Elder Mu’s calloused hand slipped from Ye Chen’s grip. The heavy, soot stained fingers struck the cold stone floor of the subterranean vault with a dull tap.
The faint, rattling breath in the old blacksmith's chest stopped entirely. His eyes, which had spent thirty years squinting into the blinding heat of the Ruined Peak forge, grew still and glassy under the dim cavern light.
Ye Chen knelt in the wet river silt, staring down at the ordinary clay pill resting in his open palm. It was a cheap herbal remedy meant to cure a winter cough, pressed into his hand by a man who had sacrificed his mortal life to protect a sleeping maiden he barely knew.
Deep inside Ye Chen’s cerebral cortex, the newly rebooted System interface flashed a rapid series of crimson error windows across his retinas.
