Lạc Trần stirred, eyelids fluttering open.
The first thing he felt was pain - sharp, immediate, and all-consuming. A bolt of it lanced up from his arm, punching straight through to his skull.
Agony.
It felt as if his body had been shattered, torn apart limb by limb, then stitched back together with wire and spite.
He tried to sit up. Failed. Collapsed.
That's when he noticed Tô Mạc Tà staring at him, eyes wide, face unreadable.
Being stared at so intently by a girl, especially one like her, made him fidget.
He rubbed his nose. Scratched his head. Looked around to avoid her gaze. His surroundings came into focus: a rotting hall, ninety-nine melted candles, straw mats that had seen better centuries, and ancient beams ready to fall apart.
Still, she didn't look away.
Unable to take it, he coughed awkwardly. "Uh... is there something on my face?"
"You..." Tô Mạc Tà's voice trembled, not with fear, but disbelief. "Do you even know what the hell you did last night?"
That gave him pause.
"Now that you mention it... I think the village chief smacked me with a palm strike," he muttered, squinting at the floor like it might help his memory.
His temples throbbed as he tried to remember. The more he thought, the worse the pain grew - like a hot needle drilling into the back of his skull.
Eventually, he gave up with a long exhale.
"I don't know how you dragged me away from the chief, or how you made it through the Dry Sea's night alone... but whatever it was, it must've been hell. So... uh… thanks."
He stuttered as his self-consciousness returned, along with an intense gaze from the Saintess.
"Thanks? Hell no, Brother Lạc. I'm not accepting that."
And then she told him everything.
As she spoke, Lạc Trần's expression shifted from confusion to disbelief, then outright skepticism. When she finally finished, he squinted at her.
"Let me get this straight. A cripple like me, no Chi Pearls to his name, takes a full-force strike from a half-step Imperial, wasn't turned into mush immediately and walked away with only his old heart burst to pieces. I fall into a pond, end up in thunderclap pagoda, survive every deadly trial inside, get swallowed by a worship statue... and somehow come out of it with a new heart?"
Tô Mạc Tà nodded, completely serious.
Lạc Trần ran a hand down his face. "If someone else told me that, I'd say they'd either lost their mind or should start writing fantasy novels.
"You think I want to believe it?" she shot back, arms flailing. "I saw it happen, and I still think it's insane! How the hell are you even alive?"
Her eyes dropped to the iron heart embedded in his chest. For a second, he was genuinely worried she might try to pry it open just to make sure he wasn't some elaborate hallucination.
"This goes beyond fiction. Even the Smiling Scholar wouldn't dare write something this ridiculous."
So, in the end, she reached the only conclusion that made sense: Lạc Trần was a freak of nature.
Still too weak to stand unaided, he leaned on her shoulder as they limped out of the pagoda together.
Inside his newly forged heart, the two celestial fires - Duskhollow and the Everchanging Ember - burned in a strange, fragile peace. The golden flame no longer devoured the grey. It was as if, in his unconsciousness, they had come to a silent truce.
Lạc Trần closed his eyes, listening to the slow, powerful rhythm in his chest.
A sound he'd never thought he'd hear again.
And if it weren't for that steady thrum of life inside him, even he wouldn't have believed a single word of what she'd said.
Now Lạc Trần understood exactly where he was.
Star Fell Lake.
The pagoda at its center was a place of dread - feared and whispered about in the Village of Sickos. According to the village chief, no ordinary soul could reach or leave the pagoda except by bottomless boat, pushed forward by human skeletons floating beneath the lake surface. The same kind of ferry that Lạc Trần had seen with his own two eyes.
He and Tô Mạc Tà had arrived in Phù Trúc on the seventh. Today had to be the eighth. That meant the bottomless boat wasn't due until tomorrow - when the desperate would gather at the shore, wagering their lives for even the slimmest shot at salvation.
Yet somehow, they had bypassed all of that. Entered through a fish pond, of all things. And Tô Mạc Tà had braved the pagoda's trials and lived to talk about it.
