The elder's smile was a thin, cruel line etched into skin as ancient and brittle as sun-baked parchment. His eyes, the color of burnt embers, surveyed Cui Heng, then the empty jug, then the dark, fading traces in the intake channel. There was no need for accusation. “A trench-scrubber, presuming to meddle with the heavens’ decree,” the elder rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. He gestured, and the four guards, cloaked figures with masks carved like snarling river-spirits, closed the circle. Before Cui Heng could even flinch, thick iron shackles clamped around his wrists, cold and heavy. They lifted him, not gently, and dragged him away from the rushing water. “Take him to the plaza. Let him witness the ritual he so foolishly attempted to defile,” the Grand Master commanded, his gaze sweeping the darkened channel one last time before he turned, his silk robes snapping like a banner in the wind. The guards marched Cui Heng through winding, damp passages, the rhythmic clang of his irons echoing in the narrow confines. The air grew thicker, heavy with the scent of ozone and iron, and a rising, low hum that vibrated through the stone under his bare feet. They emerged into the vast, open expanse of the Zhenliu Plaza. Hundreds of figures, shackled and kneeling, filled the space, their faces pale and etched with terror. These were the pit laborers, the disposable hands of the sect, bound like offerings. Torches flared on towering iron poles, casting long, dancing shadows that made the scene even more nightmarish. At the plaza's center, a colossal silk screen, stretched taut on a darkwood frame, gleamed with a base coat of stark white pigment. Before it stood a raised dais, where Master Yaoquan, his face a grotesque mask of blue dye and raw fury, fussed with ceremonial brushes, his movements jerky and frantic. Su Linyin was there, too, her dark hair a stark contrast to her ashen face, hidden partially behind a crumbling stone pillar at the plaza's edge. Her gaze locked onto Cui Heng's, raw with tension. He tried to offer a reassuring nod, but an iron-plated gauntlet shoved him hard between the shoulder blades, dropping him onto the flagstones beside the other bound workers. From a shadowed alcove near Linyin, a pair of glowing rust-colored eyes watched, a low, guttural grumble rumbling in Cui Heng’s mind: *“They dare.”* Jingshi ascended the dais, his presence instantly quelling the murmurs. He picked up a brush, impossibly thick, its bristles the color of dried blood, and turned to face the assembly. His gaze lingered on Cui Heng, a sneer twisting his lips. “Look at them,” the elder boomed, his voice amplified by spiritual resonance, echoing off the terraced cliff face. “The dregs. The poison-drenched and forgotten. And this one,” he pointed his massive brush directly at Cui Heng, “this boy, thinks he can obstruct the will of the Spirit-Heaven Elders. He thought to spoil our sacred ink with his… *filth*.” Jingshi laughed, a dry, rattling sound. “He even keeps a stray beast, hidden away, an omen of rot. Perhaps its skin would make a fine scroll for our next ritual, a lesson in humility.” A low ripple of fear ran through the gathered workers, heads bowing lower against the stone. He saw their hopeless, defeated expressions. The cold iron bit into his wrists, rough edges chewing tender scar tissue. But then, Jingshi’s words, the threat against Baozong, the casual dismissal of all their lives, ignited a spark deep within him. All his life, he had ducked beneath every blow and swallowed every insult. But not for Baozong. Not for Linyin. Not for the frightened ranks pinned to the flagstones. A strange strength bloomed in his chest. He pushed against the chains, rising from his knees until he stood, shaky but defiant, amidst the sea of kneeling figures. The guards snarled and raised their sabers, but his words cut through the courtyard before steel could strike. “The heavens will not accept it!” Cui Heng cried, his voice hoarse but unwavering. He gestured to the vast screen, then to the bound workers. “This is not Resonance-Crafting; this is murder! Your ink is tainted by blood, by suffering! The spirits of the Zhenliu waterfall will recoil from your blasphemy!” The plaza fell dead quiet, save for the roar of the falls. Jingshi’s mouth, previously twisted in a sneer, now hung open in genuine astonishment, then morphed into a furious, mocking grin. “Insolence! A mere vat-scrubber dares to lecture the Grand Master on spiritual matters? You are a fool, boy, a sacrificial lamb bleating at its fate!” He turned back to the screen, snatching a ceremonial tool from Yaoquan and plunging it into a porcelain basin filled with the freshly flowed lacquer. His eyes, burning with a terrible, malicious power, locked onto Cui Heng for a final, contemptuous moment. “Watch, little worm,” Jingshi snarled, pouring all his hateful intent, all his immense spiritual energy, into the brush. He raised it high, then brought it down, a decisive, furious stroke aimed at the very heart of the stretched white surface. The thick brush made contact, and a sound like rending cloth ripped through the air, followed by a sickening wet *thwack* that was not the elegant sound of paint meeting fabric.

The Grand Lacquer Festival