The proclamation rattled the soundproofed walls of the Azure Bamboo Pavilion. Qiao Xin, however, merely frowned, his gaze fixed on the precise spot where the gilded blade had pierced the floor. “Such a shame,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s fine-grain Cinnabar Elm. Not easily replaced. And the resonance chamber beneath…” He trailed off, shaking his head at the wanton destruction of good wood. Elder Wei Yuan, a man whose presence usually commanded immediate prostration, descended from the heavens with a graceful, almost dismissive flick of his robes. His face was a mask of stern authority, framed by a meticulously groomed beard that hinted at decades of severe discipline. His gaze swept over the workshop, narrowing at Qiao Xin. “You, artisan. Bow your head. Your time of peddling these… unholy noise-makers, is over. The Dao of the Sword dictates absolute truth. Anything less is… peasant’s distraction.” Mo Jue stiffened. The impaled weapon still pinned his cloak, humming with bright force, but a far colder power stirred within Mo Jue's meridians. His shadowed hand twitched, unseen, as tendrils of abyssal energy coiled around his fingers. No one spoke to Qiao Xin like that. No one dismissed his craft. The Elder’s arrogance was a personal affront, and Mo Jue was moments away from demonstrating exactly why the Lord of Silent Peak was a name spoken in dread across the realms. He would tear this Elder apart, slowly, piece by excruciating piece, right here in Qiao Xin’s workshop. No, that would be messy. Qiao Xin hated messes. “Oh, you’re here about the sound?” Qiao Xin finally registered the Elder’s words, a faint, almost apologetic smile touching his lips. He picked up Baozi, who was grumbling softly in his palm, and regarded the elder. “My apologies. We’re still calibrating the dampening arrays. Sometimes a low frequency escapes during testing. It’s hard to control the harmonic overtones of a particularly grumpy garden-sprout, you see. They tend to… resonate.” Elder Wei Yuan scoffed, a sound like grinding stone. “Silence, mortal. Do you truly believe your petty explanations matter before the might of the Verdant Blade Sect? Your patron, the fell sovereign of Silent Peak, is an infection. His very presence taints the Qi. And you… you are his enabler. Now, step aside, or face the consequences of defying a Heavenly Edict.” Qiao Xin frowned again, then sighed. “Look, I can’t step aside right now. I’m tuning this little fellow. He’s got an important function later.” He bounced Baozi lightly in his hand. “And you’re awfully loud, actually. You’re disrupting my focus. Maybe you should… quiet down a bit?” He then, with the casual indifference of someone swatting a persistent fly, tossed Baozi directly at Elder Wei Yuan’s head. “Here, Baozi. Go bother him for a bit. He needs to learn about personal space.” Mo Jue stood motionless. He had watched the root devour spirit stones; he had seen its taproot flare like furnace glass. Yet Qiao Xin had hurled it toward an elder's crown as if discarding an orange peel. Elder Wei Yuan, caught entirely off guard by the projectile vegetable, merely sneered, an expression of utter disdain. “A *tuber*? Is this the summit of your occult trickery? You throw kitchen scraps?” He didn’t even bother to raise a hand, his barrier of compressed steel-force more than enough to deflect such a petty missile. But Baozi wasn’t pathetic. As Baozi struck the barrier, a rumbling bass chord groaned through its fibrous skin. Emerald radiance flared from its leaves, drowning out the sword's amber sheen. Then came the sound. Not a bang, but a concussive *THUMMMP* that vibrated through the very fabric of reality, followed by a shockwave that peeled paint from the ceiling and tore at the soundproofing. The air crackled, reeking of ozone and burnt earth. Wei Yuan’s rapier did not merely shatter; the metal atomized under the shockwave. White sparks showered across the mats, his silk tunics shredded away, and his beard burned to grey ash as the force barrier popped like wet parchment. A moment later, where the proud Elder Wei Yuan had stood, there was now a whimpering, bald man, naked save for a few charred tatters clinging to his lower half, curled into a fetal position on the floor, weeping uncontrollably. His eyes were wide with a terror that transcended fear of death; it was the raw, primal horror of absolute annihilation of self. His meridians rang hollow, stripped clean by the detonation. Mo Jue stared. The dark vapor surrounding his fingertips dissolved into thin air. He had been preparing for a bloody, agonizing battle, maybe an hour-long skirmish culminating in the Elder’s demise. Instead, a grumpy turnip had solved the problem in a single, explosive instant, leaving a scorched, weeping swordsman curled upon the floor. This Qiao Xin… he wasn't just a threat to the Sword Alliance. He was a force of nature, an unknowing manufacturer of weapons of mass destruction, a walking, breathing, flute-crafting apocalypse. And he went right on studying splintered joinery. A singular resolve hardened in Mo Jue: this artisan could never be permitted to wander into the hands of rival clans. This man, this incredible, dangerous man, was a treasure beyond measure. A treasure that needed to be protected, cherished, and perhaps, subtly, permanently affixed to his side. Qiao Xin, meanwhile, walked over to the whimpering Elder and prodded him gently with his foot. “See? I told you. Too loud. Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset Baozi, and he has a very sensitive disposition.” He sighed again. “Well, that’s going to need a thorough cleanup. And new floorboards. Perhaps I can reuse some of the Cinnabar Elm if it didn’t… completely… vaporize.” He glanced at Mo Jue, who was still frozen in shock. “Oh, right! That custom order! We were talking about lung capacity for the Serpent’s Whisper flute, weren’t we? I need to get a precise measurement of your air flow. It’s crucial for the embouchure bore. Any chance you could… remove that rather cumbersome mask? It might impede the airflow measurement.” Mo Jue, reeling, processed the request through a haze of awe and infatuation. Remove his mask? The symbol of his hidden power, his identity as the dreaded master of the peak? The one thing he never, *ever* removed in front of anyone but his most trusted, now deceased, master? For a *flute*? It defied every survival instinct. Yet it was Qiao Xin to the core. He reached up with a trembling hand, his fingers unlatching the intricate clasps that held the obsidian-like metal to his face. The mask came away, revealing a countenance that would have stopped armies in their tracks: high cheekbones, eyes the color of twilight skies, and a mouth that, despite its usual sternness, was currently parted in a bewildered, almost vulnerable expression. His features were devastatingly handsome, sharp and refined, a striking contrast to the sinister aura he usually exuded. “The… the Serpent’s Whisper,” Mo Jue managed, his voice a low, resonant rumble, no longer muffled by the mask. “It requires… extensive breath control. I can demonstrate.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath, his chest expanding, his diaphragm steadying as the dark aura settled back into his core. Before he could speak further, a small, soot-covered form bounced off his bare chest, landing in a heap on the floor. Baozi. Baozi burped softly, green leaves twitching in satisfaction. A small, scorched token, emblazoned with the crest of a stylized, roaring tiger surrounded by a swirling vortex of blades, clattered onto the polished wood beside it. The sigil belonged not to the smoking wreck on the floor, but to Elder Feng Wuhen.

A Radish of Mass Destruction