Azazel returned to the sect at dusk.
The gates stood open. They always did. No one guarded them, and no one asked questions. Outer disciples came and went often enough that faces blurred into routine.
He passed through without pause.
Dried blood stained his sleeve, darkened and stiff. His breathing was steady. Pain lingered in his ribs and arm, dull but contained.
The Mission Hall was quieter than usual.
Only a handful of disciples remained inside, most standing near the stone tablets, reading without urgency. Azazel approached the counter.
The same outer disciple sat behind it.
"Mission."
Azazel placed the boundary marker on the stone surface.
"Corpse retrieval," he said. "Northern Ravine."
The man glanced at the token, then opened the ledger.
"Result?"
"Two outer disciples confirmed dead," Azazel replied. "Cause of death appears mutual. A bone-refining wolf was involved."
The man's eyes flicked once to Azazel's torn sleeve.
"Wolf confirmed?"
"Yes."
No elaboration followed.
The man scratched a note into the ledger, movements practiced and indifferent.
"Thirty merit points," he said, sliding a token across the counter."The ravine will be reassigned later."
Azazel took the token.
"Understood."
That was the end of it.
No one asked how the wolf died.
No one asked how Azazel survived.
The sect recorded outcomes, not stories.
Outside the hall, the outer court was louder than usual.
Clusters of disciples stood near the training fields and stone walkways, voices low but sharp with anticipation. The air carried tension—not fear, not excitement, but calculation.
Azazel slowed slightly.
He listened.
"—confirmed by the elders."
"Final ten only."
"Inner sect seats."
The words carried weight.
Azazel stopped near a stone pillar, standing just outside the circle of conversation.
"Everyone's eligible," a disciple said. "As long as you're outer sect."
"Doesn't matter," another replied. "Most won't survive the qualifiers."
A name surfaced.
"Han Yizhe."
The tone shifted when it was spoken.
Not reverent.
Not fearful.
Measured.
"Still Bone Forging, third stage," someone said. "But stable. Clean foundation."
"He's been in the outer sect for years," another added. "If anyone takes a seat, it'll be him."
Another voice cut in.
"Lu Kang's no joke either. Same realm. Less control, more aggression."
A third followed.
"And Shen Rui. Fast. Doesn't hesitate."
The conversation continued, names cycling in and out. Many. Too many to track.
Azazel focused on the pattern.
There were favorites.
Not certainties.
"Ten seats," someone muttered. "Out of hundreds."
"Inner sect finally opening the gate."
"Those who make it won't be outer disciples anymore."
The words lingered.
Azazel turned away.
As he walked back toward the outer court huts, fragments of conversation followed him.
Speculation. Confidence. Fear disguised as ambition.
The competition would not crown a champion.
It would cut away the excess.
Only ten would remain.
Azazel reached his hut and closed the door.
Silence returned.
He removed his outer robe slowly, inspecting the dried blood and torn fabric. The wounds beneath were shallow. Healing would take time, but not attention.
He sat.
And considered the names.
Han Yizhe.Lu Kang.Shen Rui.
They were not special because they were strongest.
They were special because they were known.
Visibility carried weight.
So did expectation.
The sect is preparing to choose, Azazel thought.Which means it will start watching.
That mattered.
He leaned back against the stone wall, eyes half-lidded.
The lotus within him remained still.
Azazel had no intention of competing openly.
Not yet.
The ten seats would draw blood long before the final round.
And blood revealed weaknesses.
He would watch.
Measure.
Decide when it was necessary to step forward—and when it was better to remain unseen.
Outside, ambition stirred across the outer court.
Inside, Azazel remained motionless.
The wolf was dead.
The mission was complete.
And the path ahead had quietly widened.