The upper passage fractured, a jagged fissure tearing through the rock face. Dust, thick and acrid, billowed down, stinging Pei Xingjiao’s eyes. Through the choking haze, figures emerged, armored in dark iron, their heavy boots thudding on the damp earth. “By Imperial Mandate! The Tribunal of the Nine Peaks demands entry! All alchemical works are to cease immediately!” the voice bellowed again, closer now, resonating with dry authority. Four figures dropped into the hidden chamber, weapons drawn. Their leader, a stern-faced man with a scarred cheek and eyes like chipped flint, surveyed the crude lab: the charcoal filters stacked against a wall, the distillation apparatus shimmering with captured water droplets, the small crucibles containing carefully measured herbal extracts. His gaze landed on the collection of cleansed and alert clan members, then on Xingjiao, her face streaked with soot but her posture unwavering. “Treason,” their commander declared, his voice flat, devoid of mercy. He pointed a gauntleted finger at the array of detoxifying agents. “These heretical concoctions defy the divine path. You tamper with the sacred transformation, denying the Emperor’s chosen ones their cultivation. Such acts merit immediate purification by flame.” His hand rose, a signal. Two of his men moved to seize Xingjiao’s elder cousin, who stood closest, a tremor running through the old man’s frame. Their blades glinted, ready for the summary execution. Before they could reach him, a blur of motion erupted from beside Xingjiao. Gongsun Tielin, his usually placid expression now a mask of focused ferocity, drew his saber with a whisper of steel. The foremost soldier, still mid-stride, stumbled as a precise cut severed his Achilles tendon. He fell, a choked gasp escaping his lips. Gongsun pivoted, his blade a silver arc. Another man’s neck opened, a dark spray staining the cavern wall. He moved with a brutal, almost fluid grace, no longer the twitching, paranoid official, but a honed instrument of death. The remaining pair, momentarily stunned by the speed and savagery, barely had time to react. One swung his broadsword in a wide, desperate arc; Gongsun parried it with a clang that echoed like a bell, then plunged his saber through the man’s chest. The last soldier, a younger recruit, tried to flee back into the breach. Gongsun was faster, a dark shadow catching him at the opening. A swift, brutal strike to the base of the skull, and the man collapsed, lifeless. Silence descended, broken only by the lab’s dripping water and the labored breathing of Xingjiao’s clan. Four elite zealots lay dead, their blood pooling on the dirt floor. Gongsun wiped his saber clean on the tunic of the fallen leader, his expression hard. “They were a day early,” he stated, his voice low, his gaze fixed on the broken ceiling. “The alarm will be raised across the Lungfang District. More will come.” The frantic peal of the alarm bell, which had momentarily ceased during the swift skirmish, now resumed with renewed intensity, echoing through the distant ventilation shafts of the penal colony. Footsteps, heavy and numerous, began to pound above them, approaching the entrance to the abandoned mine. Xingjiao wasted no time. “Elder Jiao,” she called to her cousin, her voice sharp, cutting through the lingering terror. “Gather the others. We need the reinforced air tubes from the primary reflux chambers. And the charcoal sacks. We’re venting the old purification stills.” Elder Jiao, his face pale but his eyes resolute, nodded and barked orders to the now-energized clan members. They scrambled to obey, moving with a speed and coordination that would have been impossible just weeks ago. Xingjiao turned to Gongsun. “The main barracks are situated along the south wall of the refinery complex, yes? Directly adjacent to the oldest mercury recondensers?” Gongsun’s gaze followed hers, understanding dawning in his eyes. “They are. The prevailing winds, too, would carry any discharge directly into their sleeping quarters.” A cruel, appreciative smile touched his lips. “You mean to… ‘purify’ them.” “Not with sacred alchemy, Viceroy,” she corrected, a chilling calm in her voice. “With chemistry. The residual mercury vapor in those recondensers is highly concentrated, a relic of centuries of poor waste management. Un-chelated bodies will succumb almost instantly.” Within minutes, the cured laborers, their lungs clear and their minds sharp, had maneuvered heavy, reinforced ducts. They connected them to the ancient, corroded stills, which held a latent, poisonous cloud, a ghost of old operations. At Xingjiao’s precise instruction, they opened the release valves, then quickly retreated, covering their faces with charcoal-infused cloths. A low hiss emanated from the ducts, a silent, invisible plume of death beginning to stream into the night air. High above, in the Lungfang barracks, the remaining Imperial forces, alerted by the bells, were preparing to deploy. They donned their armor, grumbled about the thick, foul air, and choked back coughs they attributed to the Yancang’s usual smog. Then, the first man twitched, his limbs spasming uncontrollably. Another collapsed, gasping for breath, pupils blown wide before fixing into a blank stare. Within moments, the barracks became a scene of grotesque, silent chaos. Men writhed, clawing at their throats, their nervous systems failing in a cascade of acute neurotoxicity. Their lungs burned, then filled with fluid. No shouts, no desperate cries for aid—just the sickening, gurgling sounds of suffocation as the vapor did its work. Gongsun and Xingjiao emerged from the hidden tunnel into the choking night. The Yancang Refineries, usually a place of perpetual, grimy toil, now glowed with an eerie, infernal light from the distant, still-active furnaces. A thick, grey-orange haze rolled across the complex, carrying the faint, metallic tang of death. But through it, they walked unburdened, their bodies protected by Xingjiao’s foresight, their senses clear. Around them, the few remaining, untreated laborers coughed, retched, and fell, their cries muffled by the suffocating air. Gongsun caught her fingers in a fleeting, rough grip. The alliance between them, built on calculated leverage, was now anchored in blood and neurotoxins. The Lungfang District was theirs. “The capital will expect the Ascension Pills by dawn,” Gongsun stated, his voice a low rumble. “They won’t wait.” Xingjiao held up a small, intricately carved jade phial, containing the final, perfectly inert, yet utterly lethal dose for the Emperor. “Let them wait,” she whispered, her eyes reflecting the distant, burning glow of the refinery fires. “It’s time to cure the mad heavens.”

The Valley Burns