The fire had burned low. Outside the cave, fog coiled like ghosts in the mountain dark. Jian Wuxin sat cross-legged again, but this time his eyes were fixed on the glowing page in front of him.
The mark had faded, but the memory of it burned in his mind.
Five faint green lines. Earth-grade. Peak. Five elements.
He flipped through the book, scouring the pages for anything about Spirit Roots. At last, he found it:
> Spirit Roots are the vessel by which a cultivator absorbs Heaven and Earth's Qi. The stronger the Root, the faster the absorption and the greater the potential.
Below that, a list:
White Root – No affinity. Mortal. Cannot cultivate.
Green Root – Earth-grade. Common among weak sects.
Yellow Root – Heaven-grade. Rare. Chosen by Heaven.
Red Root – Divine-grade. Unheard of since the ancient era.
Black Root – Sinful. Cursed. Abhorrent. Destroy on sight.
Jian Wuxin whistled low. "So green's... not great."
He turned the page.
> Spirit Roots come in elemental affinities—Fire, Water, Earth, Metal, Wood. A single-element root is more focused, but dual or five-element roots are more versatile and compatible with broader techniques.
And then—
> Among Earth-grade Spirit Roots, a Five-Elemental Root of peak alignment is rare and prized. While not as fast as Heaven-grade, such roots are sturdy, balanced, and capable of slowly evolving if nurtured correctly.
He raised his eyebrows. "So I'm not trash after all."
He scratched his jaw, then looked at the spirit stones again.
> With enough Qi and understanding, even an Earth Root can challenge Heaven.
That line hit him harder than expected.
He had always been a bandit because the world left him no other path. No name, no home, no sect. Just hunger and blade.
But now...
Now he had a root. A path.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to stay at the bottom forever.
He closed the book slowly, a strange fire lighting in his chest.
He grabbed one of the dimmer spirit stones and held it again.
"This time," he muttered, "I try it properly."
He closed the book slowly, a strange fire lighting in his chest.
He grabbed one of the dimmer spirit stones and held it again.
"This time," he muttered, "I try it properly."
But before he could begin, his eyes drifted again—almost unwillingly—to the black silk banner resting beside the fire.
It hadn't moved.
But it felt like it was watching him.
"Feed me," the voice had said before.
He reached out slowly, cautiously, and lifted it again.
The silk felt colder than it should've been. Too cold. Like it had been soaking in ice water—and yet it shimmered faintly with inner heat, like something slumbering within.
As his fingers tightened around the pole, the voice returned. Not a whisper this time.
A low, echoing growl inside his skull.
> "Blood. Flesh. Souls. Feed me."
His grip tightened, even as a chill ran down his spine.
"You're... alive?"
> "I am that which devours the forgotten. I have eaten kings. I have drunk the souls of cultivators. Feed me, and you will walk the path beyond mortality."
It didn't speak in words so much as pure intent, bleeding straight into his thoughts.
Then images—flashes—erupted in his mind.
A thousand warriors dying beneath a blood moon. A giant banner swallowing their souls like smoke. A cultivator laughing as his enemies screamed, wielding the banner like a god.
And now that power… lay in his hands.
The silk stirred, even without wind. The air thickened.
Then the voice sharpened, cruel and hungering:
> "Kill. Offer me the dead. Let their souls feed my hunger, and I shall lend you power to dominate the world below."
Jian Wuxin swallowed hard.
A madman would've tossed the thing into the fire.
But he was no fool. And he'd never had power. Never had anything.
And now? Now he had something no sect or empire would dare offer him: a shortcut.
He stared at the banner, then whispered hoarsely, "If I feed you… what do I get?"
The silk rippled. The voice smiled.
> "The strength to silence your hunger. The riches to shame kings. The throne of Heaven… if you dare steal it."
He stared at it in silence.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled the banner tight and tucked it into his pack.
His hands trembled slightly.
But he smiled.
He stared at it in silence.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled the banner tight and tucked it into his pack.
His hands trembled slightly.
But he smiled.
The fire crackled quietly behind him.
His thoughts drifted back to the corpses.
The men he had killed two nights ago. Bandits like him, but unlucky—foolish enough to fall asleep without posting a watch. He'd taken their pills, the strange book, the banner... and fled.
The bodies were still out there.
A whisper coiled in his thoughts, even though the banner lay silent in his bag.
> "Souls freshly dead... taste sweeter."
Jian Wuxin stood.
Outside, the mist still clung to the trees, thin and wraithlike. But he moved with purpose now, retracing his steps along the game trails and rocky paths that only a mountain-born rogue would know.
It wasn't long before he found them.
The bodies hadn't been touched.
Three men, still slumped near the dying fire. Their faces pale, their mouths open, eyes blank. Looted clean, but otherwise undisturbed.
He untied the banner and held it up with both hands.
"Alright," he muttered. "You wanted food."
As if sensing his intent, the silk unfurled on its own, fluttering unnaturally despite the still air. Strange markings—dull before—now shimmered faintly along the fabric.
> "Feed me."
A pulse of energy erupted from the banner.
The air grew heavy. The corpses twitched.
Ghostly wisps—faint, translucent silhouettes—rose from the bodies. Their souls. Still faintly clinging to the flesh, still bound to this world.
The banner inhaled.
Not with wind or noise, but with force. The kind of pull that twisted the stomach and pricked at the skin.
The souls screamed.
Jian Wuxin flinched, but didn't drop it.
In a matter of moments, the wisps vanished, sucked into the black silk. The corpses shriveled slightly, skin tightening, color draining.
Then the banner stilled.
He felt it. Something inside had shifted.
More than just hunger now. There was satisfaction. Power. And knowledge.
> "Three low-level souls. Crude. Weak. But enough."
The banner pulsed once. Then the voice returned—clearer, stronger, and more commanding.
> "I can refine their remains into puppets. Tools. Guards. Weapons of blood and bone. Say the word, and I shall make them walk again."
Jian Wuxin's heart pounded.
Puppets?
He stared down at the shriveled corpses, and for the first time, he saw them not as trash to be looted—but raw materials.
Something shifted in him.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was power.
And power... could be shaped.
"Do it," he said softly. "Make them mine."
The banner unfurled wide.
Blood-red light surged from the fabric and wrapped around the corpses.
And as the light faded...
They began to rise.
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