The Crimson Witch's mouth stretched wider than any human jaw should allow, her teeth clicking together like a abacus counting sins. Ling Tian tried to retreat, but his transformed right hand - now more claw than flesh - had buried itself knuckle-deep in the packed earth, refusing to obey him. The crimson scales weren't growing properly. Instead of forming a protective layer, they peeled backward from his fingertips like flower petals blooming in reverse, exposing glistening muscle fibers that twitched with unnatural life.
"Fascinating," the Witch murmured, her voice like oil sliding across hot iron. She extended one lacquered fingernail toward the mutation, then recoiled when Ling Tian's claw spasmed violently, tearing three fresh furrows in the dirt.
Qing'er's sword appeared at the Witch's throat before the displaced soil had settled. "Undo this," she demanded, her blindfold fluttering with the force of her movement.
The Witch's laughter sounded like a teakettle left to boil dry. "Oh my dear blind fool, don't you see? His body isn't rejecting the seal - it's feasting on it." She tilted her head, observing Ling Tian's convulsing form with academic curiosity. "The dragon always eats first."
Ling Tian's vision swam as foreign memories flooded his mind:
Father kneeling in the southern rice paddy, the midday sun painting his sweat-darkened robe a deeper shade of blue. The sword came so quietly - just the barest whisper of steel through humid air before crimson blossomed across his father's chest like unfurling peonies. "Tian," Father gasped, his calloused hands still clutching immature rice stalks, "don't look—"
The memory shattered as Ling Tian's mutated hand erupted in agony - not from pain, but from some terrible, primal recognition. The scales began spreading up his forearm in jagged, uneven patches, each one burning like a brand.