The challenge from Elder Song Kian hung over the courtyard as the spectators stood frozen. Three weeks. Three weeks remained before Zifeng stepped into the ring for a duel to the death. He watched Elder Song, a gaunt, stern figure with eyes like winter frost, turn and stalk away, his retinue parting before him like reeds in a current. Jaren lay groaning amidst the shattered flagstones, clutching his mangled ribs. “Foolish. Utterly foolish.” Lin Muyue’s voice clipped the chill air. She studied his bruised knuckles, her lips pinched thin. “You could have simply disabled him, but you chose to publicly dismantle a man sponsored by an Elder. Do you understand the implications?” Zifeng pulled his sleeve down, heat flushing his collar. “He kicked Xiaoxiao’s medicine. He threatened her. There was no other choice.” His voice stayed flat, though his fingers dug into his palms. Muyue sighed, a wisp of mist in the cold air. “Your honor is commendable, if inconvenient. Now, we have three weeks. Elder Song Kian wields considerable influence. He will not send a mere enforcer to the duel. He will send a beast, a master of the Blade Path. Our wine-making cannot wait.” That night, under a sliver of a moon veiled by thin clouds, Zifeng and Lin Muyue moved like shadows through the deeper recesses of Mount Wuyin. The air grew colder, the scent of ancient earth and damp stone clinging to them as they descended into a hidden grotto Muyue knew. Strange, luminous fungi pulsed with soft light, illuminating a small, crystalline pool fed by a trickle from deep within the mountain. Muyue, stripped of her saintess robes and wearing simple, dark cultivator’s attire, moved with practiced grace. Her movements were economical, each action precise as she arranged an array of intricate alchemical vessels. Zifeng, still unaccustomed to his restored body's subtle power, found himself surprisingly adept at following her terse instructions, his hands moving with a speed and precision that startled even himself. The Sovereign's ancient knowledge guided his wrists, turning clumsy motions into fluid sweeps. “The water from this spring,” Muyue explained, her voice barely a murmur above the gurgle of the stream, “flows through veins of raw jadeite. It is essential. The lotus petals must be steeped at precisely the third hour of the lunar cycle, under the light of a waxing crescent, then fermented with grain mash for seven nights.” They worked in near silence, the quiet broken only by the clinking of porcelain and the soft hiss of alchemical reactions. Zifeng worked shoulder-to-shoulder with her, his usual hesitation muted by the rhythm of measuring dried bark. Muyue’s focus was absolute, her brow furrowed in concentration. He occasionally caught her glancing at him, a fleeting, almost imperceptible appraisal. He felt a blush creep up his neck, quickly looking away. Near the third hour, a grinding tremor shook the cave ceiling. The luminous fungi flickered wildly. A tremor ran through the earth, sending pebbles rattling down the cavern walls. Muyue looked up, dropping her glass pipette. “What was that?” Before Zifeng answered, suffocating pressure slammed into the mountain. The force hammered his ribcage flat against the rock, scouring the air from his throat. Through the cavern mouth, scarlet ribbons frayed across the night sky, tinting the crags an iron-rust hue. “Heavens above…” Muyue backed into the wall. “An Arbiter.” Through the fissure, Zifeng saw a towering silhouette drop through the torn sky, draped in vermilion flame. Humanoid in shape, its shoulders spanned leagues. Its voice bypassed the ears, vibrating through the bone marrow of every cultivator on the peak. “Mortal realm of Canglan. Mount Wuyin Sect. Surrender any aberrant souls. The cycle demands balance. We sense a distortion.” Elder Song Kian, who had been resting in his private pagoda, appeared with unnatural speed, flanked by a dozen Inner Sect disciples. His beard twitched with fright, yet an oily grin cut his cheeks as he stared skyward. He knew what an 'aberrant soul' meant – one that defied natural order, one that perhaps possessed power it shouldn't. An idea, cold and ruthless, formed in his mind. “Great Arbiter from the Upper Vault!” Elder Song’s voice, despite its tremor, boomed across the silent peak. He prostrated himself, his head touching the ground. “This servant beseeches your judgment! There is an anomaly! A cripple, Ren Zifeng, from the Outer Court, has