Its emerald eyes, burning like twin lanterns of malice set into grotesque, congealed gore, fixed on Lu Qingshan. The air reeked of copper and burning sinew as copper-tinted smoke rolled across the stones. The massive construct of condensed malice stretched upwards, its formless limbs reaching for the heavens themselves, threatening to unleash an apocalyptic downpour of corrosive, crimson ichor that would dissolve the entire sect, leaving nothing but a foul, sticky residue. Lu Qingshan’s gaze, however, wasn’t fixed on the demon’s towering form. It was locked on the distant, churning clouds above, already tinged a sickly red from the demon’s aura. He saw the inevitable deluge, the widespread devastation, the irreversible staining of every roof, every rock, every blade of grass across the Vermilion-Eaves Bastion’s territory. More importantly, he saw the fate of his drying lines, the freshly laundered tunics, the meticulously ironed robes—all threatened by this uncouth, unhygienic monstrosity. A long, drawn-out sigh wheezed past his teeth, bitter with pure irritation. “Honestly,” he muttered, his voice barely audible amidst the demon’s low, rumbling growl, “the sheer lack of consideration. Do they have any idea how long it takes to scrub out blood-demon ichor? It sets into the threads something terrible.” Ding Bo, still reeling from the cosmic display, watched his mentor with wide, disbelieving eyes. Yao Qinglan, her face streaked with grime and awe, felt a strange flutter in her chest. Elder Kuang Shi, sprawled amidst the rubble, could only whimper, his terror reaching new, unimaginable depths. The Cyan-Abyss Patriarch, now a mere vessel for the demon’s will, let out a guttural laugh that vibrated through the ground. “Foolish mortal! Tremble before the power of the Blood-Demon Avatar! Your pathetic existence ends now! The Vermilion-Eaves will drown in a sea of blood!” Lu Qingshan ignored the roar. With a flick of his wrist, an iron-bound vat materialized beside him. It stood taller than a man, shimmering with pale luminescence, its contents sloshing with viscous, milky white paste. The air around it crackled with latent energy, hinting at its otherworldly origin. “Celestial grade, ultra-concentrated,” he murmured, tapping the wood thoughtfully. “For those truly stubborn, realm-threatening splotches.” Without hesitation, he delivered a sharp, precise kick to the tub's base. It launched skyward with astonishing speed, a gleaming white projectile arcing directly towards the heart of the towering blood-demon. The fiend, sensing an insignificant mortal attack, merely raised an immense, shadowy fist, intending to swat the tub aside like a fly. But before its fist could connect, Lu Qingshan raised his right hand. His expression remained one of mild annoyance, but the air around him compressed, buckling and groaning under an unseen force. The very fabric of space seemed to ripple, distorting the light, as he unleashed the ‘Wrinkle-Smoothing Palm’ with the full, unfettered might of the Heaven-Severing Asura. It wasn't a strike, but an impossibly vast, unseen force of pure, focused pressure. The palm strike didn’t merely hit the horror; it *flattened* it. The towering entity, which had minutes before seemed an immovable calamity, was suddenly slammed against the firmament. Its towering form, stretched taut and thin, adhered to the sky like a giant, grotesque poster. The emerald lamps of its eyes shrank into needlepoints as the crushing force squeezed every ounce of volatile power from its marrow, sealing it in place. It struggled, a shuddering wail vibrating through the teeth of those who could grasp such boundless power, but it could not twitch a single claw. Just as it was spread entirely thin, the vat of celestial sizing, having reached its apex, burst open directly above the entity's head. A deluge of milky white fluid cascaded downwards, thoroughly coating the pinned, struggling phantom. The ultra-concentrated brew, infused with ancient sealing properties and a truly remarkable stiffening agent, reacted instantly. The writhing shadows and boiling ichor began to harden, the viscous blood seizing into an unyielding, brittle crust. The grotesque features froze, fixed in a final rictus of terror. In moments, the sky-blotting titan was no more. In its place hung an enormous, rigid cutout, a monument to immobility, gleaming faintly chalky against the bruised twilight. It was a macabre, chalk-white sheet of its former terrifying self. Lu Qingshan retrieved his bamboo drying pole. He adjusted the clean tunic still draped over his shoulder, ensuring it had not caught any stray powder. With a dismissive sigh, he flicked the pole. It was an offhand gesture, but the bamboo tip, imbued with a fraction of the Asura’s will, struck the frozen shell with the force of a falling mountain. The impact landed without a sound, yet absolute. The rigid effigy did not merely crack; it dissolved. It didn't explode into gore or blood. Instead, it dissolved into a million sparkling motes of clean, pristine white dust that glittered like shattered diamonds in the air before vanishing entirely, leaving no trace, no residue, no stain whatsoever. Along with it, the Cyan-Abyss Patriarch, the true essence of Ren Shi, was obliterated, erased from existence without even a whisper. No one dared breathe. The battle was over. The sky, though still dark, slowly began to clear, revealing the fading hues of twilight. Ding Bo stumbled forward, his legs weak, his mind reeling. Yao Qinglan, unnoticed in the shadows, whispered, “He… he just ironed a demon… into dust.” Elder Kuang Shi, his earlier terror now compounded by an almost religious awe, watched the sparkling dust dissipate. He saw not a washerman, but the ancient, terrifying entity of legend, the one whose existence had been relegated to forgotten scrolls and whispered nightmares. He saw the Heaven-Severing Asura. His body, still trembling, instinctively buckled. He dropped to his knees, his forehead scraping against the rough arena ground, utterly prostrate. Around him, the handful of surviving Vermilion-Eaves elders, having witnessed the absurd spectacle, followed suit. They prostrated themselves before Lu Qingshan, their foreheads buried in the flagstones, trembling before the washerman who had just spared the arena from a mountain of impossible bloodstains.

The Ultimate Starch