The air atop the Iron-Thorn mountain had grown thin, not from altitude, but from the sheer weight of murderous intent.
Sect Master Thorne stood at the precipice of the High Sanctum, his eyes no longer silver, but a murky, turbulent grey. The internal damage he had suffered during the aborted "Grafting" was a dull, pulsing ache in his Spirit Soul, a constant reminder of the blind scholar's defiance. He did not speak, but the Qi radiating from his body was like a physical pressure, causing the stone tiles at his feet to spider-web and crack.
Behind him, a silence more profound than any graveyard settled over the hall. One by one, the shadows deepened as the fifteen Elders of the Iron-Thorn Sect arrived. These were the pillars of the sect, men and women who had spent centuries tempering their bodies and spirits in the mountain's metallic essence. Most were at the peak of the Third Realm (Core Condensation), with three Elders having being in the early stage Fourth Realm (Spirit Soul) elder jiro being one of them.
Their collective presence was an affront to the natural order. As they stood together, the atmospheric pressure in the Sanctum surged. The iron-wood pillars of the hall groaned, the ancient timber weeping beads of sap under the weight of their combined Qi. Outside, the sky over the North Spire began to churn, clouds of metallic dust swirling into a dark, oppressive vortex that blotted out the sun.
"The guest has forgotten his place," Thorne said, his voice a low, grinding rasp that vibrated in the chests of everyone present. "He was invited to heal a King, yet he seeks to hollow out the mountain from within. The 'Soul-Grave Marrow' is a highly valuable resource. I will not allow it to be tainted by a blind wanderer from the Wastes."
Elder Jiro, his own metallic Qi flickering like a jagged blade, stepped forward. "Sect Master, the boy is an anomaly. His foundation is strange—quiet, like a deep well. But a well can be filled with earth. Give the word, and we shall bury him."
"We go together," Thorne commanded.
The procession began. It was not a hurried rush, but a slow, deliberate march of executioners. As the sixteen masters descended toward the Pavilion of the Waning Moon, the environment itself seemed to recoil. The stone steps beneath their feet didn't just crack; they were ground into powder. The spirit-grass lining the garden paths withered and turned to grey ash, its vitality snuffed out by the sheer density of the metallic Qi radiating from the Elders.
The "Thorn-Heart" formation—the mountain's defensive array—began to hum in sympathetic resonance. Every step the group took sent a rhythmic tremor through the North Spire, a pulse of killing intent that caused the windows of the lower disciple quarters to shatter simultaneously. Birds fell from the sky, their small hearts failing under the crushing gravity of the masters' auras.
When they finally reached the bridge leading to the pavilion, the air had become a distorted haze. The cold wind of Eos-Prime could not enter this space; it was blocked by a wall of sharp, invisible needles.
Thorne stopped at the threshold of the bridge. His gaze fixed on the quiet, ink-scented villa. To any common cultivator, the pavilion looked peaceful. To Thorne, it looked like a black hole—a silent, empty space that refused to acknowledge his majesty.
"Wei Chen!" Thorne's voice boomed, a sonic shockwave that tore the roof tiles from the nearby guard stations and sent them spinning into the abyss. "The Iron-Thorn gave you a roof and a stone. You gave us treachery. Come out and face the judgement of the mountain, or I will collapse this cliffside and let the void have your remains."
The silence from the pavilion was the only reply. It was a heavy, scholarly silence that seemed to mock the thundering power of the sixteen masters. The bridge beneath Thorne's boots began to groan, the heavy iron chains straining as the Sect Master's anger began to bleed into the very foundations of the earth.