shown unnatural resurgence! His strength defies mortal cultivation! He is the distortion, my lord! I offer him to you!” The colossal head, a void hooded in scarlet fumes, tilted downward. The pressure intensified, making the very air vibrate. Elder Song offered him up as slaughter meat. Zifeng's thoughts darted straight to Xiaoxiao, lying helpless in their wooden shack. Just as the Warden’s gaze seemed to fixate on the direction of Zifeng’s humble dwelling, a clear, resolute voice cut through the oppressive silence. “Arbiter! Elder Song Kian speaks from malice and personal vendetta!” Lin Muyue, no longer pale, stood tall at the grotto’s opening, illuminated by the crimson sky. Her suppressed meridians uncoiled, blasting gravel across the threshold. She moved out into the open, a defiant silhouette against the terrifying backdrop. Zifeng stepped back, stunned as she strode into the clearing. “This disciple, Lin Muyue, Saintess of Mount Wuyin, respects your mandate,” she continued, her voice echoing with a surprising authority. “But Elder Song Kian is a corrupt official, blinded by petty grievances! The true distortions within Mount Wuyin lie not in one recovering disciple, but in the leadership itself! Our Sect Leader, Master Zhuo, has hoarded spirit veins, suppressed talented youth, and engaged in illicit trade with demonic factions! His actions threaten the very balance of Canglan, far more than any Outer Court recovery!” The titan’s mantle rippled. A blank glare swept across the Sect Leader’s central pagoda, then locked onto the shuddering elder. Lin Muyue had spun a heavenly execution into a lethal factional audit. She wasn't just defending Zifeng; she was initiating a full-blown coup, using a literal heavenly intervention as her lever. Silence choked the peak. Sharp needles stabbed behind Zifeng’s eyes as memories broke free: an astral loom, tangled braids of karma, and his former self deliberately warping the rebirth cycle. He had rigged the mortal wheel to dodge these exact heavenly inquisitors while he crawled toward the Ascendant Realm. Only that realm would mask his ancient soul stamp. “The Saintess speaks truth,” the titan's voice boomed. “A deeper rot. This realm shall be observed.” The scarlet glow contracted into a pinpoint and vanished, returning the peaks to pale moonlight. Elder Song Kian stared, aghast and furious, at Lin Muyue, who merely offered a cold, satisfied smile. His attempt to sacrifice Zifeng had backfired spectacularly, turning the divine gaze onto his own master. Zifeng propped himself against the tub, his vision still swimming with shattered past-life recollections. He had to reach the Ascendant Realm. Before the next visitation, before they completed a full soul scan. His life, Xiaoxiao’s life, depended on it. He turned to the nearly finished brewing vat. The air in the cave cleared. Muyue, her political masterpiece executed, now looked at him, her expression softening. “It is done. The final steeping requires no intervention.” Zifeng, his hands still trembling from the flashback, reached for the stopper. The aroma, now rich and complex, promised something truly extraordinary. He poured a generous amount into a jade flask, then opened the pendant around his neck. Lord Buzhou poked his ethereal head from the silver casing, blinking lazily. “What in the blazes was that ruckus? Did you manage to provoke a deity already, boy? Did you bring me a drink?” Zifeng extended the flask. “Thousand-Year Drunken Lotus, Lord Buzhou. Fresh from the vat.” Buzhou took a sniff, then a tentative sip. His lazy expression vanished. A shock of pure ecstasy crossed his face, chasing away the last vestiges of his drowsiness. “By the Jade Emperor’s beard! This… this is *vintage*! Untouched by mortal hands for eons! The pure spirit-jade water, the lunar infusion… Boy, you have surpassed yourself! This is a drink worthy of the high thrones!” He drained the flask in three massive swallows. “Such tribute demands fair trade. Listen well, boy. I unlock your ‘Monarch’s Wrath’ martial script. A relic of your true past. But use it sparingly; every flare rings a bronze gong across the upper firmament. When next they come, it won't be to observe. They will butcher you and your little sister both.” Prickling fire rushed through Zifeng’s channels as the art burned into his memory. Three weeks to master it before Song's champion took the ring, and not a single heartbeat to waste.

The Wardens Descend