A second gust struck the furnace and snapped the weakened west brace. Its metal edge tore across Yan’s shoulder as the piece fell past the inner ring. Blood ran down his sleeve.
He kept one hand on the ring. A furnace worker caught his elbow and pulled him just far enough from the falling metal for Qinghe to see the cut. The injury came from the brace, outside the art’s personal cultivation costs.
“Clean cloth,” Qinghe called. “And clear the west side.”
The worker held the fabric against the shoulder while another moved the fallen piece away with a hook. Qinghe checked the wound. It was deep enough to need a firm binding, but Yan could move his arm without a bone shifting. The Final Offering continued to reverse its own cost inside him, strengthening his body and extending his life as its anchor benefit held.
The bandage tightened around his shoulder. One edge darkened with blood. Yan pressed his good palm to the ring and let the worker steady his injured arm.
“Can I return my hand?” he asked.
Qinghe checked the bleeding and the range of motion. “Keep the arm close. Don’t twist against the bandage.”
He chose to resume the cycle. He was not pretending the wound had vanished; he adjusted his grip so the injured shoulder stayed steady. The worker placed a padded brace beneath his elbow. Yan accepted it while continuing the current.
