The first hint of consciousness that greeted Zhao was an exclamation: “He’s waking up!”

He rolled onto his side, or at least attempted to, causing his ribs to scream in protest. When Zhao went to clutch them, his groggy mind ground to a halt.

While his right arm responded with ginger eagerness, his left did not. In fact, there were no sensations from that arm at all.

Forcing his crusted eyes open, his gaze slid over the blurry form of Ming Fe hovering over him to land on the stump where his arm used to be.

“It’s okay,” someone said, “it’s going to be okay.”

Despite his body’s protests, Zhao started to push himself into a sitting position, only to be firmly held back by a pair of hands. He was about to insist they release him when he realized there was no point.

“Can you hear me?” Ming Fe asked, examining his eyes with the assistance of a conjured sphere of light. “If you can, follow the light with your eyes.”

Grunting, Zhao complied. “I can hear you.”

The healer sighed before retreating. “There don’t seem to be any lasting consequences. Other than the obvious, that is.” Without elaborating, the woman walked away, leaving Zhao with whoever was keeping him down.

One of the hands patted him, its owner releasing their grip to walk into his view. “I’m glad you survived,” Che Fang said as he sat on the bare ground next to the mat Zhao found himself on, “no one understood the gravity of what happened… save my ancestor.”

The young man leaned in close, his breath molten against Zhao’s clammy skin. “She said detonating a spatial storage artifact is a forbidden technique requiring precision and knowledge beyond what I could fathom.”

Eyes focused on the rocky ceiling, Zhao hummed in response.

Che Fang continued, undeterred. “I kept all but the basics from everyone else, but there are questions." After a pause he added, "Are you alright, Zhao Mi?”

“No,” Zhao observed with dry humor, “I’m crippled.”

The statement brought a dour look to Che Fang’s stoic visage. “For now,” he insisted, “but not necessarily permanently.”

Zhao shifted his weight, struggling to face away from his companion. Apparently taking the hint, Che Fang stood. “Rest well,” he said after an awkward lapse.

Left alone, Zhao took a moment to prop himself up and examine where he was. A shallow cave hosted him, a thin stream snaking its way down into the depths of the earth.

Littered about the uneven floor were a handful of disciples with varying degrees of injury. Bao Chi was not among their number, but Tai Yang was.

Ming Fe lingered protectively over the giant, returning to his side for a greater amount of time than any of the disciples. Perhaps her attention was warranted, considering the state of his chest.

Bones protruded through skin and bandages, while a sheen of sweat covered the comatose man’s head. Shaggy hair and a scruffy beard had grown unkempt, giving him a wild look.

Zhao noted with a start that he also sported a similarly disheveled appearance. He absentmindedly ran a hand through the scraggly mess of hair on his face while pondering the implications of spending such a long period of time unconscious.

Having let his mind drift, Zhao didn't notice he was staring at Ming Fe and Tai Yang until she looked up and met his gaze.

Although he averted his eyes, Ming Fe stormed over to his bedside with clenched fists.

Her complexion was inflamed and her brows tight as she questioned Zhao, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Caught off guard by her outburst, he opted to remain quiet.

“It’s your fault, you know?” Ming Fe said, tears welling up in her eyes. “Your plan and, I hear, your inability to act.”

A condescending glance escaped the young woman as she continued, “Everyone else present at the battle is under the false impression that the demonic cultivator placed a curse or similar on you, preventing you from fighting.”

Nails like talons dug into Zhao as Ming Fe knelt down and gripped his remaining hand. “But that’s not right, is it? I think you had a panic attack.”

The accusation felt heavy, shameful. Zhao let himself look back at Ming Fe.

“I think so too,” he admitted weakly. Not finding the answer satisfactory, the young woman left him with a harrumph, returning to Tai Yang and running her hands through the man’s overgrown hair.

With his remaining hand Zhao gripped the grit on the stone floor. He hadn’t acknowledged it at the time, but Ming Fe was correct. All the signs pointed to the conclusion that he’d had a panic attack.

In the end, Zhao had let everyone down.

Perhaps timely participation would have let him walk away intact. Maybe Tai Yang wouldn’t be in a coma. Bao Chi would still be alive.

The weight of his thoughts were unpleasant, but Zhao let them crush him. They drove him towards one inescapable conclusion: he was responsible because he was willfully weak.

Since his transmigration, Zhao had been doing the bare minimum. His cultivation had not made notable advancements. He hadn’t begun practicing Spirit Arts for months after his arrival.

