The fumes rising from the bubbling basins in Vat-House Seven offered a familiar, acrid comfort to Cui Heng, like a worn shroud. His hands, crisscrossed by old scars and raw, weeping lesions, guided an oar-sized paddle through the churning wash of Emerald Dew. The compound, drawn from the venomous sap of the Sky-Vine, served as a potent conductor for spirit resonance, though its touch ate slowly into human skin. A sharp sting, then a dull throb, a sensation as steady as the rumble of the Zhenliu waterfall outside. He pulled the ash-wood paddle free, the blade scraping iron as pale green sap dripped back into the depths.
His shift was interminable, yet always ended too soon for his liking, because the journey back to his cramped dorm room involved navigating the upper terraces where the elite Brush-Wielders trained. They were the ones who shaped resonant resins into potent talismans and weapon coatings, their silk robes pristine, their palms unblemished. Cui Heng merely provided the dangerous bases. His only comfort was a small, well-worn pot of Yinpore Balm, a pungent, herbal salve that offered temporary respite from the perpetual burn.
When the bell finally chimed, a hollow clang echoing across the terraced sect, Cui Heng snatched his tattered apron, tucked the salve into a fold of hemp, and hurried out. The rain, a fine, cold mist all morning, had intensified into a downpour, transforming the stone pathways into slick, treacherous rivers. He kept his head down, weaving through the bustling thoroughfare, hoping to avoid any notice from the sect’s higher-ups. His eyes, accustomed to the dim glow of the vat-house, squinted against the grey light.
Then he heard it. A high-pitched, desperate squeal, followed by cruel laughter. Ahead, beneath the dripping eaves of the Brush-Wielder’s Hall, three senior apprentices in their crisp sapphire tunics were tormenting something. Cui Heng hesitated, his usual instinct to avert his gaze warring with a strange, unwelcome prickle of concern. He saw the flash of a thin, scaled tail, then a small, rust-coloured body slammed against the wet stone.
It was a river-cat, a creature of the lower falls, its scales dull with illness, its usually vibrant green eyes clouded with pain. One of them, a youth named Jiao Wei with oiled hair, held it by the scruff, swinging it back and forth before letting it drop to the paving stones. The creature lay there, shivering, a paw bent at an unnatural angle. The other two nudged it with the tips of their polished boots, laughing when it let out another dry croak.
Cui Heng’s scarred hands clenched. He knew the cost of drawing attention, the swift punishment for crossing members of the painting halls. His passivity was a shield, a hard-won defense against the harsh realities of the Zhenliu Spirit-Works. But seeing the small, helpless form, something within him chafed. He took a hesitant step forward, then another.
“Leave it be,” he murmured, his voice reedy, barely audible over the rain. The disciples turned, their laughter dying. Jiao Wei’s eyes narrowed, sweeping over Cui Heng’s stained, humble attire.
“Well, well, what have we here? A mixer meddling where he doesn’t belong?” Jiao Wei sneered. “This pest crept into the kitchens. It deserves a lesson.”
“It’s… it’s hurt,” Cui Heng managed, glancing at the struggling animal. “Let it go. I’ll… I’ll take it away.”
Jiao Wei exchanged a look with his companions. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “You want it? This mangy beast?” He lifted a brow. “Everything has a price, laborer. What will you give us for it?”
Cui Heng’s mind raced. He had nothing of value. His monthly stipend was barely enough for food and his meager lodging. Then he remembered the small leather pouch in his inner tunic, his entire month’s wages, painstakingly saved. And the Yinpore Balm, his only solace. It was a foolish, reckless impulse, but the river-cat’s desperate mewl seemed to echo the silent suffering he knew so well.
“My wages,” he said, pulling out the pouch, the few copper and silver coins clinking faintly. “And… my Yinpore Balm.” He pulled the small pot from his apron, the herbal scent already mingling with the rain.
Jiao Wei’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “A month’s wages? And a healing salve? For a worthless beast? Ha! Foolish, but generous.” He snatched the pouch and the balm with a grin, tossing the river-cat carelessly to the ground. “Take your prize, grease-hands. And be quick about it.”
Cui Heng knelt, breathing shallowly, and carefully scooped the shivering creature into the cloth fold of his apron. Its small body was surprisingly warm against his chest. He didn’t dare look back at the laughing disciples, just turned and fled, the rain lashing his face. He was late, dangerously late, and the fear of Master Yaoquan’s wrath coiled in his gut.
He burst through the heavy iron doors of Vat-House Seven, panting, the smell of turpentine and wet flagstones filling his throat. The room sat quiet, the other laborers already gone. A broad figure stood in the center of the cavernous hall. A disciplinary whip hung from Master Yaoquan's right fist, its leather studs catching the lamplight.
“You’re late, Cui Heng,” Master Yaoquan’s voice boomed, thick with menace, as he slowly turned. His face, usually a mask of sour displeasure, was contorted with a particularly vicious glee. “Did you forget the rules? Or perhaps you thought you were above them, eh, you scarred rat?” He took a step forward, the whip uncoiling with a soft hiss, its tip already leaving a faint red mark in the air.
Cui Heng ducked his chin, his forearm instinctively shielding the pouch of his apron where the river-cat lay hidden. Yaoquan raised the whip, his shoulder rolling back for the swing. Just as the leather whistled forward, Yaoquan’s heel slid. Not on water, not on grease, but on a single, round bead of Emerald Dew gleaming on the slick floor.
The overseer's mouth fell slack. A sharp yelp broke from his throat as balance deserted him, pitching his weight forward. His skull crashed straight into the nearest tank—a broad copper tub of permanent, soul-binding cerulean glaze. The splash was immense, the blue liquid sloshing over the sides, drenching the floor. Yaoquan thrashed wildly, his roars muffled by the thick, viscous dye, his arms flailing like a drowning insect as his body began to take on an irreversible, vibrant blue hue.
*“A full-bellied carp, preferably a Golden-Scaled variant, would be an appropriate tribute for these administrative services,”* a grumpy, ancient voice echoed in Cui Heng’s mind, utterly devoid of warmth. *“And don’t forget the head, boy. I despise waste.”* Cui Heng stared at the flailing, blue-drenched overseer, then down at his tunic where a tiny, rust-scaled snout poked out, its green eyes regarding him with cool appraisal. His own head reeled. What in the blazes was happening?