Chom’s voice, raw and frantic, rattled Takhon’s skull. Takhon dragged his heavy lids up. He looked down at his chest, where a faint, sickly amber glow now emanated from beneath his robes, the warmth quickly turning into a burning heat. Skin prickled as if rubbed raw with nettles. At this rate, the seal would split within weeks. Every muscle pleaded for a dry mat and sleep, but the inner furnace gave him no peace.
“The Apex Sanctuary!” Chom shrieked, his ancient voice cracking with panic. “The only place in this cursed tree with enough concentrated qi to force an immortal breakthrough! It’s your only chance, you overgrown sloth! Now move!”
Takhon felt the immense surge of power from the ancient timber still clasped in his hand, a counter-pressure to the seal’s internal detonation. He saw the Naga-Stone spire looming above him, an almost impossibly steep climb. He knew what he had to do. He just wanted to *nap* first.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the spectating platforms high above. Shouts of alarm, the clang of staffs against something soft. A figure, small but fierce, burst through the ranks of the Naga-crest guards, stumbling down the moss-slicked steps towards him. It was Sirin, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears and dirt, a fresh cough racking her small frame.
“Takhon!” Her voice was a fragile cry carried on the damp air. She pushed past the last startled guard, scrambling down the final section of steps, her eyes fixed solely on him. She collapsed at his feet, clutching his torn robes, her small hands trembling. Ribs hitching, she drew sharp, shuddering breaths.
“Sirin, stay back,” Takhon muttered, dropping to one knee to steady her.
“I couldn’t let you face it alone,” she gasped, blinking through red-rimmed lids. She pressed her face into his chest, her tears soaking his tattered garment. “I know, Takhon. I know about the seal. I heard Chom. I know you’re dying.” Her voice broke, a raw, exposed pain that twisted Takhon’s gut. “I don’t care if I’m ruined. I don’t care what happens to me. I just… I love you, Takhon. Please, don’t leave me.”
Her words struck harder than any cudgel. The swamp's lethargy burned away, replaced by cold clarity. The amber glow in his chest pulsed, hot and insistent.
He had to live. For Sirin. For her smile. He had to reach the spire's summit.
He looked up past the guards toward the carved pavilion where Grand Abbot Prajai stood rigidly, flanked by Phan's smirk. Around them, the elders and various clan heads watched with a mix of awe and trepidation.
“Abbot Prajai!” Takhon called out, his drowsy drawl cutting clean across the courtyard. “I claim entry to the Apex Sanctuary atop this spire.”
Prajai’s gaze hardened. “That stone is reserved for rites of the highest order, disciple. It is no playground for disgraced waifs.”
“I claim it by right of challenge,” Takhon replied, rising while Sirin held fast to his tunic. The ancient timber in his hand seemed to hum, responding to his newfound focus. “A winner-takes-all deathmatch.”
Murmurs swept the terraces. A blood challenge on temple flagstones? Against the abbot himself?
Phan, however, saw an opportunity. His eyes gleamed with malicious glee. “A challenge to the abbot, cripple? You are utterly deranged!” Phan stepped to the balustrade, curling his lip. “Answer me first. If you can scratch a senior disciple like me, perhaps our elder will deign to swat you himself.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the crowd, enjoying the tension.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Phan signaled to two heavily armored Naga-crest guards. They dragged forward a slumped, barely conscious figure, his clothes torn, his face bruised and swollen. Kiet. His wrists were bound, his eyes half-closed. A red smear caked his temple.
“Your little pet spy, I believe?” Phan’s voice dripped with poison. “He served his purpose. Now, he’s just a liability.” Phan drew a short, wicked-looking blade, its tip glinting menacingly. He pressed it to Kiet’s throat, a cold, calculating smile playing on his lips. “So, cripple. Make your choice. Challenge me for the Altar, and watch your friend bleed out. Or abandon this foolish quest, and perhaps I’ll let him live.”
The amber glow in Takhon’s chest flared, hot enough to make Sirin whimper against his back. The upper dais, the sole place with qi dense enough to stave off the blast, waited above. But Kiet, his friend, hung on the precipice of death below Phan’s blade. Takhon set his stance, the sleepy slouch straightening as he pinned Phan beneath a cold, unblinking glare.