Instead, he had placed his fate in the hands of his companions without taking an equivalent responsibility for theirs.

His deluded plan had been to take advantage of the heavenly fortune of those he surrounded himself with, but clearly that wasn’t enough if he wanted to survive. If he wanted his friends to survive.

Zhao needed to shoulder his share of the burden. Otherwise, they would fail to overcome the Che and Li clans and their machinations. Or life in Jianghu in general.

As his gaze hardened, Zhao forced himself to his feet. Ming Fe spared him a brief glance but quickly turned back to the recruit she was focused on.

He stumbled forward out of the cave to find a foreign campsite. A thinner coating of snow than what he remembered lay over the ground, and the worst of winter’s bite seemed to have receded.

Before he could venture into the camp unattended Shu Chiu approached, a conflicted look playing out on her face when she saw Zhao.

“You’ve recovered,” she stated simply. “I’m glad.”

Zhao nodded at her words, though he recognized them for what they were.

If he were to die Shu Chiu would be released from the vow she made before the heavens and thereby free to leave. So long as he lived, she would presumably have to follow him back to the Misty Cradle Sect where her prospects were grim.

“What happened?” Zhao asked.

A grimace passed over Shu Chiu’s face. “Your strike eviscerated the demonic cultivator.”

When he gave her a pointed look she continued. “We buried the bodies of our fallen, looted what we could, and came here.” Shu Chiu looked at the ground. “Most of the recruits died in the fighting; we only have a few dozen left. Ultimately the element of surprise was enough to carry us to victory, but the aftermath was abhorrent.”

Moving to support Zhao, Shu Chiu changed the subject. “I think it would be good if you took a look at our spoils.”

Nodding, he let himself be guided forward, thankful for the distraction.

The pair soon came upon another cave near their camp, this one more of a crack in the stone than a primitive shelter. Zhao was forced to proceed unassisted due to the tightness of the space.

He shuffled ahead curiously, his back and chest scraping against the walls of the crevice until the rock opened up into a grotto.

Beams of light streamed in from holes in the ceiling, allowing exotic flowers to thrive. Wine colored petals spilled over the wickedly sharp edges of the stoneface, occasionally quivering in the flagging wind that found its way into the hidden cavity.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Shu Chiu asked. After a pause she continued, “The Qi congregates here, helping to preserve the spirituality of the best treasures.”

At her words, Zhao reached out with his divine sense to experience the phenomenon himself. The details astonished him; the way the Qi condensed from the breaks in the ceiling, eventually trailing down the wall like tears to gather on the floor.

“A natural formation?” he questioned curiously, the supernatural sight momentarily distracting him.

Shu Chiu looked around for a moment, fiddling with her hair. “Or a long forgotten cultivation cave of a wandering cultivator,” she proposed quietly.

As the woman’s voice trailed off, she hesitated before moving towards a pile of items in the center of the cavern. Her hand paused before reaching into the disorganized mess decisively.

Pushing past mortal teals, spirit stones, low level treasures, and other assorted loot, she plucked a pill hidden beneath.

Shu Chiu rolled the crimson bead between her index finger and thumb. “I catalogued everything that prick owned,” she commented, “This is by far the most valuable. They call it the Weeping Heart Pill."

"If I'm understanding his scribbled notes correctly," Shu Chiu continued slowly, "the pill becomes more effective the more people are sacrificed to it." Her stare slid off to the alchemical concoction to settle on Zhao. "A Weeping Heart, Ten Weeping Hearts, A Hundred Weeping Hearts, etcetera. This is a Ten Thousand Weeping Hearts pill."

Zhao paled. “Ten thousand?” he repeated, causing his companion to nod.

Chuckling as if the implication behind the name wasn't insane Shu Chiu snorted. "Once, the only time I complained about the demonic cultivators' behavior, that monster launched into a rant about how he was preparing the greatest gift for his younger brother. At the time I thought he was just insane, but now I think he was talking about this."

With halting movements Shu Chiu lowered the treasure into his hand. “This represents an opportunity to break into Foundation Establishment. Given its wicked nature, I’m sure your sect will destroy it upon our return.”

Even in his injured state with a mind clouded by medicine, Zhao had an inkling of what her line of thought was.

Taking a deep breath, the woman pushed forward, “It would be unjust to waste so many lives for nothing. I could use it to break through now, before we return to your sect.”

