The stone beneath their feet didn't merely crack; it *rent* itself apart with a sound like a mountain screaming. Dust, thick and acrid, choked the air, illuminated by the sickly red glow still pulsating from Baozi in Qiao Xin’s grip. Jagged fissures spiderwebbed across the ceiling, releasing a torrent of corrupted sword-qi that was no longer a vague hum, but a physical, choking presence, sharp and metallic. Mo Jue, still nursing his bitten leg, staggered as the floor dropped away by a handspan. He braced himself, a low snarl rumbling in his chest as he prepared to summon his darkest arts, to tear a path through the crumbling rock. His panic, momentarily soothed, now returned with a vengeance, the raw Qi a visceral reminder of his past torment. “No, no, not like that,” Qiao Xin muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. He ignored the collapsing dungeon, ignored the violent tremor that nearly threw him off his feet, his gaze instead fixed on the swirling, malevolent Qi currents now visible even in the gloom. “It’s chaotic. Too much dissonance. We need to *guide* it.” He unslung the colossal, richly lacquered contraption of spruce and brass from his shoulders. The instrument, almost as tall as he was, gleamed dully, its intricate brass keys reflecting the faint red light. “Here,” Qiao Xin commanded, shoving the monstrous contraption into Mo Jue’s hands. “Hold it steady. Angle the bell upwards, forty-five degrees. Good. Now, take a deep breath from your diaphragm and *blow*.” Mo Jue stared at the instrument, then at the collapsing ceiling, then back at Qiao Xin, a perfect picture of bewildered disbelief. “Blow? What are you—the mountain above is about to become our tomb!” His voice was strained, a tight coil of fear and fury. “Precisely! We need lift! And a concussive wave to clear a path. The corrupted qi is all around us, waiting for shape. Think of it as… an oversized, untuned wind chime. We just need to give it a proper *pulse*.” Qiao Xin adjusted Mo Jue’s grip, his calloused thumbs nudging the wide bore toward the fractured rock. “It needs a steady vibration to focus the ambient flow. A C-minor chord, full and rich. You have the lung capacity. Don’t think, just… *exhale* with intent.” Mo Jue bared his teeth, the discipline of Silent Peak finally reasserting itself over his initial shock. He saw the logic, perverse as it was, in Qiao Xin’s bizarre plan. The artisan saw falling stone, an ocean of hostile force, and treated it like an unruly reed. He took a massive breath, filling his chest until his ribs ached, and sealed his lips around the double reed. He shut his eyes, driving his wrath through the bocal in a single, focused exhalation. The note that erupted from the wooden column was not a refined C-minor. It was a roar, a deep, guttural blast that ripped through the already fractured stone like a cannonball. The corrupted sword-qi, instead of annihilating them, was caught, twisted, and *amplified* by the sonic wave. It became a violent, upward-spiraling vortex of force, tearing through the earth above them. The body of the instrument shook violently against Mo Jue's palms, but he locked his elbows, veins bulging against his temples. The floor beneath them bucked once more, then surged upwards, carried on the weaponized torrent of sound and Qi. They rocketed through the crumbling rock, past ancient earthworks, splintered roots, and the stunned, cavern-dwelling spirit-critters that blinked at their sudden, noisy ascent. Light, faint at first, then blinding, streamed down from above. With a final, ear-splitting *BOOM* that shattered windows across the compound, they burst from the ground, spewing dust, rock, and a cloud of malevolent sword-qi into the bright afternoon sun. They landed hard on the sect’s main training grounds, sending a shower of pebbles scattering across the neatly raked gravel. Mo Jue, still clutching the broad spruce pipe, coughed, his ears ringing, his clothes dusted in white. Qiao Xin, surprisingly unruffled, merely adjusted his spectacles and patted Baozi, who was now a furious, vibrating sphere of red light, still squished in his pocket. He scanned the scene, his gaze drawn to the several dozen colossal, intricately carved stelae that dotted the vast courtyard. Each pillar was carved from spirit-veined granite, inscribed with ancient blade forms and worth more than an imperial province. “Oh, Baozi, look