The Altar’s Crimson Pill

Shi Xin’s expression was grave as he stepped forward, producing a long-necked jade vial nearly transparent and no larger than the palm of his hand. Raising his hand, he turned the mouth of the bottle downward toward the corpses of the two brothers, his lips moving in silent incantation.

Suddenly, a chill filled the air. Seeing this, Qin Chuan grew cautious, stepping back half a pace and holding his sword across his body. To his astonishment, the brothers’ dried blood began to boil, even that which had seeped into the cracks between the stone slabs. It was a scene both uncanny and horrifying.

It was as though water had come to a furious boil, the lid unable to restrain it. The stone seemed to melt, and from within emerged countless blood-red insects, squirming forth as if enticed, converging hungrily upon the brothers’ remains. The creatures crept into wounds, nostrils, and even the eyeless sockets, gnawing insidiously from within, stripping flesh from bone.

The stench of blood was suffocating, enough to make one retch. The remains were soon entirely buried beneath a writhing mass of blood-colored insects, not a scrap of flesh exposed to the air. In less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, the insects, having devoured every morsel, began to consume one another, writhing and swarming as if in a dark ritual.

At last, only a single insect remained. The jade vial in Shi Xin’s hand trembled, and with a subtle arc of light, the final creature was drawn inside. Shi Xin’s face was taut with concentration, fine beads of sweat covering his brow, the night air damp and cold as it brushed past.

Whether the secret lay with the jade vial or Shi Xin’s sorcery was unclear. The dark red parasite, once within its vessel, quieted, spinning a silken cocoon like a young silkworm, encasing itself. The threads were so fine that, under the moonlight, they seemed insubstantial as smoke. Through the translucent vial, one could almost make out a heart, no bigger than a bean, slowly beating within.

A sharp crack resounded as, at the very moment the bloodworm sealed itself, Shi Xin hurled the vial forcefully to the ground. It shattered with a clear, ringing note.

In Qin Chuan’s astonished gaze, the silken threads enveloping the blood-red chrysalis unraveled the instant the jade vial broke. The cocoon dissolved into an arc of light, which drifted away, drawn inexorably toward the rear mountain.

“Follow it!” Shi Xin commanded, not looking back. He pressed forward, chasing after the arc of light without hesitation.

He’s certainly trusting, Qin Chuan thought with a cold laugh, the notion flickering across his mind. Not daring to delay, he sheathed his Moonlit Sword, mustered his spirit, and followed closely behind.

At that moment, Wan Renmian sat cross-legged upon a rush mat, gazing at the flickering moths in the stone chamber’s firelight. He reached out absently to snuff one out, but his hand paused mid-air and a sinister smile crept across his face.

The moth, oblivious, fluttered straight into the flame and was gone after a feeble beat of its wings.

Shi Xin was surprised—he hadn’t expected Qin Chuan to keep up so easily. The blood thread moved with astonishing speed, and only by unleashing his spiritual energy could Qin Chuan barely keep pace.

Neither man noticed the figure lurking in the shadows of the bandit stronghold, watching as they disappeared into the brush of the rear mountain, eyes burning with anticipation.

“Hiding for over a decade, and at last, the harvest comes.” Cloaked in a voluminous hood, the observer radiated a presence as deep and fathomless as an abyss.

The Butcher’s Lair perched midway up Putuo Mountain, the terrain neither steep nor gentle, the spiritual energy there thin, dotted mostly with small patches of woods and undergrowth. Beyond lay the rear mountain itself; the blood thread drifted toward a stand of scrub at the summit.

The grove was peculiar. A dozen years prior, it had been a sizable forest, great trees standing in pairs, their trunks requiring two men’s arms to encircle. But in the years since, most had withered and rotted. At first, the villagers thought it some blight or pestilence, but repeated investigations found nothing amiss. In time, Wan Renmian forbade anyone from venturing there. Now, only the stunted and sparse remained.

Yet the unremarkable puddle from ten years before had grown into a modest pond.

Shi Xin gazed at the thicket, a fleeting fierceness in his eyes. Senior Brother, after so many years without blood, you must have grown careless.

Behind him, Qin Chuan feigned exhaustion, gradually widening the gap between them until he was more than thirty feet away.

Both hands were positioned with care: his left hovered but half an inch from the Yin-Yang Thunder Pearl, ready to snatch and throw it in a blink should anything happen. His right rested on his storage pouch—though the absence of spiritual sense slowed his draw, the Thunder Pearl’s destructive power offered ample compensation.

They advanced with utmost caution, making barely a sound save for the wind sighing through leaves and the mournful chirring of crickets.

Once within the grove, the moonlight dimmed, but the pond ahead was still faintly visible. All around was barren earth and scattered stones—not even weeds grew here.

The blood thread, now a streak of light, vanished into the pond without so much as a ripple, and for a long moment, nothing stirred—as if nothing had happened at all.

Even Shi Xin looked perplexed; this was not what he had anticipated.

Just as he moved to investigate, a surge of red water bubbled up from the depths, swiftly spreading across the surface. In an instant, the entire pool was boiling violently, as if in eruption.

