“My… my qi!” Elder Zhan Kui rasped, his voice a choked whisper, “It’s… falling!” He staggered back, a hand pressed to his chest, eyes wide and unfocused. The radiant halo that usually pulsed around him, making his figure imposing even in the dimmest light, guttered and died like a poorly tended lantern. His robes, once vibrant with embroidered celestial cranes, seemed to sag, losing their crispness. He looked at Shen Yumo, then at the bubbling pot of yam congee, then at Ao Wanchen, the mud-carp calmly blowing a perfect ring of bubbles in its basin. Blame, hot and poisonous, curdled in his gut.
“You… you scullery wretch!” he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Yumo. “What blasphemy have you wrought? Have you dared to steal the very ley-lines themselves? This… this cannot be!” He tried to draw upon his inner reserves, to launch a searing flame-spell that would incinerate the scrawny servant and reclaim whatever cosmic energy Yumo had apparently pilfered. But his core, once a roaring furnace, was now a flickering ember. A tiny, pathetic spark sputtered from his fingertip, barely enough to singe a dust mote before winking out.
“Impossible!” he screamed, his face purpling with a mixture of terror and impotent fury. The tiny spark had cost him, sending a fresh tremor through his rapidly destabilizing foundation. He felt like his very essence was being siphoned, trickling away into the cracked earth beneath Yumo’s worn wooden floorboards. The warm, sweet steam rising from the yam stew, however, seemed to carry a strange, comforting resonance. It wasn’t heavenly grace in the conventional sense, but something profound, something that momentarily soothed the agonizing churn in his core. He instinctually reached out, his hand hovering in the steam, a desperate, animalistic plea in his eyes.
Mei Lingshuang, however, was quicker. Her frost-blade, the very air around it shimmering with cold light, materialized silently and pressed its icy tip against Elder Zhan Kui’s throat. “Back away from Master Shen, Elder Zhan. Your cultivation may be failing, but your malicious intent is still clear. The Guest-Right of this hearth forbids harm.” Her voice was low, devoid of emotion, but the chill radiating from the blade was absolute. Zhan Kui froze, suddenly aware of the formidable power emanating from the once-crippled outer disciple.
From the water basin, Ao Wanchen, the mud-carp, blew another large, dismissive bubble. It popped silently, but the message was clear: *You want a taste of this? You’ll work for it, old man.* Yumo, startled by the sudden confrontation, hurried forward. “Lingshuang, please. He’s… he’s unwell.” He looked at the shivering Elder, whose expensive robes now seemed threadbare, and felt a familiar tug of pity. Wounded creatures always stirred something deep within him.
“Elder Zhan Kui,” Yumo said softly, pushing a clean, albeit rusty, axe into the man’s stiff hands. “You look cold. The stove needs more fuel. If you chop some wood, we’ll have plenty of warmth, and perhaps… a bowl of fresh yam congee will settle your qi.” He gestured to the pile of gnarled branches outside the doorway, left over from a storm that had ravaged the lower peaks weeks ago. These were common, mundane timbers, usually split with ease by even an entry-level cultivator’s raw strength. Zhan Kui stared at the iron head, then down at the knotted pine, his mouth slack with fresh dread.
“Chop… wood?” Zhan Kui stammered, his fingers, accustomed to handling precious alchemical ingredients, now felt alien around the rough, cold metal of the axe. He gripped it awkwardly, then swung it at a thick, knotty branch. The axe bounced off with a dull thud, barely scratching the surface. Zhan Kui tried again, pouring all his meager, remaining strength into the blow. His arms, once powerful and infused with martial might, now merely ached. He grunted, sweat beading on his brow. The wood, ordinary and lifeless, felt harder than any smelted celestial steel he had ever encountered.
Lingshuang watched, her blade still slightly raised, as Zhan Kui wrestled with the stubborn timber, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Each futile swing rattled the bones in his elbows, reminding him of his drastic fall from grace. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and humiliating, as he realized the sheer, brutal truth: he, Elder Zhan Kui, the renowned Pill-Master of the Frost-Qilin Pavilion, was now weaker than a common field hand. Weaker than Yumo himself, who effortlessly stirred the bubbling kettle with a wooden ladle. He wept, the axe slipping in his grasp, the sound of his sobs mixing with the gentle simmer of the yams.
Yumo merely continued stirring, occasionally glancing at the Elder with a soft, understanding gaze. The warmth of the kitchen, the scent of simmering porridge, and the rhythmic *thwack* of Zhan Kui’s increasingly desperate attempts to split wood, created a strange, comforting symphony. As the last golden light of afternoon faded from the small, high window, a faint scratching sound came from the outside.
Then, a low whimper. A creature, impossibly thin and shivering, nudged the creaking timber door ajar with its nose. It was a three-tailed spirit fox, its once pristine silver fur matted with grime and blood, one delicate leg bent at an unnatural angle. Its three elegant tails, usually a sign of profound immortal attainment, were dull and lifeless. Its eyes, rimmed with pain, flickered with a desperate hunger. It collapsed just inside the threshold, a gasp escaping its small muzzle. Yumo, ever attentive, immediately scooped up a small bowl of the cooling mash, adding a sliver of dried fish he’d been saving for his own dinner. As he knelt, gently offering the warm food to the starving creature, a profound, almost imperceptible shift occurred. High above the towering peaks of the Nine Heavens, the vibrant, star-dusted sky visibly dimmed, as if a great, unseen hand had drawn a veil across the cosmos.