“Where did a dirt-scratcher get the lost records of Sovereign Zong Qingshan?”
“Dirt-scratcher?” My tilling brush, still caked with the mud that had put his cronies to sleep, twitched. “This isn’t just *dirt*, you uncultivated blockhead, this is the richest loam in the entire Azure domain! And these aren't ‘records,’ they’re my field notes. I wrote them.” I tapped the brass cover with a knuckle. “Or, rather, the previous owner of my face did. Who, apparently, was you-know-who. Now, are we going to stand here debating semantics while the world prepares to turn itself into a soup of mystic sludge, or are we going to figure out how to stop it?”
Jian Wusheng blinked, his face a canvas of utter bewilderment. He was, I noticed, no longer standing. My goats, bless their ravenous hearts, had done a surprisingly efficient job of hog-tying him to one of my prize Sun-Glow Gourds with lengths of vine. The gourd itself was a magnificent specimen, easily as tall as he was, plump and gleaming with an inner warmth that promised succulent sweetness once plucked. It would make an excellent pie, provided Wusheng didn’t bruise it with his flailing.
“Sovereign Zong Qingshan, tied to a… a common squash?” Wusheng’s voice cracked. His pupils darted between me, the metal book, and the thick, fibrous stalk that held him captive. “This is… blasphemy! A desecration! You dare imprison a Heavenly Decree Magistrate upon a… a mere vegetable?”
“It’s not ‘mere,’ you pompous weed!” I snapped, my temper flaring at the disrespect shown to my gourd. “This Sun-Glow Gourd represents weeks of meticulous soil enrichment, careful watering, and precise sun exposure. It's a miracle of honest toil, unlike your field-scorching ‘cleansing.’ Now, enough of this posturing. Tell me what you know about this grand weapon. The notes say it’s going to unmake the world, not cleanse it.”
Wusheng pulled against the vines, his silken robes straining. “The Grand Engine is the Ministry’s ultimate solution to the etheric imbalance afflicting the common soil! It will restore harmony, not annihilate it! You speak heresy!”
I spat into the weeds. “And the notebook, written by the Ministry’s founder, the ‘Sky-Weaver’ himself, says you’re all a bunch of short-sighted fools playing with a cosmic oven. So, which is it? Is Zong Qingshan a heretic, or are you?”
Just as Wusheng opened his mouth to deliver another self-righteous tirade, the very air above us shimmered. A colossal, translucent phantom bloomed in the sky, dwarfing even the highest peaks of the Verdant Inkstone slopes. It was a man, or rather, the shimmering phantasm of one: the Grand Minister himself, his face etched with an imperious sneer. He wore robes of midnight silk, embroidered with constellations that pulsed with faint, cold light. His eyes, even through the projection, held the distant, bored cruelty of someone observing ants.
“Magistrate Jian Wusheng,” the giant's voice boomed across the ridge, rattling the leaves on my cabbage sprouts. The sound vibrated with supreme authority, meant to cow and command. “It appears your ‘execution’ has degenerated into a pastoral farce. An imperial violation of the gravest sort. Your negligence is a blight upon the Ministry.”
My teeth ground together. “A blight? You call my farming a blight, you glorified tax collector? This farm feeds people! It nourishes the earth!”
The Minister’s gaze landed on me. He ignored my outburst, his translucent lips curling further. “As for the… *anomaly*… who has dared to impede our sacred work.” His massive hand slowly began to glow, gathering light that pulsed with destructive power. “This mountain is an inconvenient obstruction. We shall expedite the preparatory phase. Consider this ridge vaporized.”
Vaporize *my* mountain? My fields? The thought burned like lye in my belly. “You touch one radish, you arrogant cosmic clerk, and I swear by the autumn reaping, I will send you to oblivion so fast your ancestors will still be wondering if they blinked!”
Shen Rujiang chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “Foolish creature. You speak of oblivion, yet you live in it. Do you truly believe this mundane valley has any inherent value beyond its utility? It is a battery, nothing more. A vast reservoir of primal qi, refined over millennia, waiting to be gathered.”
Wusheng gasped, a raw, strangled sound. “A battery? Minister, what blasphemy is this? The Grand Array… it is to restore balance, not… not consume!”
Shen Rujiang’s sneer widened. “Balance? Ah, yes, the sweet lie we tell the public. The balance *we* seek is the balance of power. And for that, the current etheric reserves are insufficient. The grand sigil is not merely ‘charging,’ Magistrate. It is *drawing*. And in three days, when its activation phase commences, the lower realm will be rendered into pure anima, neatly packaged for the high seat's ultimate ascension. Every living thing, every tree, every blade of grass, will be compressed into a single, potent elixir. It is the perfect yield.”
Wusheng sagged against the Sun-Glow Gourd, chalk-pale. His rigid worldview, constructed from generations of dogma, splintered like parched pine. The high order, the bastion of law, was not a protector. It was a predator. And he, a loyal enforcer, was complicit in global slaughter.
“Slaughter…” Wusheng whispered, terror slackening his jaw, fixed on Shen Rujiang’s chilling smile. “You mean to… unmake us all?”
“A necessary culling,” Shen Rujiang corrected, his tone icy. He ignored Wusheng, his gaze returning to me, to my farm. “And you, tiller, with your peculiar affinity for… resonance. You are a vibrant component. It is a pity to waste such potential. But orders stand.”
He raised his glowing palm. The light coalesced into a spear of sunfire aimed directly at my chest. The air crackled, ozone stinging my nostrils. This wasn’t some petty strike; it was meant to atomize.
“My fields are not for reaping, you monster!” I roared, digging my heels into the mulch. The beam descended, impossibly fast and blinding, striking the very dirt at my boots.
There was no explosion. No crater. Instead, a deep hum vibrated through the loam. The dark earth pulsed with emerald light. The descending beam was swallowed whole, absorbed into the soil. Ripples of jade brilliance spread outward, tracing intricate calligraphy along rows of cabbages and between stalks of millet—ancient strokes hidden beneath the surface. The entire mountainside blazed. It wasn’t just a patch of dirt. It was a cosmic matrix, woken by the assault.
The Minister's sneer faltered into genuine shock. Wusheng stared down at the glowing glyphs beneath his feet, mouth agape. His entire understanding of martial doctrine and common dirt utterly collapsed.
“An ancient formation?” Shen Rujiang muttered, his voice edged with venom. “A relic from the Age of Weavers. No matter.” His projection sharpened, radiating cold fury. “The mandate is declared! By the authority of the Grand Minister, this anomalous nexus is to be purged immediately! I dispatch a million flying swords! Let every blade bury itself in the dust of this mountain by dusk!”