The first winter of the Iron Age did not arrive with the gentle flutter of heavenly petals. It came as a screaming, jagged beast of ice that tore through the mountain passes, turning the vibrant green of the "New Seed" into a fragile, frost-covered ghost.
The Decoupling had stripped the world of its spiritual warmth. Without the natural circulation of Qi, the earth was brittle, and the wind was a razor.
Hua Sui sat at the mouth of a shallow cave on the ridge, his breath a thick, white plume. His left arm—the one fused with the black, petrified vines—was stiff, the cold sinking deep into the wood-like marrow. Across from him, 4402 lay wrapped in a pile of coarse wolf pelts. She hadn't spoken since the seed sprouted. Her eyes were open, but they were vacant, her "Will" having been siphoned into the soil to act as the anchor for the new world's roots.
"Eat," Hua Sui said, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
He held out a bowl of thin, watery gruel made from crushed pine nuts and the last of their dried meat. There was no "Energy Pill" to sustain them, no "Spirit Spring" to wash away the fatigue. There was only the gnawing, animal hunger of the flesh.
4402 didn't move.
Hua Sui sighed, setting the bowl down. He picked up his Sledgehammer. The iron head was pitted and rusted, but it was the only thing that felt real in a world that was rapidly turning white.
"The Archons are coming, 4402," Hua Sui whispered, more to himself than to her. "They don't have the sky anymore, so they're coming by the road. They've gathered the broken iron from the valley. They've turned the 'Disciples' into a 'Militia'. They call themselves the Seven Iron Kings now."
Suddenly, the silence of the snowfall was broken by a low, rhythmic thrumming.
It wasn't the heartbeat of the earth. It was the sound of a Bellows.
Hua Sui stood up, his joints popping. He walked to the edge of the cave and looked down into the valley. A mile away, a massive, black smoke column was rising against the grey sky. The Remnant Host hadn't retreated to their homes; they had occupied the old Scarlet Cloud Smelting Works.
They weren't practicing sword forms. They were forging Cannons.
"They've found the black powder recipes from the Forbidden Library," a voice drifted from the shadows of the cave.
Hua Sui turned.
7012 sat in the darkest corner, his hands bound with heavy iron chains. His nose was a jagged, purple mess from Hua Sui's headbutt, and his eyes were bloodshot. He had been captured during the retreat, a discarded pawn of the Saint Ancestor.
"The Ancestor knew the Qi would fail eventually," 7012 said, his voice a mocking rasp. "The 'Total Liquidation' was just a way to clear the competition. He's been hoarding the blueprints for Mechanical War for a thousand years. He doesn't need immortals to rule a world of dust. He just needs a better engine."
"And you're happy to be the grease for that engine?" Hua Sui asked, his hand tightening on the hammer.
"I'm a survivor, Sui. Just like you." 7012 looked at the catatonic 4402. "But you... you're trying to grow a garden in a furnace. The Iron Kings won't just kill you. They'll melt that little sprout of yours and use the ashes to case their shells."
Hua Sui didn't argue. He knew 7012 was right. The "New World" was a baby in a den of wolves.
He walked out into the snow.
The pale green shoot—the Root of the World Tree—was barely six inches tall. It was struggling. Every flake of snow that landed on its leaves seemed to dim its inner light. Hua Sui knelt beside it. He didn't have the "Inverse Path" to warm it. He didn't have the "Zero Logic" to deny the cold.
He had only his Blood.
Hua Sui took a small flint knife and drew it across his palm. The blood that welled up was dark, almost black, infused with the residue of the God-Burying Tablet. He let the warmth of his life drip onto the roots of the plant.
The shoot pulsed. A single, vibrant green leaf unfurled, pushing aside the frost.
THUMP.
The heartbeat of the earth grew stronger.
But as the plant grew, the smoke from the valley grew thicker. A horn blasted—a deep, brassy roar that signaled the march of the first Iron Phalanx.
Hua Sui looked at the horizon. He saw them. A line of men clad in heavy, bolted-together plates of scrap iron. They weren't flowing like water; they were advancing like a wall. In the center was a massive, steam-hissing contraption—a Great Battering Ram tipped with the head of a broken deity statue.
They weren't coming for a duel. They were coming for a Demolition.
"4402," Hua Sui called out, his voice a roar that challenged the wind. "I can't be the shield and the gardener at the same time. Wake up!"
The girl's hand twitched.
Hua Sui stood at the edge of the ridge, the snow piling up on his shoulders. He raised the sledgehammer, its rusted head catching the dim light of the setting sun.
"You want the Root?" Hua Sui shouted at the advancing army. "Then you'll have to bury me under it first!"
The first Iron King—a man who was once the Head of the Law Enforcement Hall—stepped forward, raising a mechanical crossbow that required three men to wind.
"The Audit is over, 9527!" the King roared. "This is the Inquisition of the Flesh! Fire!"
A hail of heavy, iron bolts tore through the air.
Hua Sui didn't dodge. He planted his feet, swinging the hammer in a wide, desperate arc, the black vines on his arm glowing with a dull, resentful fire.
The era of the "Flying Sword" was over. The era of the Crushed Bone had begun.
The Depths of the Scarlet Cloud Ruins.
In a hidden chamber, a single, golden quill was writing on a piece of parchment by itself.
Losses: 422 Disciples.
Gains: 12 Tons of Refined Ore.
Projection: The Undertaker will fail within three days.
The Saint Ancestor's voice echoed in the empty room, a soft, satisfied whisper.
"Everything is still on the ledger. Even the rebellion... is just another form of interest."