Purple flames burst from the cracks in the cauldron, skimming past the Cult Leader's hem. The fabric vanished in an instant, not even ash left behind. Chen Wuya stood where he was, one hand still resting on the mechanism bottle strapped to his back, his fingertips feeling the heat radiating from its surface.
He retreated half a step, his back pressing against the rock wall. Waves of throbbing pain came from the broken bone in his left arm, while his right leg was still numb. His true qi was nearly depleted, with only a faint residual current of Misaligned Force flowing through his meridians. Yet he did not move. His eyes remained locked on the purple flame.
The flame rose and formed a line of words in midair: The Cult Leader must be sacrificed to restore peace.
The voice did not come through his ears. It appeared directly in his mind, like an iron needle piercing his sea of consciousness. Chen Wuya's head sank, darkness clouding his vision as his knees bent slightly. He clenched his teeth and dragged his awareness back.
This was not an attack. It was an order.
He understood at once. Those words were not written for him to see, but for the rules of this entire space. So long as the Cult Leader lived, the cauldron spirit would not truly lose control. But once the Cult Leader was sacrificed, the seal could stabilize.
But the Cult Leader would never agree.
Sure enough, the Cult Leader let out a cold laugh from atop the cauldron's rim and slashed out with his blade. The edge cleaved a gash through the air, striking straight at the purple words. Yet when the blade aura collided with the flame, there was no explosion and no dissipation. The purple fire merely