Lingzhou's thin lips pulled tight over yellowed teeth as he jerked the iron chain, dropping the blindfolded girl hard onto the splintered floorboards. Yan Shilou took half a step, boots catching on loose gray grit. He took an involuntary step towards her, but a snarl from one of the hulking guards stopped him. Lord Jinwu, a bundle of soot-colored fur, twitched on Yan Shilou’s shoulder, a low, rumbling growl emanating from its tiny chest. “No heroics, boy,” the sect master warned, fingernails digging into the links. “Unless you wish to see your sister lose her ears along with her sight.” He jerked his chin toward the steaming stone basin. “Into the heart of the sun, where you belong. Let the ritual begin.” Yan Shilou’s vision swam. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and something ancient, primordial. The eclipse bled copper across the timber walls. Yan Shilou stepped past the iron bucket, his hem dragging across wet boards. He stepped into the bath. Steam rose in thick sheets, carrying the scent of simmered copper and pine resin. Huo'er bounded from his collar to the flagstone rim, ears pinned flat, claws digging into wet moss. Yan Shilou stood waist-deep, squaring his thin shoulders. “Release her,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Do what you will with me, but let her go.” “Foolish sentiment,” the old man sneered. “Such weakness is why you remained an ash-carter, while I ascended to command the very winds. She is my insurance.” He snapped his fingers. “Guards! Secure the girl. And you,” he motioned towards the shack’s entrance, “ensure no meddling hands interrupt my apotheosis.” Just then, the unlatched door slammed open, revealing a figure wreathed in frost-vapor. Meng Chuying stood framed against the deepening twilight, her sword, ‘Sleet-Drift,’ drawn and humming with a frosty resonance. Frost crusted her lashes, silver sparks snapping along her knuckles as her gaze dropped to the weeping child. “Lay one hand on her,” Meng Chuying’s voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the oppressive air like a shard of ice, “and I will carve the years from your flesh before the sun returns.” The two hulking guards, veteran enforcers of the Cloud-Mire Sect, scoffed. One, a burly man with a scar bisecting his face, lunged forward, his spiritual energy erupting in a blast of amber light. Meng Chuying moved. She was a blur of motion, her Sleet-Drift a silver streak. The scar-faced guard grunted as a flash of frost-edged steel grazed his arm, instantly freezing the skin to a pale, brittle blue. He recoiled, astonishment etched on his face. Her movements were a dance of winter’s wrath. She wove through their clumsy lunges, her sword a whirlwind of icy precision. Frost-motes glittered in the air, each one a tiny, needle-sharp projectile. She didn’t aim to kill, but to incapacitate with elegant, brutal efficiency. One guard found his leg encased in a sudden sheath of ice, sending him sprawling. The other, attempting a desperate grapple, screamed as the hilt of Sleet-Drift connected with his temple, rendering him unconscious before he even hit the ground. She then stepped between Xiaojiu and the remaining conscious guard, her sword held ready, a terrifyingly beautiful sentinel. Lingzhou merely chuckled, watching the display without shifting his footing. “Impressive, Meng Chuying. Perhaps I underestimated your loyalty to this… ash-carter. No matter. The ritual requires only *his* presence.” He turned back to Yan Shilou. The pool, previously a pale simmer, darkened into churning pitch. “Now, boy,” the old cultivator said, stepping toward the rock edge. He gathered his robes and stepped directly into the bath. The moment his embroidered boot submerged, the dark liquid churned into thick, curdling ink. It roiled and churned, a cauldron of ink and unseen energies. “Aha!” Lingzhou rasped, knuckles whitening as he reached into the steam. “The core yields! It offers its marrow to a true sovereign.” He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he began pulling on the subterranean heat. The scalding fluid surged against his thighs, though his hardened flesh bore it as mere prickling heat. Then, beneath the old master's soles, the depths detonated. The blackened minerals erupted in a geyser of boiling froth. Huo'er threw his snout to the rafters, letting out a bronze-splitting cry. Its small, mangy form began to distort, to stretch, to swell. The shadows fled from it, consumed by an inferno that bloomed from its core. The three-legged fox was gone, replaced by a blinding, unbearable light that pulsed with the fury of a dying sun. From the heart of the incandescent maelstrom, a colossal, three-legged bird of pure, blazing fire unfurled, its wingspan filling the entire shack, its eyes twin stars of furious, primordial power. Lord Jinwu, the Sun-Crow Emperor, had returned, and the arrogant heavens were about to boil.

The Lunar Eclipse Ritual