A master is a hammer. A disciple is the nail. In the end, neither escapes the forge.
The cave smelled of copper and incense — and something colder than rot.
Li Qiong stood over the monk, silent.
In the corner, the girl's soft, fragile breathing still filled the hush. Her chest rose and fell faintly as she slept on a pile of hides.
He crouched, brushed a stray hair from her cheek, then rose. And began his work.
A tune — low, slow, almost childlike — slipped from his lips.
A nameless melody, neither sad nor joyous. Like something hummed on a rainy day in the mountains.
His knife flashed in the torchlight.
Blood spattered his cheek.
He kept singing, unbothered, his hands steady.
He gutted his former master alive — peeling out his innards one by one, laying each organ on a stone slab as though arranging an unpleasant offering. His blood drained in quiet rivers, pooling around Li Qiong's boots.
He peeled and stripped and stitched, sewing demon claws to the shoulders, fixing a crocodilian tail to the base of the spine, hammering curved horns into the skull.
The monk's eyes were wide and wet with terror. But he couldn't speak. He couldn't even scream.
Who are you? the monk's eyes asked.
Li Qiong paused only to wipe the crimson spray from his face with a damp cloth. The tune never faltered.
"I am your disciple."
The monk's eyes dimmed faintly. You... you were my disciple?
Li Qiong's movements were precise, almost delicate. Packing the monk's chest with herbs, powders, crushed spirit stones, demon pills — filling the hollow cavity until it bulged. Stitching it closed, sealing the flesh with quiet artistry.
The monk's gaze darted. Why?
Li Qiong's fingers paused mid‑stitch. His dark eyes met the monk's.
"Because you taught me."
The monk's gaze flickered. Taught you what?
Li Qiong's lips curved faintly.
"Patience. On a knife's edge. That's why I can afford to take my time."
When the last stitch was tied, he stepped back, wiping his hands clean. Then knelt, dipping a brush into the pooling blood.
The monk's gaze grew wild now, flinching, pleading — Mercy.
Li Qiong did not look up.
"No. You just taught me to need less mercy."
Does it hurt? the monk's dull, dying eyes seemed to whisper.
Li Qiong murmured, almost kindly:
"It will. Once."
The formation blossomed across the floor — a maze of sigils and circles sprawling around the furnace.
The monk's butchered, stitched body was lowered in with care. Ghostly flames hissed to life as Li Qiong struck the flint.
One by one, he scattered powders, pills, stones into the emerald blaze, watching the colors dance and writhe.
At last, he pricked his own thumb and let a single drop of his blood fall onto the corpse's brow.
The lid closed with a hollow clang.
Li Qiong stood over it a moment. Silent.
The song faded into quiet.
Pain is a river. You can drown, or you can drink.
The flames crackled on.
He wiped his face clean once more, folding the damp cloth neatly. Sat on a stone. Poured himself tea.
He murmured into the stillness:
"Kindness is just cruelty waiting for a better mask."
With the girl breathing faintly in her corner, and the furnace humming low with power, Li Qiong drank.
When the cup was empty, he set it down.
And left.
The full moon outside bathed the ravine in silver as he stepped into the cold night, his shadow long and quiet behind him.
The girl stirred weakly as he bent and scooped her up, her small body light in his arms. She murmured faintly in her sleep but did not wake.
He carried her out of the cave.
The ravine lay quiet, bathed in cold silver light. The full moon loomed overhead — vast and heavy, the yin energy thick enough to taste in the air.
Li Qiong sat on a boulder at the edge of the clearing, the girl curled against his shoulder, and waited.
He brewed no fire, spoke no word. Only sipped the last of his tea and hummed softly to himself as the moon climbed higher.
Then —
BOOM.
A deep, muffled bang shook the earth, followed by a groaning crack of stone as a fissure tore through the cave mouth.
From the darkness beyond: footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
A massive gray hand gripped the shattered rock and hauled itself out of the cave.
The creature emerged into the moonlight — and the air seemed to freeze.
Nightmare given flesh.
Ten feet tall, its skin a mottled, dark gray. A human face twisted by jagged teeth and six black eyes that glittered like onyx. Its broad shoulders sprouted four arms, each ending in taloned claws. A long crocodilian tail dragged behind it, scraping the stone. Two black horns curved wickedly from its brow.
The Yin corpse fixed its six eyes on Li Qiong.
It raised a massive fist — only to stop, frozen mid‑strike.
Its monstrous form trembled... then slowly lowered itself onto one knee, head bowed, tail curling submissively behind it like a chastened dog.
Its six black eyes flicked up faintly, as if asking: What am I?
Li Qiong rested his hand on its cold, massive head. Patted it once. Twice.
"A pet."
A faint smile that wasn't quite a smile ghosted his lips.
Still silent, he drew the black jade ring from his sleeve. A flick of his fingers — and the towering Yin corpse's body shrank into nothingness, sucked into the ring in a streak of gray light.
He slipped the ring onto his finger without another glance.
Then he rose, the girl still asleep in his arms, and stepped off into the night — leaving only silence and moonlight behind him.
A disciple is a shadow, he thought, as the sigils dried dark on the cave floor.
And a shadow that grows long enough... swallows its master.
A master is a crueler parent. He doesn't raise you to grow — only to be sharper. I bled on his whetstone for years. And still... I called him Master.
The bond between master and disciple is not love. It is hunger. One feeds, and one is fed upon. And the longer it goes on, the more alike they become.
They say you must respect your master. I do. After all... when I make his dream come true, I'll put his name on it. In blood. Isn't that respect enough?
The moon above was merciless.
It watched him work, silver and cold, painting his shadow longer and longer, as if to measure just how far a man could fall before he stopped being a man