A guttural shriek tore through the Root Chamber, instantly swallowed by a roaring gale. Qian Jiuyou felt the floor rip from beneath him, a sickening lurch that sent his stomach plummeting. He was airborne, not floating, but falling. Freefall. “Hold on!” Hua Qingyan’s voice, sharp with panic, sliced through the din. Her hand, surprisingly strong, clamped around his bicep. She tried to yank him closer, to leverage his weight against the crushing air current. “I’ll get us clear!” Jiuyou shrugged off her grasp with a violent twist. “Don’t touch me!” The words were a snarl, his voice raw. He might be blind, but he wouldn't be a helpless burden, especially not to her. The three-stringed lute strapped across his spine battered his shoulder blades. Around them, the vast, circular Drifting Blossom Citadel was unraveling. Petal-shaped platforms, once majestic and solid, tore free, spiraling into the abyss below like discarded leaves. Shouts of terror mingled with the howl of the wind. Sect disciples, hundreds of them, launched themselves into the sky. They called forth their flying swords, silver streaks against the bruised twilight. But the spiritual qi, thick and corrupted from the shattered leyline, curdled their efforts. Blade after blade, once proud and shimmering, spashed into glittering fragments, sending their riders tumbling like broken dolls. One swordsman shrieked as his weapon dissolved in acrid vapor, dropping past Jiuyou in flailing limbs. “The qi is too unstable!” Qingyan yelled, struggling against the ferocious updrafts and downdrafts. “They can’t channel it! Their techniques are useless!” She glanced at Jiuyou, teeth bared against the wind. “We need to move! Can your plants…?” Jiuyou ignored her, dragging calloused thumbs across taut silk. The instrument vibrated, a low, guttural growl that cut through the wind’s shriek. He didn't need to see the plummeting debris, he felt it – the jagged edges of shattered flagstones, the splintered planks of ancient lotus wood, the ornamental jade shards. Each piece was fertile loam waiting for a song. He plucked a rapid, ascending run of notes, sharp and demanding. From the tumbling wreckage around them, faint green glows began to bloom. A jagged piece of stone, spiraling downward, suddenly softened, its edges blurring. It swelled into an enormous seed-head of tufted down, bulging carriage-wide. Another followed, then another, hundreds blooming from wreckage to cradle screaming martial artists and brake their plunge. The sky glittered with thousands of luminous seed parasols ferrying shaken passengers toward the ground. Qingyan gaped at the sky. “You turned the wreckage into a net?” Her voice was thin with disbelief. She saw disciples weeping with relief, clutching downy tufts. Some even managed weak cheers, their terror replaced by bewildered awe. “This isn’t over!” A roar, thick with corrupted qi and searing rage, ripped through the air just above them. Yan Lie, his body now a grotesque parody of its former bulk, materialized from the swirling dust clouds. His skin, once merely bronzed, flared blood-red under strain. Veins bulged like ropes beneath his flesh, and his eyes, bloodshot and feral, fixed on Jiuyou with murderous intent. Humiliation had fermented behind his ribs into sheer frenzy. “You!” Yan Lie shrieked, his voice distorted, metallic. “You blind rat! You shamed me! I will tear you apart, piece by piece, and scatter your miserable plants to the wind!” He lunged in an ochre blur, fists crackling with dark energy, aiming for Jiuyou’s head. Jiuyou didn't flinch. His fingers shifted across the frets. The tune changed, instantly. Gone was the gentle ascent, replaced by a jagged, dissonant clash of notes, a predatory snarl of sound that reverberated through the very air. It was an anthem of hunger, of merciless consumption. The downy canopy beneath Qingyan and Jiuyou suddenly began to writhe. Its soft, white fibers twisted, darkening, hardening into a thick, pulpy green. A massive, trumpet-shaped maw, rimmed with razor-sharp thorns, erupted from the core of the spore, gaping wide. Thick purple nectar dribbled from the throat, smelling of curdled honey and rot. Yan Lie, mid-lunge, snarled as the vegetable maw burst forth. His red-veined face twisted into feral fury. “A plant? You think a *weed* can stop me?!” He roared, striking out with a fist wreathed in dark fire. The strike slammed the rim, but rubbery flesh simply bulged, taking the shock with a wet thud. Jiuyou snapped two lower strings in a driving, percussive tempo. The gullet widened further, flashing a wet, ribbed chute. Its tendrils, thick as tree trunks, lashed out, wrapping around Yan Lie’s limbs before he could react. The tyrant thrashed, dark heat blistering green rind, but the tendrils hauled him headlong toward the opening. “Release me, you abomination!” Yan Lie screamed, his voice muffled, desperate. “I am Yan Lie! A Body-Refining master! No mere… plant… can…” His words choked off as the plant’s maw clamped down, a wet, fleshy *squelch*. The tendrils tightened, squeezing, until his swollen shoulders slid down into the dark digestive pit. A final, gurgling cry, then only the sickening sound of the plant contracting, digesting its prey. Qingyan stared at the closing rim. Jiuyou let his hands slip from the neck of the instrument. He was trembling, his face pale and slick with sweat, his blind eyes fixed on nothing. The energy drain must have been immense. The botanical trap withered, sloughing green skin to dry gray as it tumbled down the sky. The supporting fibers tore under their boots. They plummeted, briefly, before Qingyan, recovering her wits, maneuvered her own body to cushion Jiuyou’s fall. They landed hard on the shattered remnants of what had once been the Citadel’s Outer Ring, now a patchwork of scarred earth and splintered wood. Dust choked the air, stinging her eyes. Jiuyou coughed, pushing himself up, leaning heavily on his sanxian. He swayed, exhausted, his face a mask of strain. “Are you… hurt?” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. Before Qingyan could answer, a shadow fell over them. The dust parted, revealing figures emerging from the gloom. Not Citadel guards, but cloaked individuals, their faces hidden in shadow, their spiritual qi undeniably demonic. Xue Zang’s disciples. They formed a silent circle around Qingyan and the exhausted Jiuyou, their movements fluid, predatory. “Well done, Qingyan,” a cold, sibilant voice hissed from the lead figure, stepping forward. A tall man with venom-stained sleeves stepped forward, black stones where his eyes should be. “You led the Maestro of the Savage Garden right into our grasp. Now, prove your loyalty, once and for all.” He gestured with a long, claw-like finger, pointing at the blind musician. “Execute him.”

A Descent of Petals and Blood