Just moments ago, the village chief had felt untouchable.
Within Phù Trúc, no one could challenge him. Not even Tô Mạc Tà, whose strikes could rival a Crowned Sovereign. Not even Kim Giác Tử and Ngân Giác Tử with their rare artifacts. None of them could shake the ground beneath his King's Domain.
The only thing he truly feared - the one thing that made his bones run cold - was the shadow of the Dry Sea.
And yet, he'd never expected this.
That Lạc Trần would possess celestial fires - that alone was shocking. But that the boy would dare burn the divine bamboo?
Unthinkable.
The bamboo was the village's last defense. Without it, the darkness would surge in, swallowing all: himself, Tô Mạc Tà, the villagers, the Taoist brothers - even Lạc Trần. No one would escape.
He couldn't understand it.
Why would anyone choose mutual destruction? Dragging rice and weeds down into one pile of rot? Even Tô Mạc Tà and the Taoists hadn't dared attack the bamboo.
If it had been him, he would've compromised. Yielded. Crawled on his knees if he had to. What shame was there in a crippled mortal bowing to a cultivator half a step into the Imperial realm?
That was why he'd left the divine bamboo unguarded, trusting it to hold off the likes of Tô Mạc Tà.
But then, amid the chaos of their battle. Villagers scattered, buildings torn apart. Lạc Trần, thrown down at the outset, had crawled toward the bamboo.
It was already burning.
Smoke rose, black and thick. In it twisted the screaming faces of the dead, dragged into the yawning blackness of the Dry Sea.
"You little bastard! I'll grind your flesh into paste, crush your bones to dust! I'll wipe your name off this earth!"
The chief's roar was more than fury - it was panic. Panic deep enough to break his mind.
He struck.
A full-force blow, all his chi behind it. The earth trembled. The air split. Reality cracked like thin glass.
Phù Trúc's fish pond shattered at the edges, void seeping through the fractures.
And Lạc Trần?
He took the blow head-on.
The sky collapsed on him. His body flung back like a broken doll. His iron heart burst from his chest, splintering into dozens of jagged pieces.
Sploosh.
He fell into the water.
"Lạc Trần!"
Tô Mạc Tà lunged - but too late. The shattered space dragged at her limbs. She reached for him, missed by a breath, and watched as he disappeared into the darkness below.
Without hesitation, she dove.
Kim Giác Tử and Ngân Giác Tử followed behind.
The water was frigid.
Beneath the surface, all was shadow.
Only the flickering flame of the burning bamboo lit the depths, a lone candle in a starless night.
Tô Mạc Tà swam through the gloom, eyes wide, searching.
At the pond's bottom lay a floor of bleached bones.
A whole graveyard - skulls, ribs, femurs - tiled across the mud like mosaic. Horrifying.
On their surfaces grew clusters of pale eggs, shaped like screaming faces.
Silver fish darted between them, no longer than a child's hand.
Too small, perhaps, for any villager to have bothered cooking.
Their eyes - too human - turned to her, pleading.
But she ignored them.
She only searched for Lạc Trần.
The pond was shallow - barely five meters deep, twenty wide. No underwater current. He had to be here.
But there was nothing. Only fragments of his shattered heart.
Lạc Trần was gone.
Gone.
Unbelievable - but real.
The bones began to stir. They shifted, tangled, lunged.
An avalanche of white.
Tens of thousands of skeletal arms reached out, their clattering echoing like drums through the water.
Tô Mạc Tà hesitated for a second.
Then let go.
She didn't resist. Let the bones take her.
Phù Trúc was already lost to the the Dry Sea's darkness. Maybe, just maybe, the bones offered a path.
She gambled.
---the separator line planned a date with its partner---
When she opened her eyes, she stood in a courtyard.
Two stone paths crossed beneath her feet - one running east to west, the other north to south - paved with immaculate square tiles. Ornate lotus light carved from stone marked the intersections.
The courtyard divided into four enclosed gardens, each housing a single tree - bizarre and unnatural. Every tree was split down the middle: one half lush and eerily vibrant, the other withered and lifeless, as if rooted on the threshold between life and death itself.
