The porcelain teacup felt feather-light in Jin Ruyue’s trembling hand, yet it might as well have been forged from a sun-heated star. The sickly, pale yellow liquid shimmered, reflecting the last sliver of the setting sun, a tiny, malevolent eye winking back at her. Her gaze flickered to Su Mian, his expression a quiet pool of understanding. Understanding. Not fury, not fear, not the cold, cutting judgment she deserved. Just that placid, heartbreaking understanding. It broke something inside her, a dam of carefully constructed deceit. A strangled sound escaped her throat, ripped from her chest with an agonizing force. Her arm whipped out, a violent, desperate arc, sending her own cup spinning through the air. It shattered against the rough-hewn stone wall of the farmhouse, the deadly Dew splattering like venom. She turned on Su Mian, her eyes blazing, hot tears carving paths through the dust and grime on her cheeks. “No!” The word was a raw shriek, tearing from her lips. “You cannot! This is not… it is a lie! All of it!” Her voice cracked, hoarse with emotion. She lunged forward, grabbing his wrist, her fingers biting into the soft flesh. “It’s a trick, Su Mian! A trap! The Heavenly Dao… it’s not what they say! They don’t bless us, they consume us!” Air sawed through her throat in ragged gasps. She pulled him closer, her gaze desperate, pleading. “My name… it’s Jin Ruyue, and I am a spy. A servant of the Jade Zenith Pavilion, sent here to ensure you drank this… this soul-leeching nectar. They call it ‘Golden Dew,’ but it’s a parasitic curse! A slow, agonizing drain! They feed on us, Su Mian! On mortals! Our souls, our essence… they are fodder for a dying realm, fuel for their dwindling power!” She squeezed his wrist, her desperation absolute. “They call us a crop, and we are cultivated for their consumption!” Su Mian stood motionless, his eyes wide, absorbing every frantic word. His own teacup, still brimming with the poisonous luminescence, remained steady in his hand. He looked at her, then at the shattered porcelain shards on the wall, then back to her tear-streaked face. His composure was unsettling, unwavering. A slow sigh escaped him, deep and sorrowful. He gently freed his wrist from her grip, his touch unexpectedly tender. “I know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with an undeniable conviction. He looked down at the remaining cup, then poured its contents into the dirt beside a wilting patch of marigolds. The luminous liquid sank into the earth, leaving a faint, sickly glow that quickly faded. Jin Ruyue stared, speechless. “You… you knew?” “My grandfather,” he replied, his gaze distant, fixed on the distant peaks. “He didn’t ascend. He screamed. From inside a cabbage. He was plucked clean. Not blessed.” He turned to her, a different fire burning in his gentle eyes. It wasn't anger, but a fierce, quiet resolve. “My cabbages… my masterwork… they can wait. The celestial realm… they will not take another soul from this farmstead. Not while I draw breath.” He reached out, taking her hand, his fingers warm against her cold skin. “And they will not take you.” Just then, a booming, guttural voice echoed from within the farmhouse. “Hold! Boy! What did she say about those celestials? A crop? Fodder? This warrior wishes to know more!” Both Su Mian and Jin Ruyue spun around. The voice rattled from the unfinished Spring landscape propped against the shed. Trapped in the silk roll, Yan Zhui, still a two-dimensional brushwork figure, strained against the blackened mountains, his inked muscles bulging. His face, a flat, furious caricature, was twisted in a grimace of outrage. “This is an outrage!” Yan Zhui roared, his flat form vibrating with impotent fury. “To be trapped in this… this flattened mockery! But if what the female says is true, if the so-called ‘Heavens’ seek to consume us… then this warlord will gladly rend them limb from limb!” He pounded a fist against the painted rock face, producing a dull, thudding sound that seemed to originate from the mulberry paper itself. “But first, a matter of honor! Boy, I demand proper attire! And a weapon! A true Body-Refining master cannot face down the cosmos in… in these undignified circumstances!” He gestured vaguely at his lower half, which was still just a featureless wash of ink. “Paint me trousers! And a blade! And I shall make a temporary truce with you, farmer! We shall make these ‘Heavens’ regret their insolence!” Su Mian blinked. He looked at Jin Ruyue, a faint, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips. “Pants and a weapon,” he mused, then nodded slowly. “A fair request, given the circumstances.” He turned back to the painting, his eyes alight with a sudden, playful spark. He picked up a slender, well-worn brush from the nearby table, dipped it into an inkstone already prepared with a rich, midnight-black pigment. With a few swift, confident strokes, he sketched a pair of rugged, dark trousers onto Yan Zhui’s lower body within the painting. The ink seemed to meld seamlessly with the existing lines, becoming part of the landscape’s fabric. Yan Zhui, despite himself, gaped at the sudden appearance of painted trousers. He tentatively flexed his new attire, a surprised grunt escaping him. “Well… functional. A crude artistry, but functional.” He then puffed out his painted chest. “Now, the blade! Make it worthy of the Sun-Devouring Lord!” Su Mian smiled. With deliberate care, he began to draw, the goat-hair bristles sweeping across the paper. He rendered a long, elegant blade, its form imbued with a terrifying sharpness, a faint, shimmering aura of moonlight seeming to emanate from the ink itself. The hilt was a swirl of intricate, cloud-like patterns, and the guard depicted a stylized, roaring dragon. It was not merely a sword; it was an embodiment of power, frozen in two dimensions, yet radiating an undeniable force. Yan Zhui’s pupils, trapped as dark dots on his flattened face, rounded in shock. He reached out a painted hand, and to the astonishment of both Su Mian and Jin Ruyue, his fingers actually closed around the hilt of the wet ink-sword. A low, reverent hum hummed from the silk. “Magnificent,” Yan Zhui rumbled, his voice thick with uncharacteristic admiration. “Truly magnificent! With this, even a painted man can carve through creation!” Before any further words could be exchanged, the azure sky above the farmstead split open. Not merely a crack, but a violent, tearing split across the celestial canopy. A blinding, searing light poured forth, illuminating the entire farm in an unnatural, stark white. Clouds boiled and churned, parting to reveal an abyssal darkness beyond. From that impossible void, a voice boomed, echoing across the land, shaking the very foundations of the earth. “If the crop will not harvest itself, then the scythe must descend.”

Ink and Soul