The taste of iron and something far older, a vintage poison, blossomed on Lucang's tongue. He leaned forward, a delicate cough rattling his ribs, and splattered a dollop of viscous, obsidian liquid onto the pristine white tablecloth. The crimson-tinted crystal goblet, still clutched in his hand, seemed to mock him with its clarity. Around him, the murmur of the engagement banquet, held in the aerie of the Spire of Exalted Commerce, faltered into a stunned silence. “Oh, dear me,” Lucang chirped, his voice a bright, almost musical counterpoint to the sudden hush. He dabbed at his lips with a silk napkin, a wide, unconcerned smile stretching his features. “That’s a rather aggressive vintage, wouldn’t you agree? Bold, with an unexpected finish.” Across the polished duraglass table, a woman in a shimmering, form-fitting gown – his supposed fiancée, Lady Kyra – stared, her usually composed face a mask of revulsion. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together. “Lucang, what in the Niraya-Khanda was that? Are you quite alright? You look… dreadful.” Lucang chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard. His host’s body felt… synthetic, yet capable. He could feel the residual toxins attempting to bind with the artificial proteins, but his inner Qi, ancient and defiant, was already dismantling them, atom by atom. What a delightful greeting. “Never better, my dear,” he replied, his eyes, momentarily clouded with the ghost of a thousand-year-old power, now sparkled with a carefree, almost mischievous light. He took another sip from the goblet, grimaced with dramatic flair, and then swallowed with a theatrical gulp. “Perhaps the Sommelier mislabeled the bottle. Or perhaps, someone simply enjoys a good laugh.” He winked, but his gaze swept over the assembled dignitaries, a predatory glint momentarily catching the holographic gleam from the ceiling. Just as a nervous cough broke the silence, the entire Spire shuddered. A deafening CRACK ripped through the air, followed by the sickening shriek of tortured duraglass. The panoramic view of the Niraya-Khanda megaplex, usually a sprawling grid of neon and synthetic fog, exploded inward. Jagged shards of reinforced crystal rained down, embedding themselves in the opulent furnishings, scattering diamond-dust from crushed chandeliers. Three massive, hulking warmachines, their chassis a dull, menacing chrome, punched through the breach. They were not the usual corporate peacekeepers; their armor bore no insignia, their optical sensors glowed with a malevolent crimson. Each arm terminated in a heavy particle cannon. The first volley erupted, searing emerald beams lancing across the banquet hall, instantly vaporizing a cluster of terrified socialites into ash and lingering ozone. Panic erupted. Screams tore through the air. The elite, accustomed to a life insulated by layers of automated defense and virtual reality, scattered like startled birds. Physical violence was an obsolete concept in their gilded cage, a relic relegated to dusty museum archives. They fumbled with comm-implants, their faces slack with disbelief. Lucang, however, did not cower. He threw his head back and let out a genuine, joyful peal of laughter. “Oh, *excellent*!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Now *this* is an engagement party! Someone actually brought the fireworks!” Another thermal bolt, thicker and brighter than the last, arced directly towards him. It moved with the speed of thought, a killing blow aimed at the centerpiece of the destruction. Lucang merely leaned back, his smile widening. He didn’t dodge; he *danced*. A whisper of internal Qi, refined over millennia, surged through his host’s unfamiliar limbs. The Ghost-Treading Lotus technique. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground, tracing a complex, almost invisible pattern. The searing lance, hot enough to melt titanium, passed directly *through* the space his head had occupied milliseconds before. He swayed, light as a feather, not just avoiding the bolt, but using its searing heat to propel himself sideways, a blur of motion that defied physics. The walkers, programmed for static targets, fired again, a barrage of emerald death. Lucang flowed. He was no longer running, but gliding, a ghost amidst the chaos. He wove through the torrent of superheated gas, his movements fluid and uncannily fast. His laughter echoed through the hall, a chilling, unhinged counterpoint to the screams. Guests, who had stumbled to safety behind overturned tables, watched, mouths agape, as the supposed empty-headed heir spun and pirouetted through certain death. He closed the distance to the nearest chassis with supernatural speed, a blur of fine silk and ancient power. The massive machine, easily thirty feet tall, swung its cannon arm to track him, but Lucang was already there. He leaped, a single, effortless bound, clearing the distance to its torso. His hand, slender and deceptively weak-looking, slammed against the mecha’s armored plating. A focused burst of Qi, not enough to shatter the metal but to vibrate it at a specific frequency, found a weak point. With a groan of tortured alloy, a circular hatch on the mecha’s chest popped open, smoking. Before the pilot, a terrified, helmeted figure strapped into a control harness, could even process the breach, Lucang reached in. His fingers, now radiating a faint, almost imperceptible aura, wrapped around the man’s throat. With a single, sharp tug, he ripped the pilot, harness and all, from the titanium shell. The man dangled for a moment, eyes wide with a terror that transcended the cyberpunk age, before Lucang casually tossed him aside like a discarded doll. The mecha, suddenly inert, powered down with a dying whine, its crimson optics fading. The other two automatons reacted, their targeting systems locking onto this sudden anomaly. Superheated arcs streamed towards him. Lucang dropped the now-useless pilot, a bright smile on his face. “How rude,” he mused, a low hum resonating from his core. “Interrupting one’s entertainment.” He held out both hands. The air around him shimmered, not from heat, but from concentrated spiritual energy. His Qi, a force from a forgotten era, pulsed. The incoming energy bolts, inches from his palms, seemed to distort, their energy rippling and dissipating as they encountered an invisible wall. They flickered, then vanished into thin air, absorbed, dispersed, negated. With a flick of his wrists, Lucang unleashed his own attack. No projectiles, no flashy beams. Just pure, unadulterated spiritual force. Two invisible waves of Qi, sharp as ancient blades, struck the remaining constructs. The machines, built to withstand conventional weaponry, crumpled inward as if struck by an unseen hammer. Their armored plating buckled, interior components vaporized, and they collapsed into smoking heaps of scrap metal, their heavy cannons melting into slag. Silence descended once more, thicker and far more profound than before. The Spire’s automated defenses, slow to react to internal breaches, were still cycling through protocols. The air stank of ozone, burnt silk, and the faint, sweet scent of scorched human tissue. Lucang stood amidst the wreckage, a serene, almost innocent expression on his face, as if he had merely been admiring a particularly exquisite piece of art. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the petrified guests, some still clutching their comm-implants, others openly weeping. Lady Kyra was huddled under a table, her face pale. Lucang offered a charming, slightly blood-spattered bow. “My apologies, everyone,” he said, his voice brimming with false sincerity. “A minor misunderstanding. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The engagement.” Then he felt it. A cold, metallic press against the small of his back. A particle pistol, its emitter glowing with a soft, dangerous violet light. Behind him, a voice, cool and precise, cut through the lingering terror. “I know who you are,” Khulan, his adjutant, whispered, her breath brushing his ear. “And you’re certainly not the real heir.”

A Vintage Poison and Plasma