Madame Mute - or rather, the Silent Maiden - glared coldly. Her delicate hand flicked toward Trình Viễn Chí, and with a sudden grasp, something invisible was yanked from his body. A translucent version of him, unmistakably his soul, flew into her hand.
She clenched it by the neck.
Behind her, an embroidery needle hovered silently, beginning to carve glowing script into the air:
"What did you just do?"
Trình Viễn Chí's soul rolled its eyes and gave a crooked smirk. His dreams of climbing high had collapsed in an instant under one move - Peach Blossoms from Three Lives. That final blow had completely unhinged him.
He seemed to have accepted death, and so had discarded fear. A man without fear, without anything left to lose, becomes a madman.
Trình Viễn Chí was such a man.
He had once stopped at nothing to get what he wanted.
Now, all that remained in him was hatred. If he had to die, then he would make sure she - the one who had undone him - would suffer too. Regret. Guilt. A lifetime of torment. That would be his revenge.
Through twisted lips, he forced a final mockery:
"A Spray of Plum Blossom from Yesterday... its heart lies in the 'Yesterday'. You - you're strong. But you'll pay... for underestimating me."
"Hah! Regret it, you two-legged cattle!"
The Silent Maiden stared back without a word.
That murderous glare, coming from a girl barely eight years old, was more terrifying than any curse. The embroidery needle behind her glowed faintly, trembling as if with rage.
Then, with a sharp movement, it stabbed directly into the soul's forehead.
The impact was merciless. It split Trình Viễn Chí's soul apart, blasting out two separate fragments - a weeping child and a sneering old man. His remaining form trembled like a candle flickering in the wind, distorted and broken.
More script shimmered into being:
"By my calculations, had you not crossed paths with me, you could have lived 350 years."
"For each day of your life, from your first breath to your last, I will pierce you once with my needle."
"Three hundred and fifty years of agony - delivered in a single moment."
"Enjoy."
The last word had barely faded when the soul of Trình Viễn Chí began to twist and scream in unimaginable pain. His cries seared into the minds of every witness at the market that day.
From that moment forward, no one dared cross anyone from the Village of Sickos.
The Silent Maiden flicked her sleeve. All the livestock and goods in the market vanished into her robe. Then, without a word, she grabbed Lạc Trần by the neck and dashed toward the specialized dome house built for the Village of Sickos.
Trình Viễn Chí's writhing soul was dragged behind her like a ragged kite.
---The separator line make a triumphant return---
That day, the Deaf Man's business had been slow.
He had been experimenting with iron hearts, trying to enhance his iron oxen and plowmen. But it had backfired. The new hearts gave them too much force, and their joints cracked apart. He'd sent a few of them out for trade, but after they collapsed within minutes, he shut it down.
He was about to return to the village for more tinkering when the Silent Maiden burst in, carrying Lạc Trần.
Sensing something was off, the Deaf Man tossed aside the iron jaw he was inspecting and sat up.
He didn't need her to speak. He could already feel the corrupted chi twisting inside Lạc Trần's chest.
"What happened to Sick Boy? Wait? You really threw hands today?"
She gestured behind her.
Trình Viễn Chí's soul now floated in a grotesque form - a child's frame, an old man's face, and the clothes of a middle-aged scholar. Time seemed to have fractured him.
More script appeared:
"The bastard planted a fire seed of the Duskhollow Flame into Lạc Trần's heart."
When she had pierced his soul, she'd also pulled out his memories. Now she knew exactly what had been done.
A fire seed from the Duskhollow Flame.
In the land of Linh Khư, there existed a class of flames beyond nature - celestial flames. One, for instance, danced like lotus petals on water. Another, stone-shaped, could melt entire mountains. One rose from graveyards, turning corpses into murderers.
The Duskhollow Flame was one of the most feared among them.
Said to have been born from the dying wrath of a fallen god, it burned gray-white, feeding on vitality. Once touched by Duskhollow, worm-shaped sparks would crawl across one's body, burrowing into bone to scorch the marrow, piercing flesh to desiccate blood. Only those who have reached immortality could survive its kiss.
These celestial flames never truly died.
The fire seeds were their immortal core. Suppressing them were possible; extinguishing them weren't. Even the gods themself couldn't erase the celestial flames. Given time, they would return - endlessly.
The Cloudspike Sect was no fool.
They'd weighed their options carefully.
If Lạc Trần could be captured, they'd interrogate him for the secrets he brought back from the Dry Sea.
If not, they would destroy him with the Duskhollow Flame.
Lạc Trần's state upon emerging from the Dry Sea had been too terrifying, too bizarre. Cloudspike Sect dared not let such an enemy live.
If the darkness of the Dry Sea couldn't kill Lạc Trần, then they'd let the Duskhollow Flame burn him for all eternity.
In short: to deal with Lạc Trần - a genius they'd destroyed, a monster of their own making - Cloudspike Sect had gone all in. Even something as rare as the Duskhollow fire seed had been thrown into play.
The Silent Maiden wrote:
"Can you fix it?"
The script hovered before the Deaf Man.
He scratched his head, eyes narrowing.
"It's tough. But I'll try. You know how these flames are - they don't play nice."
He pulled out a blackened pan from somewhere unknown. The moment it hit the floor, it began to glow. Ancient lines formed along its surface, depicting scenes from a bygone paradise - men tilling fields, beasts roaming wild.
A single flame rose from the pan. It danced.
It shifted shapes - first a farmer, then a deer, then a tiger, then an eagle.
He opened his leather pouch - a spatial artifact. Out tumbled fragments of his humanoid plowmen: limbs, heads, torsos. They fell toward the pan and shrank to tiny sizes as they neared it.
The flame reached out. Within moments, the iron was molten.
The blacksmith stirred the liquid, grabbed his hammer, and struck it one hundred times.
Each strike released bursts of chi, like fish leaping from fire.
After the last blow, he reached into the pan and pulled out a sheet of iron - thin as a cicada's wing, light as breath.
He peeled off the smoldering chest plate from Lạc Trần, revealing the burning iron heart underneath. It glowed red, tendrils of smoke snaking out like whispers of death.
The Deaf Man laid the thin sheet over the heart.
"Did it work?"
The Silent Maiden asked with three glowing words.
The blacksmith exhaled.
Wiping his brow, he muttered:
"No idea."