Morning arrived without ceremony.
The outer court stirred slowly as disciples emerged from their huts, some stretching stiff limbs, others already tense with quiet urgency. No one spoke much. The sect encouraged silence—not through rules, but through indifference.
Azazel moved among them unnoticed.
He followed the stone path downward, away from the living quarters, toward a squat structure embedded into the mountainside. The Mission Hall.
It was not an impressive building.
Thick stone walls. A wide entrance. No decoration. The air around it felt stagnant, as though countless decisions had passed through and left residue behind.
Inside, it was dim.
A long counter stretched across the far wall. Behind it sat an older outer disciple, his robe worn thin at the edges. His eyes were dull—not lazy, but accustomed. The kind of gaze that no longer lingered on faces.
Stone tablets lined the walls, each etched with tasks and numbers. Some glowed faintly. Others were dark, already claimed.
Azazel stepped forward.
The man behind the counter looked up briefly.
"Name."
"Feng Azazel."
The man traced a finger across a small ledger. His movements were practiced. Efficient.
"New disciple," he said. "One mission at a time. No substitutions once accepted."
Azazel nodded.
The man gestured toward the tablets.
"Choose."
Azazel walked the length of the hall slowly.
He read each mission without haste.
Herb gathering. Boundary patrols. Message delivery between outposts. Beast tracking along the outer ridges.
Most were simple.
None were safe.
The sect did not waste resources protecting outer disciples. If someone failed to return, the tablet would be cleared. The task reassigned.
Azazel stopped near the far end.
One tablet remained unclaimed.
Its glow was faint.
Mission ID: 317
Task:Corpse Retrieval
Location:Northern Ravine
Details:Recover remains of outer disciples lost during prior mission.
Reward:30 merit points
Note:Cause of death unknown.
Cause of death unknown.
Azazel studied the tablet for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he pressed his palm against the stone.
The glow faded.
The man behind the counter glanced up again.
"Corpse retrieval," he said. No surprise. "You understand what that means."
"Yes."
"You die, the sect doesn't compensate your family."
Azazel said nothing.
The man shrugged and stamped the ledger.
"You have three days. Fail to return, and the mission is marked complete."
He slid a small wooden token across the counter.
"Boundary marker. Bring it back."
Azazel took it and turned away.
No warnings followed.
The sect gates loomed ahead.
Two stone pillars marked the boundary between cultivated ground and wilderness. Beyond them, the mountain dropped sharply into dense forest and broken terrain.
No guards stopped him.
Outer disciples came and went constantly. The sect tracked numbers, not individuals.
Azazel stepped past the pillars.
The air changed almost immediately.
Qi thinned. The faint pressure that lingered within the sect's grounds vanished. What remained was raw terrain—unfiltered, indifferent.
The path downward was narrow.
Loose stones shifted underfoot. Tree roots twisted across the ground like exposed veins. Sunlight filtered unevenly through the canopy above, leaving patches of shadow that never fully lifted.
Azazel moved carefully.
Not cautiously.
Precisely.
By midday, the terrain grew rougher.
The ravine cut through the land like a wound, steep-sided and narrow. The forest thinned near its edges, replaced by jagged stone and sparse vegetation clinging to survival.
Azazel stopped at the edge.
Below, the ravine descended sharply, its depths obscured by shadow.
He scanned the area.
No movement.
No immediate signs of battle.
Only silence.
He began his descent.
The smell reached him first.
Not rot.
Blood.
Old, metallic, faint.
Azazel followed it.
At the ravine's base, he found the first body.
Or what remained of it.
Clothing torn. Bones exposed. No clear wounds. The corpse lay twisted against the rock wall, as though thrown rather than struck.
Azazel crouched.
Examined the remains.
No claw marks.
No blade cuts.
The bones were fractured internally.
Crushed.
He straightened slowly.
Not beasts, he concluded.
He continued deeper into the ravine.
The second body lay further in.
This one was intact.
Eyes open.
Expression frozen in something between shock and confusion.
Azazel knelt.
The man's throat bore no wounds. No poison residue marked his lips. His chest showed no trauma.
Yet he was dead.
Azazel's gaze lingered on the shadows around the corpse.
They seemed… thicker here.
He stood.
The ravine narrowed further ahead.
Stone walls closed in. Light faded. Sound dulled.
Azazel felt it then.
Not danger.
Observation.
He slowed.
Placed a hand against the rock wall.
Cold.
Still.
Then—
A shift.
Subtle.
The shadows along the wall rippled, just slightly, as though disturbed by something that had no shape.
Azazel did not retreat.
He exhaled slowly.
Bone Refining energy settled into his frame.
Not outward.
Contained.
So this is why they died, he thought.
The ravine remained silent.
But something within it had noticed him.
And it was waiting.