Behind her stood a massive bronze bell. Covered in moss, rust and cracks, it would be a miracle that it could toll at all.
Ahead, a shrine with doors slightly ajar.
To her left and right: closed wooden gates.
Two armored figures were carved into each door, tusks bared, weapons gripped tightly in their hands, the third eye on their foreheads staring with unblinking intensity. Tô Mạc Tà could only assume they were some kind of gatekeeping deities. She vaguely recalled seeing similar figures at the Pagoda of Inner Peace during a visit to little Tathāgata, though their names escaped her.
She removed a small bell from her wrist, placed it gently on the ground, and pushed open the right-hand door.
The stone was cold to the touch. Unnaturally, eerily cold, like pressing her hand against a block of sentient, malevolent ice. A shiver ran down her spine as she swallowed hard. Something had happened here. Something grim and lingering.
Tô Mạc Tà could feel it etched into her bones, as if the courtyard itself carried the weight of a buried omen.
Beyond was another courtyard.
Identical. The same paths. The same gardens. The same bell and shrine.
She walked to the center.
The little bell she had set down now lay before her.
The door ahead of her slammed shut. Behind her came the groan of old wood.
She turned.
A pink skeletal hand reached out and pulled the left door shut.Bones with that rosy hue weren't something one encountered every day - but at that moment, Tô Mạc Tà had no time to dwell on it.This courtyard had to be caught in some kind of spatial loop.
Enter from the right.
Exit from the left.
End up back where you started.
"Where are we?" came the voices of Kim Giác Tử and Ngân Giác Tử behind her.
"I don't know," she said, frowning. "Likely still inside the Dry Sea."
Now that the Taoist brothers were present, she decided to postpone any further investigation. Turning her back on them would be nothing short of reckless.
Moments later, the village chief and several villagers stumbled through as well.
The chief saw the three of them 0 and laughed.
"Heaven hasn't abandoned me after all! Even the darkness of the Dry Sea can't kill me!"
Then, with a sneer: "But you three? I fear your luck's run out."
Kim Giác Tử stepped back warily. Ngân Giác Tử flicked open his folding fan and said:
"You've already killed Lạc Trần. Isn't that enough? Why must you come for us?"
"Enough?" the chief snapped. "One cripple can't make up for decades of planning!"
He raised his hand - but before he could strike, the bell rang.
A sonorous clang echoed through the courtyard.
A voice followed: "No fighting allowed here."
"Tricks! Empty illusions! You think I'm afraid?"
The chief barked the words - but didn't attack.
Instead, he lowered his hands, clasped them behind his head, and began to whistle a jaunty tune.
He was... indeed... afraid.
Tô Mạc Tà clapped slowly.
"Impressive. So that's how one survives the Khô Hải. By being a coward."
She laughed, sharp and cold.
Surely, verbal barbs didn't count as violence.
Then the bell rang again.
The lotus lamp flared to life - green fire burning in their mouths.
A voice proclaimed:
"Welcome to the Pagoda of Thunder Clap. Esteemed guest, you are about to be introduced to its sacred disciplines. Follow them without fail - or face dire consequences. The first of the Eight Monastic Disciplines: Lust."
The side doors creaked open.
From the left came a line of young monks - bare-shouldered, robed loosely, muscles chiseled, skin pale and smooth, smiles gentle as spring rain.
Some village women nearly swooned on the spot.
From the right came a procession of nuns - hair bound high, veils trailing like mist, cassocks falling just low enough to hint at collarbones, their gazes both shy and smoldering.
Even the strange brothers, with their curious tastes, paused.
The villagers stared, slack-jawed.
Tô Mạc Tà turned to the chief and smirked.
"So it still works at your age? I'm surprised."
A tent had begun to rise in his trousers.
She added, tone dry, "Tell me - am I less appealing than those nuns? Or do you actually prefer the monks?"
She wasn't interested in the answer.
She only saw the sweat beading on his brow - the way his breath caught. Whatever spell this was, he was struggling.
A charm technique. Subtle but insidious.
If there was ever a time to break him - under the law of 'no violence' - it was now.
So she kept talking.