The tunnel beneath the palace was older than the palace itself. It had been carved into the bedrock before the first stone of Jinxiu was laid, before the first golden abacus was hung around the first mortal neck, before the Immortal Court had even thought to build its machine. The walls were rough and unpolished, glistening with moisture that had seeped through the stone for thousands of years. The air was cold and thick, carrying the scent of deep earth and ancient secrets. It was a place that had been forgotten by everyone except the dead.
Gu Yao walked through the tunnel with his hammer in one hand and the golden abacus in the other. The abacus was cold against his palm, its beads frozen in place, their milky light dim but steady. He could feel the power inside it—the power of three hundred years of collected Rhyme, the power of a lifetime of suffering. It was a key, the emperor had said. It would open the pipes. It would let them cut them.
Chen Tie walked beside him, his saw in his hands, his one eye fixed on the darkness ahead. The Shackle-Breakers followed behind, their tools clanking softly against their backs. They were not warriors. They were not cultivators. They were just people—people who had been enslaved by the Sects, people who had watched their families die, people who had been waiting fifty years for someone to show them how to fight back.
“How much further?” Gu Yao asked.
“Not far,” Chen Tie said. “The junction is at the end of this tunnel. It’s where all the supply pipes converge. It’s where the Rhyme is collected before it’s sent to the sky.”
Gu Yao nodded. He could feel the pipes before he saw them—a low, rhythmic vibration that pulsed through the stone, a hum that seemed to resonate in his bones. It was the sound of the machine, the sound of the system, the sound of three thousand years of harvesting. It was the sound of the Immortal Court feeding.
And then the tunnel opened up.
The junction chamber was vast, a cavernous space that stretched so far that Gu Yao could not see the far end. The ceiling was lost in darkness, the walls were lined with pipes of every size and shape—some as thin as a finger, some as thick as a man’s body. They ran in every direction, converging at the center of the chamber, where a massive column of crystal and gold rose from the floor to the ceiling. The column pulsed with a sickly golden light, its surface covered with the same milky symbols that adorned the golden abaci. It was the heart of the machine. It was where all the Rhyme was gathered before it was sent to the sky.
“By the gods,” Xiao Liu whispered. He had followed them into the chamber, his face pale, his eyes wide. “What is that?”
“That is the supply pipe,” Gu Yao said. “That is where all the Rhyme from the Kingdom of Liang is collected. That is where the Immortal Court feeds.”
He walked toward the column, his hammer scraping against the floor, his broken leg dragging behind him. The golden abacus in his hand pulsed in response, its milky light growing brighter as he approached. He could feel the power inside it, the power that had been collected over three hundred years, the power that had been drained from the people of Liang.
“Chen Tie,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Chen Tie nodded. He stepped forward, his saw in his hands, his one eye fixed on the column of crystal and gold. The other Shackle-Breakers followed, their tools raised, their faces set with determination.
“We’ve been waiting for this for fifty years,” Chen Tie said. “We’ve been sharpening our saws for fifty years. We’ve been dreaming of this moment for fifty years.”
He raised his saw and brought it down on the nearest pipe.
The impact was shattering. The saw bit into the crystal, sending a shower of sparks across the chamber. The pipe screamed—a high, keening sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the palace. The golden light flickered, dimming for a moment, then flaring back to life.
“It’s working!” one of the Shackle-Breakers shouted. “It’s cutting!”
Chen Tie sawed faster, his arms pumping, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The other Shackle-Breakers joined him, their saws biting into the pipes, their tools chipping away at the crystal. The chamber filled with the sound of grinding metal and screaming crystal, a cacophony of destruction that echoed through the tunnels like the roar of a dying beast.
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Gu Yao watched them work, his hammer in his hand, his eyes fixed on the column of crystal and gold. He could feel the machine weakening, could feel the Rhyme that had been flowing through the pipes beginning to falter. The golden abacus in his hand pulsed with a frantic rhythm, as if it could sense that something was wrong.
“Brother Gu!” Xiao Liu shouted. “The guards! They’re coming!”
Gu Yao turned. The tunnel behind them was filling with figures—guards in golden armor, their faces hidden behind masks of polished jade, their weapons raised. They had been stationed at the entrance to the junction chamber, hidden in the shadows, waiting for intruders. And now they were coming.