The monkey statue had collapsed. The curtain lay in shreds. Who knew if tomorrow's visitors would even find a trial left?
A voice rang out - dry, mocking, familiar.
"What took you two so long in there? Planning to pop out a child during these three months so us old cripples can taste grandparenthood?"
Lạc Trần turned sharply.
The cripple stood at the water's edge, leaning on his cane, grinning.
"Old man? I thought they..."
"You think I've lasted this long in the Dry Sea without a few tricks up my sleeve? So? Felt real in there, didn't it? Got the blood pumping?"
"Mạc Tà," Lạc Trần muttered, deadpan. "What do you think? Should we team up and take him down?"
"Brother Lạc," she replied, equally dry, "that's the same as asking me to fight him alone."
The cripple laughed.
"Look at you two. Already bickering like a married couple. Young people move fast these days. Am I really getting that old?"
He wiggled his eyebrows and even squeezed out two theatrical tears.
Tô Mạc Tà, unimpressed, took off her shoe and chucked it at his face. It smacked him clean on the forehead, leaving a perfect imprint.
"You little brat! Sneak-attacking your elder? Fine, then! Behold!"
He hurled his own shoe in return. It missed by an embarrassing meter.
After a round of theatrical insults, the cripple waved them over.
"Come on, I'll walk you home. The village chief's waiting."
He paused, then added with a smirk: "Oh... and the bald guy, too. Said you left him three cups of wine. Get back and finish them so he can brew the next batch."
He started counting on his fingers. "Let's see, madman, blacksmith, butcher, blind man, Madame Mute… Yep. They're all waiting."
---the separator line spent its date inside the toilet---
Lạc Trần remembered what the blind man once said: only those who could step across the entire Star Fell Lake in a single stride were qualified to venture to the island alone. The rest had to wait for the bottomless boat.
Today, he had taken that step.
Honestly? It hadn't felt that special.
The cripple snapped his fingers. A blink later, the three of them stood on the edge of the Village of Sickos.
As the cripple explained: the surface of Star Fell Lake was strange. The longer you stayed on it, the more it stretched, as if space itself expanded. That's why no one flew across; they'd get lost or fall into the water and drown.
Soon, they arrived back at the village.
They reached the village soon after.
The chief was fast asleep in his wheelchair, snoring with his head tilted back.
Nearby, Mr. Onion flashed them a grin so twisted it made both Lạc Trần and Tô Mạc Tà instinctively step back. It was hard to explain, but seeing that expression on a dog was deeply unsettling.
Mr. Garlic barked indignantly and rammed into Mr. Onion's side. The latter rolled over, howling, but somehow looked satisfied.
The cripple casually grabbed Mr. Onion by the scruff and dragged him off. Mr. Garlic sent a thankful gaze his way.
They parted ways, while the cripple wandered off with the dog, Lạc Trần and Tô Mạc Tà made their way back home.
On the way, they passed Lam Tường Vi, sitting silently in Madame Mute's fabric shop, focused on her embroidery.
The butcher stood before a mirror, combing his hair with exaggerated care. He'd even powdered his rugged face.
The butcher… had worn makeup.
That might've been the second-most shocking thing Lạc Trần had seen all day.
The blind man, known for sculpting graceful female figures, was now clumsily waving around a wooden model of a gun. He gripped it by the barrel and flicked the handle with theatrical flair, clearly impressed with himself. And maybe it was just a trick of the light, but his workshop felt a little brighter than usual.
Compared to that, the mad doctor almost seemed normal.
Almost.
Today, he'd gone out and returned with a child-sized monk dangling from his gourd rack. A monk with the round, innocent face of a baby.
"Little Tathāgata?"
Things were getting stranger by the hour.
Could it be… was he the trendsetter now? From Tô Mạc Tà to the gold-and-silver horn Taoists, and now even little Tathāgata, why were all these prodigies flocking to the Dry Sea?