The High Grandmaster’s strained whisper cut across the ring. Immediately, dozens of figures cloaked in the austere robes of the coalition descended from the observation platforms and converged onto the sand. The air grew dense under the combined spiritual pressure of fifty high elders, grinding the grit beneath their iron-shod boots. Su Zhiqiu, however, merely blinked. She looked from the small origami square in her hand, which still bore the faint scent of ozone and singed cloth, to the ring of glowering cultivators surrounding her. “Demonic spy?” she murmured to herself, her brow knotting. “But I was just… tidying up.” She gestured vaguely at the empty space where the colossal fire-dragon and its wielders had been moments before. “Old Wen says a proper alignment of Qi makes for a much neater finish.” Patriarch Kuang Ren dropped from his box, landing beside High Grandmaster Han Xuan with a hollow crack of flagstones. He shoved past the shivering elder, his stare locking onto Zhiqiu. “Su Zhiqiu!” he boomed, his voice resonating with forced authority. “Explain yourself! What forbidden art did you just unleash? Where did you learn such a blasphemous technique?” Zhiqiu tilted her head, genuinely perplexed by their intensity. “Forbidden art? Patriarch, I just applied the Crease-and-Fold method, exactly as Old Wen taught me. For unruly documents that simply won’t lie flat, you make a solid central tuck, then press the edges inward. It reduces bulk and makes for easier storage.” She held up the origami square. “See? It’s quite efficient.” The gathered elders exchanged horrified glances. “Crease-and-Fold method?” spat Elder Feng Qiao, his beard bristling with indignation. “This is spatial distortion! Soul suppression! To reduce a peak-stage Qi-dragon to this… this *paper toy*! You speak of bookbinding, girl, but your methods are those of a devil!” “But it *is* bookbinding,” Zhiqiu insisted, her tone earnest. “When the Blazing-Cauldron disciples were causing a disturbance earlier, Old Wen had me use the Spine-Pressing Bind on their top prodigy. That one is for particularly thick manuscripts that resist closure. It compacts them nicely.” She paused, then added, “It’s a very basic technique, really. Even I can do it.” Kuang Ren’s mind reeled. *Spine-Pressing Bind? Crease-and-Fold?* The words themselves were mundane, yet their effects were utterly terrifying. His earlier encounters with Wen Qingshu, the bizarre destruction of the heavenly tribulation, Zhiqiu’s inexplicable strength… it all coalesced into a single, chilling conclusion. The neglected archive was no mere bookroom. It was an evil redoubt. A staging ground where an ancient terror drilled disciples in reality-warping sorcery disguised as menial clerkship. And the doddering archivist Old Wen was the fiend he had sought all along. Kuang Ren thrust a finger at her. “You are merely the vanguard! A conduit for an ancient horror! This ‘Old Wen’ is the true rot! The archive must be cleansed down to its bedrock before it poisons the entire province!” A murmur of horrified accord swept the elders. Han Xuan barked, “The Patriarch speaks truth! If that hermit can impart reality-shattering arts to an outer disciple, his own depth defies reason. We cannot permit him to unseal whatever horror festers beneath those stacks!” Orders flew through the air, sharp and unyielding. Iron bells clanged across the mountain passes. Jade-winged carrier raptors shot into the clouds, bearing mobilization talismans to every affiliated martial house. Ten legions marshaled for war, turning their spears toward the forgotten annex. Meanwhile, iron suppression bands snapped shut over Zhiqiu’s wrists, and two bailiffs hauled her toward the stockades while she carefully tucked her folded fire-dragon into her waistband. Hours later, the cobblestones vibrated. The rhythmic thud of forty thousand armored boots churned the academy roads to dust, battle banners blotting out the afternoon sun as the united martial host marched toward the dilapidated brick compound at the edge of the grounds. Inside the Myriad Scroll Repository, amidst towering cedar shelves, Wen Qingshu sat at his customary desk. A porcelain cup of Winter Bloom tea sat beside his elbow. A ripple broke across the amber liquid. Old Wen laid down a clean bone scraper, set his bamboo slats aside, and scowled at the shaking window frames. “Honestly,” he muttered, lifting the cup before the sediment could churn, “the excessive volume violates quiet-hours policy. One cannot organize local tax ledgers with such senseless foot-stomping outside.”

The Inquisition of the Orthodox Alliance