“Keep cutting!” Gu Yao shouted. “I’ll hold them off!”
He raised his hammer and charged. His broken leg dragged behind him, his body screaming with every step, but he did not stop. He could not stop. He had been fighting for fifty years, and he was not about to stop now.
The first guard reached him, his spear thrusting toward Gu Yao’s chest. Gu Yao did not dodge. He could not dodge. He was too slow, too broken, too tired. Instead, he planted his feet, raised his hammer, and swung.
The impact was shattering. The spear shattered, its fragments scattering across the floor. The guard flew backward, his body crumpling against the wall with a wet, broken sound. But there were more—many more—and they kept coming, their faces blank, their eyes hollow.
Gu Yao swung his hammer again and again, each blow shattering bone and breaking steel. His body was screaming, his lungs burning, his vision blurring. But he did not stop. He could not stop.
And then the first pipe shattered.
It was not a dramatic collapse, not the kind of spectacular destruction that would have been celebrated in a story. It was a slow, grinding failure, the kind of failure that comes after centuries of neglect. The crystal cracked. The gold bent. The pipe tilted, swayed, and then fell, crashing into the chamber floor in a cloud of dust and debris.
The golden light flickered. The machine faltered. The Rhyme that had been flowing through the pipes began to leak, spilling across the floor in a shimmering, golden tide.
“It’s working!” Chen Tie shouted. “It’s working!”
He sawed faster, his arms pumping, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The other Shackle-Breakers joined him, their saws biting into the pipes, their tools chipping away at the crystal. The chamber filled with the sound of grinding metal and screaming crystal, a cacophony of destruction that echoed through the tunnels like the roar of a dying beast.
And then the second pipe shattered. And the third. And the fourth.
One by one, the pipes of the supply line crumbled, their crystal cracking, their gold bending, their Rhyme spilling across the floor. The machine was breaking. The system was failing. The Immortal Court was starving.
Gu Yao stood in the center of the chamber, his hammer in his hand, his chest heaving. He had held the guards off. He had protected the Shackle-Breakers. He had done what he had come here to do. But he knew that this was not the end. The Sects would send more. They would always send more. And eventually, they would succeed.
But not today. Today, the machine was broken. Today, the supply pipes were cut. Today, the Immortal Court was starving.
He turned to look at Chen Tie. The one-eyed man was standing at the base of the column, his saw in his hands, his face pale. He had cut through the first pipe. He had cut through the second. He had cut through the third. And now he was looking at the column of crystal and gold, at the heart of the machine, at the place where all the Rhyme was gathered before it was sent to the sky.
“One more cut,” Chen Tie said. “One more cut and the whole thing comes down.”
Gu Yao nodded. “Do it.”
Chen Tie raised his saw and brought it down on the column.
The impact was shattering. The column cracked, its surface splintering, its golden light flickering and dying. The Rhyme that had been gathered inside it spilled out in a golden tide, washing across the chamber floor. The machine was broken. The system was failing. The Immortal Court was starving.
And then the ceiling of the chamber began to collapse.
“Run!” Gu Yao shouted. “Everyone, run!”
The Shackle-Breakers scrambled toward the tunnel, their tools clattering against the floor. Xiao Liu grabbed the nearest straggler and pulled him toward the exit. Chen Tie lingered for a moment, his one eye fixed on the crumbling column, his face unreadable.
“Chen Tie!” Gu Yao shouted. “We have to go!”
Chen Tie nodded. He turned and ran, his saw still in his hands, his footsteps echoing through the chamber.
Gu Yao was the last to leave. He stood at the edge of the tunnel, his hammer in his hand, his eyes fixed on the crumbling machine. The column of crystal and gold was collapsing, its golden light fading into nothing. The pipes that had carried the Rhyme to the sky were shattered, their contents spilling across the floor. The machine was broken. The system was failing. The Immortal Court was starving.
He turned and walked into the tunnel, his hammer scraping against the floor, his broken leg dragging behind him. Behind him, the ceiling of the junction chamber collapsed, burying the machine beneath a mountain of stone.