“Ah, Cui Heng,” Master Yaoquan rasped, his voice a low growl cutting across the deafening torrent. The obsidian blade in his hand pulsed with faint, sickly light, reflecting the furious white spume. “The little rat who keeps slipping through my grasp. And bringing down the whole sect with him, it seems.” His gaze flickered to Su Linyin, then back to Cui Heng. “You think you can hide that… ink, from me? The elders have promised me quite the reward for its retrieval. And for your… disappearance.”
Cui Heng flinched, his shoulders hunching inward. The roaring water, the height, the glinting blade—it all spun into a familiar cocktail of fear that rendered him immobile. He wanted to apologize, to explain, to offer the ink if it would just make this terrifying man go away. His hand twitched, instinctively reaching for the empty pocket where Baozong usually rested.
Baozong, however, was perched on Su Linyin’s shoulder, a rust-scaled lump of unbothered judgment. The river-cat stretched languidly, showing off claws like polished jade, before letting out a wide, unhurried yawn that revealed a surprisingly pink tongue. *Such a drama queen,* a grumble echoed in Cui Heng’s mind, low and distinct even over the cataract’s roar. *Can’t you ever just hit him?*
Su Linyin gripped Cui Heng’s shoulder, anchoring him. “Master Yaoquan, you cannot possibly—” she began, but the overseer cut her off with a sneer.
“Cannot I? I am an appointed overseer of the Zhenliu Spirit-Works! And you, a discredited scholar with a penchant for fraternizing with vat-stirring refuse. What authority do either of you possess?” Yaoquan took a deliberate step forward, the tainted blade rising. Its violet aura seemed to leech the color from the air around it. “The elders want Cui Heng silent. And they want his… accidental genius.” He paused, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Now, hand over the vial, Cui Heng. Or I’ll carve it out of your quivering flesh myself.”
He stared at the blade, at the mottled blue-green face of the man who had tormented him for years. His mind raced, not with defiance, but with desperate plans for escape, for surrender, for anything that might avoid the inevitable pain.
*He’s going to stab you. And I’m going to be very annoyed if I have to clean up all that blood,* Baozong’s telepathic voice added, sharp with exasperation. *Just trip him, already. It’s not hard. I’ve laid the groundwork for you. He’s ripe for a tumble.* But Cui Heng remained frozen, rooted to the swaying walkway.
Yaoquan, misinterpreting Cui Heng’s paralysis as defiance, let out a guttural roar. “Then perish, you insolent worm!” With a savage cry, he lunged forward, the dark lacquer-blade arcing downwards. A faint, acrid scent, like burnt sugar and metal, drifted from the blade, the residue of the toxic pigments used to temper its edge.
Just as the blade descended, a sudden, violent gust of wind, whipped up from the churning spill below, tore through the narrow gorge. It wasn’t a natural breeze; it felt purposeful, a clawing hand from the abyss. The air shimmered, and a fine cloud of iridescent dust, sloughed off from Yaoquan’s own tainted weapon, swirled back. The concentrated lacquer powder, super-charged with residual malice from the blade, flew directly into Yaoquan’s face.
He shrieked, a high, reedy sound, as the toxic particles seared his eyes. The world dissolved into agony and blinding color. He staggered backward, his arms flailing, the dark edge clattering against the rough boards. His foot caught on a loose timber – an edge Cui Heng remembered seeing Baozong tap with a claw earlier – and Yaoquan stumbled. His body twisted, propelled by his own momentum, and he pitched over the flimsy railing. His scream cut off abruptly as he disappeared from view.
For a moment, only the thunder of falling water filled the air. Then, a desperate gurgle, followed by the sight of Yaoquan scrabbling against the wet, moss-slicked beam. He was dangling, impossibly, by one hand, his face a mask of terror, the churning abyss of the gorge roaring just beneath his feet. The black steel, having flown from his grip, had struck true into a crack in the walkway a few paces away.
“Help me!” Yaoquan wailed, his voice raw with fear. “Please! I’ll… I’ll let you go! I swear it!”
Cui Heng stared, his mind a jumble of conflicting emotions. This man had tormented him, tried to kill him, planned to sacrifice countless others. Yet, to let him fall… The churning water below promised a gruesome end. His hands, calloused and stained from a lifetime of vat-stirring, trembled. Su Linyin looked at him, her expression grim but not unsympathetic. Even Baozong, from his perch, watched with a strange, unreadable intensity.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Cui Heng extended his arm. He gripped Yaoquan’s wrist, his fingers finding purchase on the slick, cold skin. The overseer was heavy, his weight straining Cui Heng’s arm, but he pulled. Muscles burned, scarred skin stretched taut, but Cui Heng held on. Slowly, inch by painful inch, he hauled the man back onto the relative safety of the span.
Yaoquan collapsed onto the boards, gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably. Cui Heng released his wrist, stepping back. He watched, a knot of unease twisting in his stomach, as Yaoquan’s eyes, still red-rimmed and watering, scanned the walkway. They fixed on the weapon, still embedded in the timber a few paces away. Without a word, without even a flicker of gratitude, Yaoquan scrambled towards it. His hand closed around the hilt, and in a single, fluid motion, he spun and thrust the blade directly at Cui Heng’s back.
There was a sickening *crack*. Not of bone, but of splintering obsidian. The brittle lacquer-blade snapped cleanly in half, its hilt remaining in Yaoquan’s grip. The broken tip, sharp as ever, plunged harmlessly into the walkway just beside Cui Heng’s shadow. But the karmic backlash didn't stop there. As the blade shattered, two sharp shards flew from the break point, twisting in the air. One embedded itself through Yaoquan’s left sleeve, pinning it firmly to the weathered timber. The second, a longer, more jagged piece, pierced his right sleeve, securing him like a pinned butterfly to the narrow boards.
Yaoquan shrieked again, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. He tugged, struggled, but the shards held fast, anchoring him to the spot. “A curse! It’s a curse!” he blubbered, his face pale beneath the blue-green stains. His eyes darted from the broken blade to Cui Heng, then to Baozong, who had merely yawned again, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating in his chest. “The river-cat! It’s the river-cat’s curse!”
He struggled harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You fool! You don’t know what you’ve done!” he cried, his voice thick with snot and tears. “The elders… the festival… it’s not tomorrow! It’s tonight! They moved it up! The blood-glaze… the ritual has already begun!” down in the lowest vats!”
The words hung over the abyss. Down in the lowest vats, the bronze vats were already boiling.