The Iron Gut gang occupied an entire city block of the western city. The central pillar of the prison formed the centerpiece of an immense formation which would lock in the entire prison during the Bleeding. Tiered circles descended from its side like a staircase.

At the bottom were the low cities, occupied by those who couldn’t contest the higher ones. The Iron Gut lived pressed against the wall of one of the tiers, in the center of the eastern low city, in a dilapidated neighborhood that was only notable for a single reason.

Centuries ago, a group of cultivators specialized in manipulating metal had carved great irregular silos out of the earth, dragged them here, and directed the trough to pour water into them.

Now they pooled like lakes full of rain water.

The Clans leader, the Iron Gut himself, currently floated in the center of one of those silos.

The water was pitch black, leaving a sticky residue where it touched. Algae and plants fought for surface area.

The Iron Gut Enforcer who had fought Nalaar and K-Three the day before kneeled in supplication to the side as the Iron Gut himself held audience with another.

“You failed me.” The Iron Gut said, talking down to a different giant of a man.

The man’s throat swelled like a frogs, ballooning. His skin was a dark black dotted with colorful spots. He was wearing a splint.

“Give me a chance to avenge myself! Those rotten Earthborn won’t have a chance. They jumped me ten to one! Give me men and I’ll — ”

A giant tongue swelled forward from Iron Gut, wrapping around the man. A moment later, he disappeared down Iron Gut’s throat.

The huge, frog-like Celestial rose out of the water, extending its eight spider like limbs to force itself up. Each of its feet ended in a frogs toes. Black muck splashed across the entire consort. Several Enforcer’s were doused with the liquid, clinging to their clothes and slicking them wet. Most of them seemed comfortable in the disgusting liquid.

The entire city block smelled like rotting ponds.

The Iron Gut’s central body looked like a giant metal pot, with a third joint extending from its legs. Its face covered the entire front of the creature.

“Kin.” The Iron Gut said, slapping the Enforcer forward with a leg.

He staggered forward from his knees, stumbling to kneel before the Iron Gut.

“Where is the head of our enemy?” The Iron Gut croaked. It lowered it’s huge, central body.

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“He got away. He had help. Damn tree guards blocked the hall, and another rat from the prison protected him.” The Enforcer said, looking up. “I will kill him before the week’s end.”

“Do not fail me.” The Iron Gut croaked again. The giant monstrosity burped, then spit out a mix of slime and the clothes and armor of the Enforcer it had just eaten. They fell on the newly minted Enforcer’s head.

The giant, lumpy man stood deathly still as the Iron Gut began to retreat into the water.

High, high above, outside the prison, was an Imperial guard camp, sprawling miles. This was supposed to be a temporary location, but the Celestial Scar had never healed. As the wound stretched from years to decades, tents became wooden buildings, and wooden buildings became stone. Bare minimum fortifications became walled cities, and walled cities required keeps and management to oversee them.

In the center, high tower of the keep, as the sun finished rising over the valley, an old man stood, sensing the qi shift ever so slightly.

He didn’t look old. His physical age appeared to be in his late twenties.

He stood with a groan.

“My knees aren’t what they used to be.” He complained.

“You’re literally in your physical prime.” His second, a handsome young man replied. His second flipped through paperwork and recorded information as he moved jade tablets about a giant switch board. Seeing that the young old man didn’t sit down, his second turned to him. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

The old man, general of the Celestial Scar, Lord of hundreds of territories squinted.

The room they worked in had a gigantic, singular, floor to ceiling window replacing the wall on this floor, allowing him to see out into the valley.

The general thought he might have been hallucinating.

“Is the Bleeding about to begin?” His right hand, the second, asked.

“No. I just… thought I sensed a single drop of qi.”

“It would be strange if you didn’t sense any qi.” His second said.

Even now, the qi all around and above the valley swirled toward the General.

“No.” The general frowned. “I think I sensed the anti-light scripture—“

His second crushed a jade tablet he was holding, turning around to look at the general. The veins in his face bulged, his eyes were wide. The qi in the room grew discordant, warping.

“Should we give the order to exterminate the whole valley?” The young man asked.

“No.” The general said. “If we do that, the manuscript will just escape again. Those damn books have a mind of their own.”

“The prison is due for another culling.” The young man said.

“It will be your first, no? The last was a century ago…” The old man said. “They’re getting ready for another escape attempt. A good opportunity to sharpen the new recruits of the eastern army.”

Among the many functions of the celestial scar, one was less known. That was to test the forces of the fresh recruits in battle there. Thousands of them would die. Thousands more would find the will to reach the next Realm, becoming useful soldiers instead of cannon fodder.

The old general licked his lips, though they didn’t grow dry anymore.

“Send a message to the Big Five.” The general said.

His second balked.

“Sir, isn’t that a little extreme? The Penguin Relic Pavillion’s forces could arrive in days if they react as you have.”

The general waved a hand.

“Just tell them that we might have a lead, not that we detected an anti-light manuscript. No big deal. It’s not like it’s any use to anyone who already has a cultivation base, and those would be the only people to acquire it. The anti-light scripture wouldn’t slink out of hiding for someone with no cultivation base. Someone who hasn’t fought anything wouldn’t make it through the wilderness to get here, or be able to commit any crime to merit arrival. And the clans below would never teach a foreign technique.

“Beside that, it takes a one in one-hundred million talent to cultivate the anti-light scripture. What are the chances of a freak that meets all of that criteria appearing here?”

The general laughed.