a low growl that vibrated with raw power. A black mist, like writhing shadows, began to swirl around him, his eyes glowing with an ancient, terrifying authority. “They feast on the innocent for their false glory.” As they rounded a jagged outcrop, a dozen Elder-ranked sentries, clad in gleaming scarlet armor, blocked their path. Their Qi pulsed with formidable might, forming a defensive wall. At their head stood Elder Jia, a hulking brute with a scarred face, his broadsword already drawn. “Halt, demonic spawn! This ascent is forbidden! You dare interrupt the Sacred Forging?” “Sacred?” Lihou’s laugh was harsh, devoid of mirth, and deep enough to rattle the very stones beneath their feet. The black mist around him solidified, forming spectral armaments—gauntlets of condensed shadow, a cloak that billowed with unseen winds. His height seemed to stretch, his frame broadening. “You call the slaughter of your own disciples, the innocent, ‘sacred’? You are dogs, groveling for scraps from a withered hand.” Elder Jia’s face twisted in fury. “Silence, demon! You speak blasphemy!” He lunged, his broadsword arcing with a heavy, Qi-infused chop, aiming to cleave Lihou in two. Lihou didn’t move. He simply extended a hand, palm open. The black mist surged, coalescing into a grotesque, clawed hand that met the broadsword with a resounding *clang*. The force of the impact sent Elder Jia staggering back, his jaw slacking in shock as his weapon vibrated uncontrollably. The other sentries hesitated, stepping back in unison. “Demonic spawn?” Lihou’s voice dropped, becoming a chilling whisper that carried across the mountain pass. “I am the Emperor. And you, little curs, are nothing.” The black mist erupted, not in an uncontrolled explosion, but in a deliberate, precise wave of crushing pressure. The dozen sentries cried out, their scarlet armor buckling and groaning under the unseen force. They were not thrown, but pinned, crushed slowly against the mountain face, their Qi struggling uselessly against the suffocating aura. Their eyes, wide with terror, stared at the figure of Lihou, who now exuded an undeniable, ancient majesty. He had completely unleashed his demonic monarch aura. “Go, Hezheng!” Xiyue commanded, her sword a blur of pristine white light. Frost bloomed in her wake, forming a slick, crystalline path that bypassed the struggling guards. She moved like a blizzard made manifest, her attacks precise and utterly devoid of hesitation. A flick of her wrist sent a shard of ice zipping through the air, shearing through the hilt of a guard’s weapon before he could even register the movement. Her path was a clean, icy incision through the chaos, directly towards the spire’s crest. Hezheng, though his vision blurred with pain, pushed forward. The curse was a roaring inferno in his chest, pulling him, calling him, threatening to tear him apart. He followed Xiyue’s ice path, his time-bending steps a frantic, desperate dance against the encroaching agony. Every breath was a shard of glass in his lungs, every step a torment. But the grin, though strained, refused to leave his face entirely. Moments later, they burst onto the circular platform at the peak. The air here was scorching, crackling with raw Qi. In the center, a massive, obsidian cauldron glowed with an infernal, pulsing red light. The stench of burnt flesh and refined spiritual energy was overwhelming. Elder Kuang stood before it, his eyes alight with mad triumph, his arms raised as if conducting an unseen symphony of destruction. Around him, the last remaining loyal elders chanted, their faces rapt with fanaticism. “Lou Hezheng!” Kuang’s voice boomed, echoing across the high floor. He turned, a sneer twisting his features. “Just in time, boy. I confess, I feared you might be late for your own ascension. Such a shame to lose all that power before it could be fully harvested.” He gestured to the basin. “You see it, don’t you? The Heaven-Piercing Loom. Almost complete. And you, foolish boy, are delivering the final, vital ingredient. The core. Your very life force will complete it, and this world shall kneel!” Hezheng clutched his chest, the internal cracks now audible, like snapping twigs deep within him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he wiped it away with the back of his hand, a manic glint in his eyes. The pain was beyond description, but so was the surge of triumphant exhilaration. “Kneel?” Hezheng laughed, a harsh, delirious sound that cut through the chanting. It was not his usual playful chuckle, but a high-pitched, almost unhinged cackle. “Oh, Elder Kuang, you truly are a fool. You think I’m here to be devoured? To be a sacrifice?” His grin stretched, wide and terrifying, revealing teeth stained with blood. “You think I haven’t had *decades* to plan for this moment? Decades, old man, spent in the time-realm, perfecting this one little trick.” Kuang frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Decades? What babble is this?” “This little womb-curse of yours,” Hezheng continued, his voice growing in strength, the sound of cracking within him intensifying to a thunderous drum. “This core… it has its uses. It binds my Qi, channels it. And with a little practice, a little refinement… it can do so much more than just power your toy.” Hezheng extended his arms, his body radiating a chaotic, terrifying energy that made the very air warp. The black veins on his skin pulsed like taut wires. “I’ve learned how to detonate it. All of it. The core, my Qi, my very soul. Everything. From the inside out.” Kuang’s face drained of color. “You… you wouldn’t dare!” “Oh, but I would!” Hezheng roared, his laughter reaching a fever pitch. “I’ll tear your precious Loom, this entire spire, this whole rotten sect, into stardust! So come, old man! Let’s see who truly ascends!” With a sharp yell, Hezheng charged, an unstable explosive hurtling towards the panicked Elder Kuang and his blazing vat. As Hezheng launched himself forward, the sky above the Iron-Crane Pavilion violently tore open. A rent appeared in the fabric of reality itself, swirling with iridescent light and primordial energy. From the blinding chasm, a figure descended, ancient and awe-inspiring, radiating a power that dwarfed even the surging Loom. It was the Patriarch of the Iron-Crane Pavilion, a supposed myth who had ascended centuries ago, returned to personally squash the rebellion. His eyes, like twin suns, fixed on Hezheng.

The Crimson Ascension