Meanwhile, Wan Renmian, who had been meditating with closed eyes, suddenly snapped them open, turning to the side as if he could see through stone. Rising, he approached a wooden box on a nearby table, gently blowing away the dust and murmuring with a sigh, “It’s been ten years, old friend.”

...

Within the thicket, besides Qin Chuan and Shi Xin, another figure was present, his aura so meticulously suppressed that not a trace escaped his body. Concealed beneath a black hood, he was all but invisible among the undergrowth. His gaze burned as he watched the churning spring, his heart pounding.

Qin Chuan, too, was adept at masking his presence—should he activate the Dust Pill, his concealment would be equally perfect.

“What now? The aura unleashed by the boiling pool is too strong—Wan Renmian will surely sense it. I give it less than the time of an incense stick before he arrives.”

“My inheritance consists of mere fragments. I cannot predict what happens next—just hold your ground. If I die, you’ll never get your antidote!” Shi Xin did not turn, his eyes fixed on the seething spring, straining for any clue. He spoke no falsehood; he was half guessing himself.

“If things really turn deadly, I won’t care about any antidote,” Qin Chuan replied coolly.

No sooner were the words spoken than they sensed someone swiftly approaching. In mere heartbeats, the newcomer was upon them—Wan Renmian himself.

His expression darkened at the sight of the roiling pool. “Why have you activated the Blood Pool? I told you the time was not yet right!”

A twisted grin contorted Shi Xin’s face. “Do you really think I’m still the same Shi Xin who’d be fooled by your words, Senior Brother? You meant to use me as a living catalyst, just another sacrifice to be dissolved in this pool!”

Wan Renmian’s expression shifted. “How did you find out?”

“Years ago at Tianxin Sect, I came upon fragments of an esoteric tradition—enough to glimpse the truth! If I consume the Blood Pill first, I can break through to the innate realm!”

Before he could finish, the boiling pool abruptly cooled, bubbles bursting as countless threads erupted forth, twining together into a rope as thick as a thumb.

Shi Xin’s eyes flashed. As the rope began to sink back into the water, he seized it with both hands, calling over his shoulder, “Guard Wan Renmian for me!”

The moment his hands closed around it, it was as if he’d seized a black hole—the strength drained from his body. His expression changed as he poured spiritual power into his arms, summoning a surge of force just to hold on.

All around, only the dim, murky water could be seen. But Shi Xin alone perceived, beneath the surface, a sacrificial altar—upon it, something dreadful: the Blood Pill.

Qin Chuan’s thoughts flickered. If he wished to claim the Blood Pill, what choice should he make? What was the true depth of Wan Renmian’s schemes?

He had no time to ponder. Wan Renmian, iron fan in hand—a foot long at most—struck swiftly at Qin Chuan’s face.

Qin Chuan did not dodge but raised his sword in a parry.

Clang.

The sound was not sharp but subdued, and Qin Chuan’s eyes brightened.

“Well done, Junior Brother!” Wan Renmian’s look was meaningful, and he did not dare relax. Calmly, he launched a second blow, even announcing his move, “Take this!”

Qin Chuan blocked again, this time so deftly that the sound was barely audible.

He looked askance—Wan Renmian seemed not to be truly fighting. Perhaps, as he’d said, the moment was not yet ripe.

Their exchange was all flourish and little force—a display with no intent to harm.

“Behold, my Dragon Surges the Seas!”

“Well met! Taste my Cloud-Swallowing Moon!”

The names of their moves were announced with all the seriousness of a culinary contest...

To any ordinary onlooker, it would seem little more than acrobatics.

Meanwhile, Shi Xin’s eyes were bloodshot, sweat as large as peas dripping from his face, soaking his clothes.

A little more... just a little more!

His gaze was dazed, his spirit battered by the malignant aura of the Blood Pill, barely able to hold himself together.

All four in the grove, including the hooded stranger, watched silently as Shi Xin poured the last of his strength into the task.

Wan Renmian glanced sidelong at Shi Xin, a cold smile hidden in his heart. If not for my guidance, do you really think you could have found that fragment of tradition? Eight parts truth, two parts lies—everything you know, I allowed you to know. The secret of the Blood Pill, too, I discovered by chance.

Opportunity and doom are always entwined. Fortune is doom, doom is fortune.

If you wish to claim this fortune, you must also bear its doom!

The blood rope grew taut, the sacrificial altar in the pool slowly rising toward the surface. Even Qin Chuan and the others could now see its shadow, wavering beneath the water.

At that moment, Shi Xin’s strength faltered; he staggered forward, on the verge of being dragged under.

Wan Renmian’s face tensed, his movements ceasing as he withdrew a step, putting distance between himself and Qin Chuan, eyes fixed on Shi Xin.

Shi Xin’s face was ashen, his limbs trembling uncontrollably, his strength at its limit.

Just as he lost his grip, Wan Renmian lunged, seizing the blood rope and holding on tight.

At the same instant, he swallowed a Heart-Calming Pill to fortify his mind, warding off the insidious influence of the Blood Pill’s demonic aura.