“Huo Yanting! Open up! We know you’re in there!” The door groaned under another violent impact, splinters dusting the grimy floor. Yanting’s bark-covered arm throbbed, a dull ache that promised a gnawing rot. Five days before his heart petrified into an ingredient for some pill-swilling elder. He pushed off the wall, the rough stone grating against his shoulder blades. Tuoba Shan, already covered in a fine sheen of flour, paused his furious kneading. The rhythmic *thwack-slap* of dough against wood had been the only sound besides the insistent banging. His broad shoulders tensed. “Elder Jin Wu again?” he mumbled, wiping a doughy hand on his apron. “He can’t wait two more days for the festival?” “Probably not,” Yanting replied, his voice flat. He walked to the door, his movements fluid, devoid of any visible hurry or concern. Internally, he was screaming. Every moment wasted was another tendril of bark creeping closer to his lungs. He needed texts. Ancient, obscure texts that might hold a glimmer of hope. He unlatched the door with a deliberately slow click. Three enforcers from the Outer Hall stood on his stoop, shifting their boots against the damp earth. The lanky youth in front pointed a trembling finger. “Huo Yanting! Elder Jin Wu demands your presence! You are to accompany us to the…” Yanting simply stared. His eyes, usually a cold, calculating obsidian, held an intensity that seemed to bore into the very essence of their souls. He said nothing. He simply existed, a quiet, immovable force in the crumbling doorway. The lanky disciple swallowed, his voice losing its edge. “…to the Elder’s Hall. Immediately.” Suddenly, Yanting coughed. A dry, rasping sound. His hand instinctively flew to his mouth, but not quickly enough. A shimmering, emerald-green leaf, intricately veined and radiating a faint warmth, fluttered from between his lips, landing softly on the worn stone step at their feet. It looked suspiciously like a highly potent medicinal herb, freshly grown. The three recoiled, stumbling into the muddy ditch beside the stoop. *“Oh, a lovely little Grade-2 Verdant Lungwort,”* Chi Mei purred in his mind. *“Excellent for clearing phlegm and enriching vital qi. A bit early for your lungs to sprout, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”* Yanting gave the disciples a slow, deliberate blink. Then, without a word, he nudged the door shut with his foot, the old wood creaking a final, dismissive protest. The trio stared at the closed door, then at the glowing leaf, then back at the door, before scrambling away in frantic disorder. Tuoba Shan watched them flee, then looked over at Yanting. “A Verdant Lungwort? Yanting, are you…” Yanting ignored him, already halfway across the room, pulling a dusty tome from a teetering pile. “I need to find a way to stop this,” he muttered, flipping through brittle pages, his eyes scanning ancient scripts with impossible speed. He needed information, not questions. Tuoba sighed, returning to his baking with renewed vigor. The *thwack-slap* became a frantic *thwack-slap-slam*. He hummed a low, mournful tune as he shaped dough into intricate, spiraling knots. “Anxiety pastries,” he explained unnecessarily, noticing Yanting glance at the growing mountain of baked goods. “Helps clear the mind. And the stomach.” Yanting found himself staring at an illustration of a ritual array. His gaze drifted to a faded inscription next to it, detailing the ‘Crimson Veil Blood Rite’ – an ancient, forbidden technique used to sever a cultivator’s bloodline. His memories, often a blur of pain and cold, sharpened into a sudden, horrifying clarity. *The chill of the ritual chamber. The glint of ceremonial bronze. His father, Huo Jingshan, standing over him, his face a mask of cold resolve. The agonizing tear as his spiritual roots were violently ripped from his core. And in the shadows, a figure, shrouded, but bearing the gilded crest of the Lin clan on fine silk. Lin Zichen’s kin.* They had bankrolled his mutilation. They had stolen his future. They had bought his destruction. Bile rose in Yanting’s throat. His deadpan mask remained, but internally, a storm of vengeance brewed. Lin Zichen would pay, along with every elder who had bartered his marrow. He coughed again, a dry, wracking sound that brought him back to the present. This time, a tiny, fibrous green shoot, no bigger than a grain of rice, sprouted from his palm, pushing through the bark on his hand. It glowed faintly, a miniature, vibrant forest in his flesh. Tuoba Shan, mid-knead, froze. “Yanting,” Tuoba began, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “This… this is more serious than you let on.” He wiped his hands on his apron, abandoning his baking. “That isn’t just some weird illness. You’re becoming a spirit-grade harvest.” Yanting merely grunted, his eyes still glued to the texts, though his mind processed Tuoba’s words with a terrifying precision. He knew exactly what he was becoming. A walking apothecarial goldmine. “My house…” Tuoba began, taking a deep breath. “My *true* bloodline, is not from Canglan. We are from the Arcanum Wilds, far to the north. The Tuoba Empire. We are… beast tamers. Royal beast tamers.” He paused, glancing at the empty corner where his ‘fluffy dog’ usually slept. “My little ‘Puffball’ is actually a Royal Spirit Wolf, a Grade-3 nascent beast. I’ve been hiding his true form.” Yanting raised an eyebrow, a minute shift in his expression that was, for him, a seismic display of surprise. A Grade-3 nascent beast? That was significant. “He’s young, still growing, but his core… his beast core is pure and potent,” Tuoba continued, his gaze earnest. “It could halt the mutation of your heart. It’s not a Grade-4, but it’s high-grade spirit essence. It could buy you time.” He met Yanting’s cold, unblinking stare. “I can… I can offer you his core. It would devastate his cultivation, perhaps even kill him, but… you need it.” A Grade-3 beast core. It wasn’t the Grade-4 Arbor Heart Chi Mei had demanded, but it was a desperate chance. It would be a monumental sacrifice, the kind of selfless act that made Yanting’s hardened core ache with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. Tuoba was offering him salvation, his best friend’s life, without a moment’s hesitation. Yanting blinked once, slowly. “No,” he said, his voice as flat and unyielding as ever. “I only consume high-end cuisine. Grade-4 or above. Inferior ingredients are an insult to my palate.” He looked away, back to his books, the bark on his arm a stark reminder of his impending doom. He felt a profound, almost painful gratitude towards Tuoba, a loyalty he would never, *could* never, express. But he wouldn’t take Tuoba’s companion’s life. Not for something that was only ‘time’ and not a cure. Tuoba Shan stared at Yanting, a complex mixture of exasperation, admiration, and bewildered affection on his face. He knew his friend. This was Yanting’s way of refusing a sacrifice too great, disguised as supreme arrogance. He shook his head, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “You really are something else, Yanting.” Just then, the ceiling above them exploded. Dust, shattered timber, and roof tiles rained down. Through the gaping hole, three figures descended, dark as night, their movements silent and swift. They were clad in midnight-blue scaled armor, their faces obscured by grim, featureless masks. In their gloved hands, poisoned daggers glinted, aimed unerringly at Tuoba Shan’s back. Imperial Assassins.

Anxiety Pastries and Imperial Assassins