Vows Writ in Pus and Chrysanthemum I

What would soon be her bridal chamber reeked of medicinal incense and rotting lilies, a nauseating blend that assaulted Mei-Xing's senses. The pungent aroma of decay mingled with the cloying sweetness of traditional wedding scents whilst shadows danced on the walls, cast by flickering candles that struggled against the encroaching darkness.

Mei-Xing's robes, once pristine and white, now pooled around her feet like spilled ink, stained by the corrupted energies permeating the room. The silk whispered against the stone floor as she moved, each step measured and deliberate. Her face betrayed a flicker of apprehension as her gaze fell upon the figure suspended before her.

Zhe Ran hung in a lattice of chains, a contorted parody of a groom awaiting his bride; each link of his bindings was inscribed with verses from the Analects, glowing white-hot against his fungal flesh. The sacred words seared into his rotting skin, constantly reminding him of the principles he had forsaken. His body was as a canvas of decay, with mushrooms and mold creeping across what was once human flesh.

The ceremonial gag—a strip of silk embroidered with the character for "benevolence"—stretched across Zhe Ran's mouth, now stained black with his essence. Despite this, laughter bubbled from his throat, a rasping sound that sent shivers down Mei-Xing's spine.

"A wedding night," he managed to say, petals tumbling from his lips to shrivel against the chains. "Do Confucian virtues demand consummation, or just ownership?"

Mei-Xing steeled herself, refusing to acknowledge his taunt. She focused instead on arranging the remaining ritual tools with methodical precision and an air of indifference:

A jade bi disc, its surface etched with the Eight Trigrams, lay ready to channel qi. Needles forged from meteor iron gleamed in the candlelight, their points wickedly sharp. A vial of Mei-Xing's own blood sat among the implements.

She worked whilst Zhe Ran watched her final preparations intently, somewhile shedding her outer robes, revealing the sect's gleaming silver under-armor beneath.

"Your rituals are meaningless," Zhe Ran suddenly declared, voice dripping with disdain. "Do you truly believe that you can bind chaos with your petty ceremonies?"

Mei-Xing's jaw clenched, but she refused to rise to his bait. She had a duty to perform, a sacred task entrusted to her by the Confucian teachings: to create order where there was chaos. Failure was not an option.

As she reached for the jade bi disc, Zhe Ran's vines twitched unexpectedly. A chain snapped, the character for "propriety" shattering as thorned tendrils lashed towards her throat. Mei-Xing's reflexes, honed by years of training, took over. Her sword flashed into her hand, executing the Frost Sutra's First Edict: Ritual Propriety.

The blade froze mid-strike.

Zhe Ran's fungal blood had already crawled up the steel, blooming into orchids that whispered Mencius' teachings:

"All men have hearts that cannot bear others' suffering."

Mei-Xing recoiled as her precious Frost Sutra corroded before her eyes, the pommel crumbling to rust in her grasp. "You... defile even metal now," she uttered, unable to keep the horror from her voice.

"Defile?" Zhe Ran's head lolled, a grotesque grin splitting his face. "I illuminate. Your precious order—" A convulsion wracked him as the chains flared, burning Analects into his rotting biceps. "—is just rot wearing robes."

Mei-Xing's composure wavered, doubt creeping into her mind. She reached again—successfully—for the jade bi disc; its cool surface was comforting against her palm. "You mock what you fail to understand," she said, voice steady despite her increasing inner turmoil. "These rites will save you from—"

"Save?" Zhe Ran's laughter birthed a chrysanthemum that crawled from his throat, its petals unfurling in a distorted display. "Look at yourself, righteous wife. You're terrified."

Her hand faltered, the bi disc nearly slipping from her grasp. "I fear nothing," she insisted, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.

"Liar." His remaining eye—human, piercing—fixed on hers with an intensity that made her want to look away. "You reek of doubt. The Tome showed me your truth, Mei-Xing. Shall I speak it?"

She lunged, pressing the bi disc against his fungal heart. "Silence!"

But it was too late.

Before Mei-Xing could silence him, Zhe Ran's voice deepened, taking on the timber of Elder Shu: "Burn the village. Let Heaven sort the innocent."

The words hit Mei-Xing like a physical blow. The bi disc slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor with a sound that echoed through the chamber. "How did you—"

"I was there," Zhe Ran hissed, his voice a mixture of triumph and accusation. "Hiding in the reeds as your blade fell. How many children died that day, oh virtuous one? How many screamed as your 'order' reduced them to ash?"

Memories Mei-Xing had long suppressed came rushing back—the heat of the flames, the acrid smell of burning flesh, the screams that had haunted her dreams for years. "It was... necessary," she whispered the words of her teachers, but the words tasted like ash in her mouth. She had ought to trust her elders, yet now she faltered. "The corruption—"

"Was your excuse." Zhe Ran's vines coiled around her wrists, gentle as a lover's caress. The touch sent shivers of revulsion—and something else—through her body. "But the Tome knows. You may try to forget, yet it remembers. Every great truth you buried. Each little lie you swallowed."

Mei-Xing's armor began to steam where the vines touched, tarnishing the once-pristine silver. She tried to pull away, but Zhe Ran's grip was unrelenting. "You know nothing of duty!" she spat, anger rising to combat her fear.

"I know everything." Zhe Ran's smile was a garden of thorns, at once both beautiful and terrible. "The Tome showed me your nightmares. The faces that haunt you. Tell me, wife—do they burn still? Do their ghosts whisper when you pray?"

Unable to contain the maelstrom of emotions any longer, Mei-Xing screamed. Frost Sutra's Second Edict: Scholarly Rectitude erupted from her palms unbidden. Arctic qi lashed out, flash-freezing Zhe Ran's vines; they shattered like glass, a thousand crystalline shards tinkling to the floor.

But as they fell, each shard blossomed.

Tiny orchids unfurled, their petals maps of frostbite and guilt, singing with the voices of the vengeful and resentful dead: "Why, sister? Why did you let us burn?"

Mei-Xing stumbled back, clutching her head as if she could physically block out the accusations. "No... no, it wasn't—I didn't—"

Zhe Ran's chains groaned as spores leaked from his pores, turning the air thick and soupy. "Oh, but yes you did," he spoke, his voice almost gentle now. "Your precious order demanded it, after all."

As Mei-Xing struggled to regain her composure, the Tome pulsed against Zhe Ran's chest like a second heartbeat.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" Zhe Ran's words cut through her defenses like a sword through delicate, ailing bamboo. "Alas, pain is clarity; let me demonstrate."

Mei-Xing's gaze flickered to the Tome, a mixture of revulsion and desperate curiosity in her eyes. For a moment, she wavered on the precipice of a choice that would change everything.

Then, steeling herself, she spoke: "No. First, the binding must be completed. For both our sakes."