what they did to you,” Qiao Xin murmured, plucking out the tubered terror. Baozi quivered, its root-skin growing steadily hotter, the scarlet glare shifting to a blistering white. “Being squashed in a cave-in, how rude!” Mo Jue, still catching his breath, watched in dawning horror as Baozi, liberated from Qiao Xin’s grip, launched itself with astonishing speed. It wasn’t aimed at the terrified Iron Edge disciples now scrambling away from the newly formed crater. It wasn’t aimed at the enraged Elder Feng Wuhen, who had just stormed out of the main hall, his face contorted in a mask of fury. No, Baozi shot straight for the grandest obelisk in sight, a polished pillar of black obsidian carved with the history of the Iron Edge Sect’s founding grandmaster. A blinding flash. A deafening *CRUMP*. The obsidian pillar disintegrated into a shower of gravel and dust, leaving a smoking, fist-sized crater in its pedestal. The sword disciples gaped, frozen between their fractured yard and the ash raining onto their robes. “My… my Ancestor’s Blade Memorial!” shrieked a high-ranking Elder, clutching his chest. He watched as Baozi, now a scorched projectile, ricocheted off the pulverized base and zipped toward the next stele. *CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP!* The courtyard exploded into a symphony of destruction as Baozi, unstoppable, systematically annihilated one priceless relic after another. The sheer disbelief on the cultivators’ faces was almost comical, a mixture of outrage and terror as their revered history was systematically reduced to fine grit. “Baozi, not all of them!” Qiao Xin called, a hint of concern in his voice, though he mostly seemed interested in the varied *tonal qualities* of each explosion. “Some of those might have good elemental properties for sound-dampening arrays!” Amidst the chaos and the radish-induced demolitions, a flicker of movement caught Mo Jue’s eye. Elder Feng Wuhen, his face a mask of cold fury, had silently unsheathed his sword. Its polished surface, reflecting the sunlight, barely betrayed his movement as he moved with unnatural speed, a silent predator aiming for the distracted artisan. His blade, a razor-thin sliver of silvered steel, was aimed directly at Qiao Xin’s unprotected back. Mo Jue moved without thought. His form blurred, a dark shadow detaching itself from the sunlight. Mo Jue's suppressed aura surged forward in an absolute flood. Black Qi swirled around him, coalescing into spectral claws that tore at the air, his eyes burning with an infernal, crimson light. The air itself grew heavy, the cheerful afternoon light dimmed as if by an eclipse. He intercepted Feng Wuhen’s strike, not with a weapon, but with his bare forearm, the force of the blow jarring his bones but not breaking them. The sword scraped against his skin, drawing a thin line of black blood, but his grip on Feng Wuhen’s wrist was absolute, crushing. The open courtyard fell dead quiet. Even Baozi paused its rampage, hovering mid-air, its glow dimming slightly, as if sensing the profound shift in the atmosphere. The Righteous Alliance disciples, previously roaring in outrage at the destruction of their ancestral pillars, backed away against the perimeter walls. They knew the master of Silent Peak only through horrifying rumors and bloodstained border tallies. But to see him, *this* terrifying force of nature, standing as a mere bodyguard for an oblivious artisan, deflecting a blow meant for *Qiao Xin*… it defied every shred of their arrogant understanding. It shattered their sacred hierarchy to pieces. The most feared entity in the realm was protecting a mortal peasant, stained with the man’s blood. Feng Wuhen, his wrist throbbing, yanked his arm free, stumbling back, his face contorted in a snarl of pain and disbelief. He held a hand to his wrist, where a dark bruise was already blossoming, but a smirk, cold and utterly self-assured, spread across his lips. Blood beaded on his cheek from a splinter of pulverized granite. He slowly raised his other hand, revealing a small, intricately carved talisman, pulsing with an ominous crimson light. “Fools,” he sneered, his voice cutting through the stunned silence like a shard of ice. “You’ve just broadcasted your corrupt presence to the Heavenly Edict Array; every sect in Qizhou is converging on your little shop as we speak.”

The Great Escape and the Grumpy Radish