Offering

The heavy doors of the audience hall boomed shut behind the Scarlet Moon envoys. The sound echoed like a tomb sealing. The suffocating pressure lifted, leaving only the ragged breathing of the Azure Night clansmen and the chilling silence radiating from the small figure slumped on the Clan Lord's seat. Ye Chen sagged against the carved wood, his father's robe a heavy shroud over his ruined arm. A deep, unnatural cold gnawed at his core – the void's price, a constant ache echoing the terrifying gamble he'd just won.

For a heartbeat, Ye Zhan stood frozen, knuckles white where he gripped his own armrest. Relief that Lao Chen lived was drowned by icy dread coiling in his gut. Dread for his son, whose unnatural pallor and hidden injury screamed of something profoundly wrong. Dread for the impossible task: gather the crippling tribute in five days, and send his precious, broken child into the jaws of the Black Vale, watched by wolves.

"Chen'er..." Ye Zhan's voice was rough gravel. He stood beside the seat, his large hand hovering over Ye Chen's shoulder, afraid to touch the unnatural chill seeping through the fabric. What... is this?" His gaze flickered towards the hidden arm.

"Not now, Father," Ye Chen rasped, the words scraping like ice shards in his throat but forming complete sentences despite the exhaustion threatening to pull him under. "I require a quiet place. Immediately. And have these herbs brought to me there: Spirit-Gathering Moss, Frostbloom Petals, Star Iron shavings, and Moonwell Water. With haste." The list was precise, clipped, the voice of a desperate alchemist issuing orders, not a child making requests.

Ye Zhan didn't question the strange mix of herbs. The look in his son's ancient eyes – weary, haunted, yet utterly certain – brooked no argument. He barked commands. Disciples scrambled. Within minutes, Ye Chen was carefully carried – Ye Zhan refusing to let anyone else touch him – to the Quiet Pavilion. Nestled amidst ancient pines near the rear wall, its simple stone structure and silencing formations offered the seclusion he desperately craved.

The moment the door shut, sealing him in the cool, pine-scented air, Ye Chen slumped. Holding himself upright, projecting defiance while channeling the void's aura for Envoy Jin, had taken everything. He shrugged off his father's robe with his left hand, wincing as the fabric snagged on his right arm. The sight still stole his breath. From fingertips to mid-forearm, the skin was pale. He could flex the fingers weakly, but it felt like moving deadwood wrapped in ice.

Lifespan.The Void takes its toll. The grim thought circled. Containing Lao Chen's poison and the subsequent display had cost him days, maybe even a week, of his already shortened mortal span. Time he couldn't spare, though it was nothing to be afraid of if his aim was immortality.

The requested herbs arrived swiftly, delivered by a trembling Elder Mu who refused to meet his eyes before bowing deeply and retreating. Ye Chen laid them out on the low stone table: vibrant green Spirit-Gathering Moss, pale blue Frostbloom Petals radiating their own cold, dull grey metallic shavings of Star Iron, and a small vial of luminous Moonwell Water.

No cauldron. He didn't need refinement; this was emergency triage. Leveraging knowledge that felt both intimately familiar and achingly distant. He crushed the Frostbloom Petals with the pestle end of a small ceremonial dagger. A wave of numbing cold shimmered in the air. He added the Spirit-Gathering Moss, grinding them together into a fine, icy paste. Next, the Star Iron shavings – not for celestial energy, but as a desperate anchor against chaos. Finally, he dripped Moonwell Water, known for its gentle restoration, onto the mixture, stirring with the dagger tip until it formed a thick, glowing blue salve.

The void core within him stirred, not with hunger, but with a strange… resonance? The Frostbloom's cold seemed to soothe its chaotic edges. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Ye Chen dipped his left index finger into the salve. Intensely cold, but not painful. With meticulous care, he began applying it to his ruined right arm, starting from the shoulder and working down. Where the salve touched the pale skin, a subtle change occurred. The terrifying pale quality didn't vanish, but it seemed to… show improvements. The deep, aching cold retreated slightly, receding from his shoulder and upper arm, pooling more intensely around his hand and wrist. The numbness eased marginally, replaced by a deep, pervasive ache – a vast improvement over the terrifying absence of sensation. Color didn't return, but the limb felt less like detached ice and more like a frozen, injured part of him. The salve wasn't a cure; it was a sealant, a desperate bandage against further decay.

