The blue spore’s shimmering dissolved, coating Yanting’s tongue in the distinct flavor of ozone and copper. He turned from the terrified lackeys, stepping past the scattered copper coins, and began the long walk back to his home grounds. Each step was a measured movement, a deliberate placement of foot over stone, yet inside, a frantic calculation spun: twenty-nine days for a Grade-2 Azure-Sporebloom. The Grade-3 Frost-Lotus in his kidney already felt like a pebble grinding, a constant, dull ache he’d grown accustomed to. Now his lungs? The Empress’s nonchalance was infuriating. His ruined compound, a skeletal outline of its former grandeur, came into view. The main hall’s roof had collapsed, opening a jagged square to the sky. Patches of weeds choked what was once a vibrant herb garden. But amidst the desolation, a figure moved with furious, rhythmic precision. Tuoba Shan, his robust frame cloaked in a flour-dusted apron, was not just kneading dough; he was pummeling it. His hands moved with the deceptive grace of a seasoned pugilist, each strike a muffled thud against the wooden table. A flurry of hooks and uppercuts sculpted the dough into an unyielding mass, the table groaning under the impact. “You think you can just waltz in here and demand what’s not yours?” Tuoba Shan’s voice, usually a gentle rumble, was a low snarl. He punctuated his words with a flurry of rapid-fire jabs, sending flour dust puffing into the air like miniature smoke signals. Three burly men, their sect robes indicating they were from the Obsidian Heron Valley’s Enforcement Tribunal, stood before him, their faces a mixture of bewilderment and growing annoyance. One, a man with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow, clutched a scroll of debt, its edges frayed. “The Huo clan owes the Tribunal three hundred spirit stones and outstanding service fees,” Scar-brow declared, his voice raspy. “Your leader, the now-disgraced Huo Yanting, has yielded his right to protection. We are here to seize assets.” The claim struck a nerve. Tuoba Shan’s gaze sharpened, his hands momentarily still on the dough. “Huo Yanting is my sworn brother,” he stated, his voice flat. “And he surrenders nothing. Especially not to vultures who prey on the weak.” His hands moved again, this time with a swift, sweeping motion, gathering a fist-sized lump of dough. He spun on his heel, transforming the dough into a whirling projectile that struck Scar-brow squarely in the face. The man spluttered, dough clinging to his beard like a grotesque mask. “You insolent baker!” another debt enforcer roared, drawing a short, gleaming saber. “Do you know who you defy?” Tuoba Shan merely tilted his head, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips. “I only know who I protect.” He then whistled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to hum with ancient power. From beneath a broken pottery shard, a creature emerged. It was no larger than a child’s toy dog, with fluffy white fur and eyes like polished jet. It yawned, displaying a set of needle-sharp fangs, then stretched, its small body rippling with an unsettling muscularity. “Here, Baozi,” Tuoba Shan cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet. “Our friends seem to have forgotten their manners.” Before the debt collectors could react, the ‘fluffy dog’ was a white blur. It launched itself at the man with the saber, a high-pitched yelp preceding its attack. The man let out a shriek of genuine agony as Baozi latched onto his groin, its tiny fangs apparently capable of delivering immense pain. He dropped his saber, clutching himself and hopping on one leg, his face contorted in a silent scream. Scar-brow, wiping dough from his eyes, gaped. The third enforcer, a hulking brute, hesitated, his earlier bluster replaced by cold sweat. Baozi, its mission accomplished, released its victim, shook its head with a satisfied growl, and trotted back to Tuoba Shan, wagging its tail as if it had merely fetched a stick. It settled at his feet, once again appearing to be an utterly harmless, if slightly vicious, pet. “Maybe you’d like some fresh-baked bread?” Tuoba Shan offered, his tone oozing menace. “A complimentary bite?” The debt agents didn’t need a second invitation. Scar-brow, still reeling, dragged his injured comrade, and the hulking brute scrambled after them, trailing furious curses and urine across the pavers. “Took you long enough, Yanting,” Tuoba Shan said, turning to him, his