The Obsidian-Tortoise Seminary’s basement clinic was a haven of damp tranquility, usually. Kou Nanshan, reclined in his creaking wicker chair, let out a soft, aggrieved sigh. The ceramic mug beside him, patterned with faded azure koi, sat bone-dry. His fingers tapped a rhythm against the clipboard. Without fragrant Qing-Ming brew, even his meticulously cultivated apathy felt threadbare. He had expected Suo Chuyan to return by now. The girl was diligent, if alarmingly effective with his therapeutic suggestions. She’d promised to scrub the floor tiles and ensure his tea leaves were steeped precisely for nine minutes, no more, no less. Yet, the persistent chill of the basement air remained undisturbed by her presence, and the faint, earthy scent of stagnant water clung stubbornly to the walls. “Incompetent bureaucracy,” Kou Nanshan murmured, adjusting his spectacles. “Always interfering with basic labor allocation. Now who will fetch the fresh spring water?” The thought had barely formed when the clinic door, a warped slab of dark-stained wood, exploded inward with a splintering shriek. Patriarch Shen Jue, the elder champion who had, just hours ago, been a paragon of tyrannical might, stumbled through the wreckage. His grand robes, once pristine, were shredded, displaying angry crimson gashes across his forearms and a deep laceration above his left eye. His usually imperious face was streaked with soot and tears, veins bulging red across his sclera, fixed on Kou Nanshan with frantic intensity. “Master… Master Kou!” Shen Jue babbled, collapsing onto a nearby examination cot, heedless of the dust and grime. He clutched his side, a ragged gasp escaping his lips. “They… they took her! The Tribunals! The Heavenly Tribunals! To the Ascendant Cusp! They called her the… the ‘Weeping Demoness’ and said… said immediate execution! For the Mind-Shattering Art!” Kou Nanshan lowered his clipboard, his expression unchanging. “Execution, you say?” His gaze drifted to the shattered door. “Such poor structural integrity. The academy truly has fallen far.” Shen Jue pushed himself up, his voice cracking. “Don’t you understand? Your disciple! My new life coach! They said the Sky-Scourge Decree! She’ll be… purged! Flayed into elemental dust for the amusement of the Celestial Judges!” He clutched his head. “It was all my fault! My neglectful father! If only I’d learned to process my abandonment issues earlier, none of this would have happened!” He dissolved into a fresh torrent of sobs, the sound raw and uninhibited, entirely unlike the controlled anguish of a battle-scarred patriarch. Kou Nanshan sighed, a long, put-upon exhalation that seemed to deflate the very air in the room. He rubbed his temples, a familiar dull throb beginning behind his eyes. “The Sky-Scourge Decree, hmm? For… emotional processing? The Ascendancy’s legal system truly is a marvel of overreach. A simple infraction of public decorum, perhaps, but a capital offense? Utterly disproportionate.” He clicked his pen, the small sound jarring in the midst of Shen Jue’s hysteria. “And such paperwork! The forms required to appeal a Sky-Scourge Decree are notoriously complex. Hours of meticulous detail work for a mere procedural error.” He thought of his empty tea mug. He thought of the floors, still uncleaned. Suo Chuyan was the only disciple he’d ever had who consistently followed his instructions regarding optimal steeping temperatures and times. The girl was, undeniably, essential for the efficient operation of his personal tea service. “This simply will not do,” Kou Nanshan declared, pushing himself out of the wicker chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if each action was a monumental effort. He walked to a dusty, chipped wooden cabinet, pulling open its lowest drawer. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed, brittle scrolls and rusted aura-needles, lay a thick, black stone tablet. It was roughly octagonal, about the size of his palm, and seemed to drink the meager basement light, leaving only shadow where it rested. A faint, metallic tang, like old blood, clung to its surface. It had served as an excellent paperweight for his salary disbursement forms for the better part of a decade. He picked it up. The token was surprisingly heavy, cool against his calloused skin. Intricate, almost microscopic carvings writhed across its obsidian face—stylized mountains bleeding into a torrent of shattered stars. He dusted off a thin film of grime, revealing a deeper, almost iridescent sheen. This was a remnant of a shattered epoch, dense with dormant catastrophe. “Master Kou? What is that?” Shen Jue croaked, momentarily distracted from his sorrow. A primal instinct, deeper than his cultivated arrogance, screamed at him to flee from the object in Kou Nanshan’s hand. Kou Nanshan ignored him, placing the token carefully into an inner pocket of his robe. He then retrieved his clipboard, checked his pen’s ink level, and picked up a dented, old thermos. He uncorked it, sniffed, and grimaced. Cold, stale water. He’d have to refill it at the main well, a tiresome detour. This entire situation was an inconvenience of the highest order. “Right,” Kou Nanshan announced, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “It appears I must address this administrative oversight personally. The Heavenly Tribunals need a lesson in proper jurisdictional boundaries and the efficient allocation of judicial resources.” He paused at the ruined doorframe, surveying the grimy corridor that led to the school’s main courtyard. “And perhaps, a stern lecture on the importance of not interrupting one’s tea schedule.” He stepped out of the ward, his soft, worn boots scuffing quietly against the rough stone floor. As he emerged into the open air of the Obsidian-Tortoise Seminary, a microscopic, almost imperceptible tremor rippled through the fabric of reality. It was less a release of power and more a momentary, involuntary relaxation of the millennia-old seals he maintained, a mere loosening of a single, forgotten knot in an infinitely complex weave. But that infinitesimal slip was enough. The sky above the Cang-Luo Ascendancy, a vast expanse of serene, cloudless blue just moments before, began to churn. Wisps of dark energy coiled and expanded, rapidly consuming the sapphire hue. The light shifted, growing dim, then darkening further, until the entire firmament above the sprawling empire took on a bruised, apocalyptic purple, streaked with veins of angry, crackling crimson. A low, resonant hum, like the distant thrum of a world-ending bell, echoed across the silent lands. The air thickened with crushing weight that bent primeval trees and brought cultivators across every district stumbling to their knees. And all Kou Nanshan did was adjust his grip on his thermos, a faint frown marring his placid features. The spring water would be chilly now.

The Subpoena of the Heavens