Cold rain pelted the flagstones across the lower terrace. Duanmu Jue coughed, a wet, rattling sound that brought forth a spray of black, viscous blood onto the collar of his faded cultivation robe. The metallic tang filled his mouth, a familiar herald of the curse gnawing at his vitals. Around him, three students of the Talon Sect, vermilion trim bright against their sodden cloaks, sneered.
“Look at our host clan's prized invalid,” the tallest said, fingers hovering over his pommel. “Can’t even stand straight without painting the ground with his own filth.”
“Soon he will not crawl at all,” the girl beside him added with a jeer. “They say the Pale Miasma claims all the weak. Or perhaps the Void Rot claims them first.”
Jue ignored them, calculating the tremor in his fingers against the sluggish circulation near his heart. Logic dictated his immediate survival. His curse, a parasitic affliction since birth, slowly siphoned his life force, but it also offered a unique, if unstable, affinity. Ambient qi hummed against the steady internal seepage.
“Enough chatter,” the swordsman snapped, lunging forward. The polished steel of his Tidal Severer Scimitar whistled, aiming for Jue’s throat. It was a swift, practiced strike, meant to decapitate. But Jue had anticipated the precise angle, the minute shift of Feng Yao’s weight. His own movements were economical, devoid of wasted effort. He raised his arm, not to block, but to parry. The meat of his forearm, hardened by petrified bone beneath skin, took the edge with a sharp fracture.
The sky-iron weapon jarred, fissures tearing along its spine until steel burst into fragments. Shards spun through the rain, one embedding itself in a nearby stone pillar with a dull *thunk*.
“What sort of trick was that?” the girl stammered, backing into the rain beside the lanky youth.
Jue didn’t answer. His curse was a ravenous void, constantly seeking sustenance. With Feng Yao’s blade shattered, his guard was down. Jue extended his hand, palm open, not touching, but close enough. The vigor within the swordsman's chest guttered, a thin thread siphoning through the gap between them into Jue’s meridians.
The swordsman tumbled backward, knees buckling as his skin went gray. “My core... my qi!”
Jue felt a brief, invigorating surge. The black blood in his mouth lessened, his internal tremors stabilising. His eyes, usually distant, sharpened, calculating the fastest way to incapacitate them all. He was not here to play. He was here to win.
Seeing her companion drop, the girl lunged with twin daggers; Jue stood firm, measuring her arc. When she was within arm’s reach, he sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her past him. A quick, precise pivot, and his hand was on her back. Her qi spilled outward, cold and immediate, dropping her hard onto the cobbles as her blades slid away.
Guo Ping, meanwhile, lay beneath a toppled cart of steamed turnip buns, which had been caught in the initial crossfire. His eyes were squeezed shut, his body limp as a wet rag doll. A single grease-stained meat bun rested beside his cheek while he held his breath. A shard of iron stood wedged in the mortar three inches from his skull, but not a toe flinched.
The third youth scrambled back across the stones, breath hitching in his teeth. He scrambled back, tripping over a loose stone. “Don’t touch me! Keep away, demon!”
“Demon?” Jue said evenly. “Only arithmetic.” He took a single step towards Jin He, and the lanky youth yelped, scrabbling away like a frightened crab. Water hammered the surrounding stonework in the silence that followed.
Boots splashed in the archway as another man emerged, robes of heavy scarlet threaded with gold. His face, usually a mask of arrogant superiority, was contorted with cold fury. He surveyed his humiliated disciples, then fixed his gaze on Jue. “You dare touch my people, cripple? You dare shatter Feng Yao’s blade?” His voice dripped with menace. “You will pay for this insolence with more than just black blood.”
The heir stepped smoothly across the flagstones, his palm wrapped in a blood-colored sheen. The strike arrived with heavy momentum, aimed directly to collapse Jue's chest cavity.
Jue guided the impact aside with an angled sweep, binding the incoming force into an unstable loop. The blow struck empty air, the contained force snapping backward along its own path. A muffled groan broke from the heir's throat as his channels tore, the scarlet glow sputtering out. His face was a mask of shock, then burning hatred.
“You cur—what is this?” the heir hissed, clutching his ribcage. He dragged his companions upright and retreated toward the gate, boots clattering through the deluge.
In Jue’s inner pocket, a smooth, dark stone pagoda, no larger than his thumb, pulsed with a faint, cold hum. A resonant voice sounded within his skull: *“A reckless trick, boy. Your affliction festers deeper. Something below these petrified arches stirs with an appetite of its own.”*
Jue settled the talisman back into his tunic. He felt the residual tremor in his chest, the lingering drain. The momentary stability was fleeting. The Supreme Elixir, the only true cure, was his ultimate goal. “Keep your omens, Master Beichen,” Jue projected silently. “The Crucible yields the Supreme Elixir. Nothing else preserves my life.”
He nudged the edge of the tipped cart with a sodden boot. “Stand up, Guo Ping. They ran.” Guo Ping, after a moment, stirred, groaning theatrically, then meticulously wiped the dumpling residue from his face. He gave Jue a wide-eyed, innocent look.
“Oh, Brother Jue! What happened? I must have fainted from the sudden commotion!”
Jue straightened without an answer. Above, giant fossilized ribs arched into the gray gloom, vanishing into the Pale Miasma. Beneath those calcified arches, hundreds clawed for advancement; he needed only to outlast their greed.
Beyond the outer boundary, the fleeing heir abruptly halted. The rage faded, replaced by an unnerving placidity. A smile, slow and unnatural, stretched his lips. His pupils dilated until the irises disappeared into darkness. Looking back toward the skeletal bastions, a rasp of layered throats spoke through his mouth: “The vessel approaches.”