expression instantly softening. “I was about to send Baozi to find you.” He gestured to the mangled dough. “Bad day for the sourdough.” Yanting merely nodded, his gaze sweeping over the ruined stone flags. “We need a new roof.” Before Tuoba Shan could respond, a new figure appeared at the crumbling gate. Elder Jin Wu, a man whose face was a roadmap of sneers and whose robes were perpetually pristine, strode in, flanked by two junior disciples. Jin Wu was the Outer Sect Elder responsible for resource allocation, and he held a particular disdain for those who failed to ascend. “Huo Yanting,” Jin Wu declared, his voice booming with self-importance. “I heard of your… unfortunate accident. And your subsequent bloodline purge. A pity. The Obsidian Heron Valley has no patience for cripples who cannot circulate qi.” He paused, allowing his words to hang heavy in the air. “You are hereby stripped of your Outer Sect status. Your allowances are revoked. You will vacate these premises by dawn tomorrow, or face the consequences.” Yanting remained silent, his gaze unwavering. Internally, Chi Mei’s voice purred. “*How quaint. The little beetle thinks he can dismiss a blossoming flower.*” Her tone sharpened. “*Crush it, little flower. Take that Grade-2 Verdant Sprout pill from your old pouch. Crush it between your fingers. Show him what true brute alchemy looks like.*” Crushing a Grade-2 pill with bare fingers was an act of brutal refinement, requiring a purity of force that even seasoned Core Formation seniors struggled with. He hadn’t gathered a single wisp of qi since his bloodline was stripped. But Chi Mei’s advice had, so far, proven effective, if utterly insane. And his bowels were starting to rumble with an alarming intensity – the Azure-Sporebloom was taking root, causing an explosive herbal mutation deep within him. His hand, steady despite the internal turmoil, dipped into his robes. He retrieved a small, vibrant green pill from a leather pouch – a Verdant Sprout, precisely as Chi Mei had advised, used for minor qi replenishment, not for demonstrating impossible feats of strength. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, his expression as blank as polished stone. “What now, boy?” Elder Jin Wu scoffed, misinterpreting Yanting’s calm as defiance. “A final, pathetic gesture?” Yanting squeezed. A faint *crack* echoed in the silent yard. A fine mist of emerald dust puffed from his fingers, coating the air with a faint, earthy fragrance. The pill, a tightly packed sphere of condensed spiritual energy, was reduced to powder. He opened his hand, letting the green particulate drift to the ground like pollen. The silence was absolute. Elder Jin Wu’s sneer vanished, his jaw going slack. His stare, fixed on Yanting’s now-empty palm, locked in place. The two junior disciples gasped, one openly pointing. Crushing a Grade-2 pill with bare fingers was unheard of, a feat reserved for supreme elders. It implied a physical foundation so profound, it defied conventional understanding. Yanting, however, was no longer concerned with Elder Jin Wu. The internal rumbling had escalated. The Azure-Sporebloom was demanding its due, and he needed a latrine, *urgently*. He turned abruptly, his face still devoid of emotion, and strode towards the dilapidated outhouse at the far end of the grounds, his steps swift and purposeful. The ground seemed to vibrate with his hurried retreat. Elder Jin Wu stared after him, his face a ghastly shade of white. The deadpan speed, the unblinking gaze, the casual, almost bored destruction of a Grade-2 pill – it all coalesced into a terrifying, undeniable conclusion. This wasn’t a disgraced heir; this was a hidden sovereign, an expert of unimaginable prowess who had been deliberately hiding his strength, directly mocking them. His swift exit wasn’t a panic; it was the untouchable stride of one who had proven his point and had no time for lesser beings. “He… he crushed it,” one junior disciple whispered, his voice trembling. Jin Wu swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Demonic… a demonic spy? Or an ancient art we have never witnessed!” He pointed a shaking finger at Yanting’s retreating back. “Huo Yanting! You… you will prove this power! At the Iron Cauldron Sparring Festival, next moon cycle! Fail to appear, or fail to demonstrate this… this *ability*… and you will be executed for forbidden arts and conspiring against our valley!”

Violent Pastry Arts and the Crushed Pill