The bronze sun, a distant smear above the jagged peaks of Mount Wuyin, cast long, indifferent shadows across the Outer Courtyard's Bronze Altar Plaza. Dust motes danced in the sparse light, swirling around the silent, watchful figures gathered. Ren Zifeng, his once-broad shoulders now slumped, stood before Song Liena, her silk robes shimmering like fresh snow against his threadbare tunic. His right leg dragged, a constant reminder of the ruptured channels that had reduced him from a promising prodigy to the sect’s most ridiculed invalid. Song Liena’s voice, usually a melodic chime, cut through the plaza like shards of ice. “Three years, Zifeng. Three years since you broke yourself, sacrificing your cultivation to save me from the Shardwing Wyrm. And what have I gained? A useless burden for a fiancé. The Song clan will not endure this humiliation.” Her hand, delicate and pale, flickered. Three dull, oxidized copper coins, the lowest currency of the Canglan realm, clinked as they hit the dirt at Zifeng’s worn leather boots. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers—a public annulment, sealed with poverty, the ultimate insult. Zifeng lowered his chin, avoiding her gaze. The phantom ache in his energy pathways flared, a dull throb that had become his constant companion. He stared at the coins, then at Liena’s face, sculpted in an expression of disdain. He had wrecked his spirit sea, tearing apart his core to protect her, to allow her the chance to escape. Now, this. “Take them, Zifeng,” she continued, her voice dripping with forced pity. “They’re all you’re worth now. My family has arranged a new match, with Young Master Jiao Renjie of the Azureclaw Peak. He stands to inherit the peak master’s mantle. He is a man of *power*.” The named Jiao Renjie, a burly youth with a sneer etched onto his face, stepped forward from the small crowd. His crimson robes, emblazoned with a snarling bear emblem, bespoke his family’s wealth and his own burgeoning strength. His eyes, glinting with malice, swept over Zifeng, then settled on a small, huddled figure near the plaza’s edge—Ren Xiaoxiao, Zifeng’s younger sister. Xiaoxiao, her face pale and drawn, was bent over, wracked by a violent coughing fit. A thin trickle of crimson bloomed at the corner of her lips. Her small hands clutched a ceramic vial, containing the precious Snowsilk Elixir, the only medicine that eased the blight in her lungs. Zifeng's throat went dry. He wanted to roar, to grab Liena, to demand justice for his sacrifice, for his sister’s suffering. But a glance at Xiaoxiao, her frail frame trembling, silenced him. If he caused a scene, if he resisted, the Song clan’s retribution would fall not on him, but on her. Jiao Renjie’s lip curled. “Look at this disgrace. A broken wretch and his dying hag of a sister. Mount Wuyin is no place for such filth.” With a casual, brutal kick, he sent a shower of dust. The ceramic vial flew from Xiaoxiao’s grasp, tumbling end over end before breaking against a weathered stone pillar, its milky contents soaking into the unforgiving earth. Xiaoxiao let out a choked sob. Zifeng's gaze hardened, fixating on the damp patch of soil. His scarred fingers twitched, phantom strength straining behind his knuckles. To protect her, he would take any strike, but an outbreak here would summon sect enforcers to crush them both. He swallowed the bitter copper taste in his mouth. “You… you dare?” Xiaoxiao whispered, her voice reedy with indignation and despair. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood. “That was… that was all we had…” The burly youth laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Perhaps you should have begged a little harder, worm. Or better yet, died three years ago.” Zifeng said nothing. He simply turned, his back to the jeering crowd, to the woman who had betrayed him. He limped to Xiaoxiao, pulling her gently to her feet. Her body felt like a feather in his arms, too light, too fragile. He could feel the eyes of every disciple on their retreating forms, each gaze a fresh wound. He guided her away from the plaza, past the sneering faces, towards the dilapidated Ashwood Dwelling they called home, nestled precariously on the lowest slope of the mountain. The air grew colder, the light fading as they entered the tiny, drafty shack. “It’s alright, Xiaoxiao,” he murmured, his voice rough. “We’ll… we’ll find more. I promise.” He knew it was a lie. The Snowsilk Elixir was rare, expensive. They had spent their last coin on that vial. He settled her onto their shared straw mat. Her coughs returned, deeper, more guttural. Zifeng rummaged through a dusty chest, pulling out a small, clay jug of cheap Dawnpetal Dew, a common rice wine. It was all he had for antiseptic. “This might sting a little,” he warned, uncorking the jug. As he poured a small amount onto a scrap of clean cloth, his hand trembled. A few drops splashed onto the jade pendant he always wore around his neck—his mother’s, the last thing he had of her. It was a simple, unassuming piece, a smooth, dark green stone with an intricate, barely visible spiral carved into its surface. He wiped the blood from Xiaoxiao’s lips with the wine-soaked cloth. A sharp, searing pain shot through his fingers. The pendant, touched by the mundane wine, began to glow. A soft, emerald light pulsed, then intensified, flaring with blinding brilliance that filled the small dwelling. The light coalesced, swirling into a miniature vortex. From its heart, a figure emerged, not ethereal or majestic, but… corpulent. A portly man, clad in robes of primordial, faded silk, floated before him, a half-empty wineskin dangling from one hand. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, held an uncanny, startling clarity. “Finally!” the figure boomed, his voice a booming resonance that vibrated through Zifeng’s very bones. “Took you long enough, boy. And you call *that* swill an offering? Dawnpetal Dew? Have you no respect for divine palates? I demand Starfall Nectar, at least! A true vintage, or I’ll return to my slumber for another thousand years.” He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. “Still, the spirit energy from your ruined channels… a rather peculiar appetizer.” The portly god, who identified himself as Lord Buzhou with a dramatic flourish, waved a dismissive hand. A primeval force, cold as distant stars, rushed through Zifeng’s body. The dull ache in his meridians vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar, exhilarating thrum. Streams of concentrated energy rushed through pathways he thought long destroyed, mending and hardening each vessel. His core, once a splintered ruin, now pulsed with deep, forgotten strength that felt uncanny. A presence that felt… familiar. Lord Buzhou’s heavy-lidded eyes snapped open, suddenly sharp. He stared at Zifeng, a knowing, almost regretful expression on his face. “Welcome back, Your Majesty. They are already hunting you.”

The Copper Coin Annulment