The Ceremony of Fangs
At dawn, the disciples assembled in the grand courtyard. The mist had thinned, but it clung stubbornly to the banners, making the black silk seem alive. Drums pounded a slow rhythm, echoing against the cliffs.
Sect Master Hei Zong sat on a throne carved from serpent bones, his face hidden in shadow by the rising sun. Elder Mo Xuan stood beside him, his hands folded, his smile thin and watchful.
One by one, jars of venom were brought forth—poisons collected from the pits, from venomous insects, from flowers that bloomed only under moonlight. The jars were uncorked, the fumes drifting into the air.
Each disciple stepped forward, knelt, and dipped their fingers into the poison before smearing it across their lips. A ritual of defiance: If poison cannot kill you, then you may kill others.
When Shen Lian stepped forward, whispers rippled through the crowd.
"The devourer…"
"He'll drain us all if they let him fight."
"Elder Mo Xuan protects him. That's the only reason he still breathes."
Shen Lian ignored them. He dipped his fingers into a jar of serpent venom. It burned like fire, yet when he touched it to his lips, the heat sank into him, feeding the lotus inside. He felt its petals tremble with hunger.
Mo Xuan's eyes glittered faintly. Hei Zong scowled, but said nothing.
The drums stopped. The Sect Master raised his hand.
"The Poison Fang Tournament begins," he declared.
⸻
The Rivals
The disciples parted into groups, whispering of who would face who, of favorites and dark horses.
Three names rose above the rest:
Zhao Yunhai — elder cousin of Zhao Kun. Taller, stronger, and far more talented, his qi already touched the peak of Foundation. His strikes were like coiling pythons—slow at first, then inescapable. He carried both strength and a vendetta.
"If Kun is dead or crippled, I'll repay it in full."
Wei Jing — a lean, cold-eyed girl with a talent for poisons unmatched among outer disciples. She brewed venoms in secret that even some elders feared to taste. Her touch was death; her ambition burned quietly.
"The sect needs no monster. Only a queen of poisons."
Jiang Fei — son of a former inner elder, handsome and arrogant, wielding a serpent-bone spear. His mastery of the Serpent Coil Technique was said to be flawless. He already saw himself as future Sect Master.
"This 'devourer' is a joke. I'll make him kneel before me."
Shen Lian listened from the edge, silent. He could feel their eyes weighing him, measuring his worth not as a rival but as prey—or as something to destroy for glory.
⸻
The Plotting
Later, in the shadows of the herb garden, Zhao Yunhai gathered with Wei Jing and Jiang Fei. Their voices were low, but venomous.
"The cripple grows too bold," Jiang Fei sneered. "Better we crush him early, before he gains more strength."
Wei Jing's lips curved faintly, but her eyes were sharp. "Careful. Mo Xuan protects him. If he falls too quickly, it will look suspicious. Let him bleed first. Let him drain others. Then we strike, when he's weakest."
Zhao Yunhai's fists clenched. "I don't care if Mo Xuan watches. Kun is my blood. I'll take Shen Lian's heart and grind it into antidote powder."
The three clasped hands briefly, their pact sealed in poison and hatred.
From the shadows beyond, Su Rou listened, her stomach twisting. Her brush hand trembled, the scroll clutched against her chest. Every word would be expected in her report to Mo Xuan—but if she told him, Shen Lian would be thrown into the elder's schemes.
And if she didn't… Shen Lian might die.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
⸻
The Elder's Calculations
That night, in his chambers, Mo Xuan sipped bitter tea as Su Rou delivered her scroll.
He read it in silence. She had written of the pact, of Zhao Yunhai's thirst for vengeance, of Wei Jing's cunning, of Jiang Fei's arrogance.
But she had not written the most important thing: that they planned to kill Shen Lian together.
Mo Xuan closed the scroll, his smile faint.
"You omitted," he said softly.
Su Rou froze.
The elder's eyes glinted. "But omission can be useful. Sometimes the snake's prey must think it hunts freely."
He rose, turning toward the pits below. "Let them plot. The devourer must be tested. Either he will bloom… or he will wither. Either way, the Hall gains."
⸻
Cliffhanger
In his storehouse, Shen Lian sat in silence. The lotus pulsed, four petals glowing faintly inside him.
He felt their hunger stir, their whispers sharpening as though they too anticipated the coming feast.
Fight. Drink. Kill.
His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.
"Soon," he whispered. "We'll see who devours who."
And across the sect, his rivals sharpened their blades, brewed their poisons, and whispered his name with venom.
The stage was set.