The Holy Saint Sect was carved into the mountain itself—its front gate a series of massive steps that shimmered faintly with spiritual runes. Disciples in white robes moved like flowing water across bridges, platforms, and floating gardens, their auras clean and measured.
As the carriage descended, Ash's eyes caught something beyond the grandeur: walls. Fences. Entire districts separated by glowing formations.
The sect was divided—cleanly and completely.
At the gate, Elder Huo stepped down first.
"You'll be processed at the Outer Hall. You'll receive your robe, token, and sect rules. From here on, your life is your own."
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. His work was done.
Ash followed the flow of other newcomers—all from remote villages, all orphaned or common-born. They gathered at a lower courtyard near the eastern cliffs, where an old disciple handed out plain grey robes and bone tokens engraved with "✦ Outer 9th Ring ✦".
That's where Ash met Wen Rou and Jin Kuo—two other sixteen-year-olds also picked from backwater villages.
Wen Rou was a skinny girl with bright eyes and sharp tongue. Jin Kuo had a wide build and scars down his neck, speaking with a hoarse rasp like he'd swallowed dust his whole life. They bonded quickly—strangers clinging to the only familiarity they could find: insignificance.
"They call us Outer Dogs," Rou whispered. "Nine Rings. The lowest. Every ring closer to the inner mountain is a hundred times better."
Kuo scoffed. "Let them call what they want. I'll just train till my fists shut them up."
Ash didn't reply. But his eyes had already locked on the group approaching from the west platform.
They wore robes of faint silver—not pure white like the Inner Elders, but lined with golden seams. Their hair was neat. Their auras were sharp. And they didn't walk—they glided.
At their center stood a youth, no older than eighteen. His black hair was tied in a crimson clasp, and his eyes carried the arrogance of someone who believed the sky was his roof.
Zhao Yiming.
His name spread before him like perfume—carried by whispers and fear. The son of the Zhao Clan, one of the three ruling families in the Lower Realm. His Fire-Spirit Root was high-grade. His Qi Condensation stage was already complete. He was a future Inner Disciple, guaranteed.
He stopped before the courtyard of new disciples, glancing over them like inspecting livestock.
Then he smiled.
"So these are the new pigs. Fresh from the mud."
One of his companions laughed. "This one's still got ash in his hair. Fitting."
Ash felt the warmth of many eyes turning to him. He didn't flinch, didn't respond. But the mockery landed.
Zhao Yiming walked forward, raising a long, smooth finger and pointing at Wen Rou.
"You. Speak."
Wen Rou's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
"No?" Yiming smiled. "Then bark. Dogs bark, don't they?"
Kuo stepped forward, voice like gravel. "Enough."
There was a blur. A flicker of Qi.
And Kuo was on the ground—sprawled, coughing blood.
"Outer dogs don't speak until they're spoken to," Yiming said lightly, withdrawing his hand. "Do not forget it."
The silver-robed youths laughed again. Then they turned and left, their steps echoing like falling hammers.
Later that night, Ash sat alone on the edge of his straw bed in the Outer Dormitory Ring 9, watching the bruises darken on Kuo's face.
He could still hear Zhao Yiming's laughter. Still feel the silence in the courtyard. The hierarchy was iron. Power didn't need reason here—it was reason.
But Ash didn't feel anger. Not exactly.
He felt… still. Cold.
He pulled the blanket aside. Beneath his robe, pressed to his chest, the black silk scroll was pulsing again—quiet, but insistent.
He unwrapped it carefully.
No words on it. Only ancient, bone-colored symbols etched into the cloth like claw marks. When he touched it, they pulsed faintly, and a single word burned into his mind:
"Breathe."
So he did.
And for the first time… he felt it. Not Qi. Not warmth. But something older. Colder. Deeper than the earth.
Necrotic Will.
A soft stirring in the room. Faint mist. And in the far corner, behind the shadows of the rafters… something began to form.
Not bones. Not rot.
But a figure, kneeling. Its skin was like smoke, its eyes empty. Yet it bowed.
Ash's pulse remained calm.
"You're not dead," he whispered.
The spirit tilted its head.
"You just… remember being alive."
And for the first time since leaving the village, Ash smiled.