“No.” Zhao said, his voice carrying in the space and causing Shu Chiu to wince.

Nevertheless she defended her position. “I know that it’s origin is demonic, but what choice do I have? I’ll never have another chance like this after we reach the Misty Cradle!"

Desperation crept to the forefront of the young woman's visage, "You stand to benefit just as much as I do given I've sworn myself to you! What would it take to convince you? If you want I can-”

Zhao tried to raise his palm to stop any further explanation, only to realize with his sole hand occupied holding the pill he couldn’t. Instead, he looked down at the garnet pellet in his hand and tuned out the frantic woman's overture.

On the fringes of his mind screams resounded, calling out like innocents wrongly condemned to purgatory.

“You cannot consume the pill,” Zhao stated firmly, breaking his focus on the treasure to refocus on Shu Chiu, “because I intend to.”

The Yellow Autumn Disciple froze, her eyes widening. Though Zhao had expected her to protest, none was forthcoming.

In their place came a question. “...Why?” she asked, as if the answer would elucidate the absurdity of the decision.

He refused to entertain the question with a shake of his head.

“When, then?” she prodded, eyes flickering back the way they came. “I won’t stop you, but I doubt you’ll be able to convince any of the others to go along with it while refusing to give a justification.”

Zhao grasped the cursed treasure tightly. He thought of Ming Fe’s scorn, of the allegation in her eyes as she labored over the broken form of Tai Yang.

“Now,” he decided. When he saw Shu Chiu’s eyes widen further, like those of a pedestrian about to be hit by a vehicle, he evoked her vow. “Go guard the entrance to this place. Don’t let me be disturbed. Tell no one.”

A tense second passed between them, as if Shu Chiu might risk the heaven’s wrath to stop Zhao from an act that could end with her freed from her vow. Then she spun on her heel and strode out of the mystical place, leaving him to his fate.

After settling into the room and adopting a meditative position, Zhao spent a moment centering himself. The Qi flowed impatiently, as if urging him to hurry.

If he were honest with himself, Zhao knew he was not in peak condition. Attempting to break into Foundation Establishment was not to be taken lightly, as failure could result in a serious backlash or even death.

He was missing an arm, contending with a headache, covered in bruises, scabs, and other more serious injuries that he could feel if not identify. Nevertheless, Zhao ate the pill. To walk the safe path was no longer an option. Not when he was crippled, and not when his companions would be relying on him more than ever upon their return.

The effect was immediate, waves of Qi rippling out as if a boulder had fallen into a still pond. In seconds Zhao’s tranquil pool of Qi had transformed into a raging ocean.

He intuitively knew that development was natural and welcome. Simultaneously, Zhao felt an insidious premonition as beneath the abundant Qi the pill’s unique characteristics reared their head.

From the midst of the Qi emerged a memory, forcing itself on him like a traumatic episode. Zhao saw himself as a mortal, ritually slaughtered by a vaguely familiar looking face. He felt his heart carefully carved free from its home while still beating.

Echoes of intense agony assaulted Zhao, threatening to interrupt the steady flow of Qi blooming throughout his body.

Then the Qi in his mind acted rather whimsically, cycling through the familiar pathways of the Myriad Voices before pulling Zhao’s attention further into himself. There, deep inside his Qi pathways lay two spirit fragments.

He was intimately acquainted with one, the remnants of the true Zhao Mi, but the other was a surprise. As the sinister memory of dying replayed in his mind, he felt more than saw its origin in the novel spirit fragment.

Gingerly, Zhao stretched his sense towards the intrusive phenomenon. His advance was clearly unwelcome, as distinctly unpleasant emotions welled up to meet him.

Pushing past the foreign feelings was not as difficult as Zhao initially thought it would be as his experience with the Myriad Voices had honed his ability to combat such encroachments.

Once through the spirt fragments meagre defenses the Myriad Voices quickly dispelled the resentful aspect of the disembodied soul, leaving behind a sliver of potential to be integrated into Zhao's cultivation.

Mere seconds later the effects of the Ten Thousand Weeping Hearts Pill pulsed, seemingly in response to his actions. Further spirit fragments bubbled up, each sharing their last moments with Zhao.

He couldn't tell whether the display was hostile or desperate. Regardless, he pressed forward, the Myriad Voices a perfect match to the cursed effects the demonic pill was expressing.

Swearing to leverage his stroke of heavenly favor to its fullest, Zhao lost himself in purifying the lost souls drifting through his Qi.