Relief washed over him, sharp and immediate. He could use the arm now, albeit clumsily. He slumped onto the simple sleeping mat, exhaustion a physical weight. He consumed two drops of his remaining Spring Dew Elixir, feeling the cool vitality seep into his battered meridians. Sleep claimed him instantly, deep and dreamless, a refuge from pain and dread.

He woke with the dawn, the scent of pine sharp through the open window. The crushing exhaustion had receded, replaced by the familiar, gnawing urgency. Five days. Five days to scrape together tribute that would beggar the clan, and then… the Black Vale. He flexed his right hand. The ache was profound, the cold deep, but the salve held. He could grip. He could move.

He couldn't afford weakness. He needed strength. Real strength. The pathetic trickle of qi in his child's dantian was useless. The void was power, but it devoured his life. He needed to cultivate. Properly. Rebuild his foundation from the ground up, even as the clock ticked down.

But cultivation required cycling qi, drawing in the world's energy. And the void… repelled it. Like oil and water. Previous attempts ended in bloody noses and meridian spasms. He needed a different approach. A bridge. Or… a distraction.

He remembered the void core's reaction to the Frostbloom salve. A resonance. A satiety? Could he… feed it something else? Something that wouldn't cost him his life, but would pacify it long enough for his own qi to flow?

His gaze fell on the small pile of Spirit Stones brought with the herbs – low-grade, murky green lumps, the clan's meager reserves. They pulsed with faint, crude earth energy. Worthless to his former self, but now… potential fuel.

He sat cross-legged, placing a single Spirit Stone on the stone floor before him. He closed his eyes, sinking into his battered dantian. The tiny pool of his own qi, pale and weak, flickered there. Beside it, vast and dark and cold, lay the void core, an absence that warped perception. He focused not on drawing in external qi, but on the Spirit Stone. He extended a thread of his will, not towards his own dantian, but towards the void core. An offering.

Here. Take this. Leave the rest alone.

The void core stirred, a ripple of hunger echoing through his spirit. It latched onto the offered thread, not as energy, but as a direction. Like a predator scenting prey. Ye Chen felt the Spirit Stone beneath him vibrate. Then, with shocking speed, the crude earth energy within it was yanked out, vanishing directly into the void core. The stone crumbled into inert grey dust.

The void core pulsed, a low, satisfied thrum. For a fleeting moment, the chaotic pressure it exerted on his own qi lessened. The repulsion softened. It wasn't gone, but it was… distracted. Satiated.

Now!

Ye Chen seized the opening. He drew in a breath, pulling the thin ambient qi of the Quiet Pavilion towards him. This time, the energy didn't slam into an invisible wall or twist into chaos. It flowed, sluggishly but steadily, into his meridians. He guided it with the precision of a master, smoothing its passage, directing it towards his dantian. A pathetic trickle compared to the oceans he once commanded, but it was flowing. He cycled it, purifying it, integrating it into his own meager reserves. The pale pool in his dantian grew, infinitesimally, but undeniably.

The distraction lasted only as long as the stolen energy sustained the void. As it faded, the core's attention snapped back, the familiar repulsion returning. Ye Chen immediately ceased drawing external qi, focusing solely on circulating what he had already absorbed.

He opened his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill from his arm. It had worked. A brutal, expensive workaround. He'd sacrificed a Spirit Stone – a resource the clan desperately needed – to buy himself a few minutes of productive cultivation. "I have to find a way around this," he mumbled. The cost was unsustainable. But it was a path. A fragile lifeline.

He repeated the process. Stone after stone crumbled to dust. Each time, he seized the momentary lapse to draw in and refine a tiny amount of qi. It was agonizingly slow. Each Spirit Stone consumed felt like stealing food from the clan's future. But the pale pool in his dantian grew denser, brighter. The weak flicker solidified into a steady, albeit small, flame. The brittle feeling in his meridians eased. Real physical strength began to seep back into his limbs.