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Night draped Ashfall Village in a quiet hush, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the distant howl of mountain wind. Lin Chen sat beside a rough-hewn stone altar under the half-moon's glow, circled by nine charcoal briquettes lit in careful formation. Red wax from his candles slicked the frame of the thick wooden shrine, but all focus was on the steaming bowl of porridge before him.
He inhaled slowly, tasting dust-tainted grains, and let the heat settle down into his core. He had awakened the Dust Vein in planet-shaking fashion, bested a disciple of Qinghe Pavilion, and refused the overtures of Wen Jinhai himself. Word had spread—some praised him, some feared him, and most remained skeptical of the legendary Dust Vein.
But there were a few brave souls in Ashfall who saw past rumor and curiosity: they saw opportunity.
I. The First Disciple
The next morning, Lin Chen called for the first meeting:
Under that same cracked courtyard arch, he addressed three of the most loyal youth in the village—
Wei Yan, a lean, horse-faced boy whose agility matched his desperate energy;
Lan Shu, a quiet girl with sharp eyes and hair braided tight to steel;
Qiu Bo, a broad chest and even broader heart, always ready to lift weight or carry burdens.
They trembled while he spoke.
"I'm forming a sect," he said plainly.
"Not yet for power. For survival. For growth. Those who train with me must be loyal."
No one laughed.
At first, recruitment was simple. Evening training routines, barefoot running drills, lifting logs and carrying refuse like pulling training weights. Lin Chen taught them breathing and posture, how to feel qi as though it were wind, how to draw it gently through their bones. Some grasped it quickly; most struggled. But they persevered.
After two weeks of nightly drills, Wei Yan collapsed fainting from overtraining. Lan Shu burned her fingers trying to shape a paper talisman. Qiu Bo burst a lung during meditation.
Lin Chen closed their eyes and whispered: "Strength cannot be taken. It must rise from your dust."
II. The Temple of Foundations
One morning, Elder Xu presented Lin Chen a rolled scroll on faded silk. Opening it revealed the official permit to found Rooted Dust Sect—a black-edged symbol emblazoned with a single dust-colored spiral.
With trembling hands, Lin Chen placed it in the shrine and offered a prayer to ancestors he did not name. His voice was silent, but his heart thundered with weight greater than his body could hold.
That afternoon, villagers came out of curiosity. They saw him standing before the shrine, clad in fresh charcoal robes, backing lit by early sun. Wordless, but poised.
Then the whispers came:
"He carries his own insignia now."
"Is that the Dust spiral?"
"Rooted Dust Sect… here in Ashfall?"
Even elders nodded with hesitant pride.
Not every soul in the village joined his sect. But enough came—not for miracles, but for hope.
III. The Challenge Arrives
Ten days passed.
One morning, beneath the gray overcast sky, a delegation came. Not loud. Not armed. But there.
It was Qinghe Pavilion—three outer disciples with calm faces and restrained aura. They came not to kill, but to warn.
Their leader, a silver-eyed youth named Shen Mu, addressed Lin Chen in the open courtyard:
"Your sect name is not official yet," he said.
"By Pavilion rules, you cannot publicly recruit. You cannot teach qi. You have no permit."
Lin Chen stared back.
"Those rules were made for those who refuse to carve legacies themselves," he replied.
"What do you want?"
"To bargain," Shen Mu said.
"Join Qinghe Pavilion. Obey. Then speak of lesson and permission."
"Or?" Lan Shu demanded, stepping next to Lin Chen.
Shen Mu looked at her dismissively. Then at Qiu Bo as he stepped forward.
"Or the Pavilion will treat Rooted Dust Sect as lawless bandits," Shen Mu said.
"We will crush you. Leaves no ashes."
IV. The Response
Lin Chen didn't back down. His voice was steady:
"Rooted Dust Sect honors dust. But dust can break foundations—or build cities. We do both."
Shen Mu's face hardened—but before he could speak, Elder Xu stepped forward from the shrine's shade. His cane tapped the cobblestone with slow authority.
"This is no longer a child's game," Xu said.
"Lin Chen bears a vein older than your ritual manuals. Attack him and you dishonor all who claimed lineage before the Heavenbreaking War."
Shen Mu hesitated.
Elder Xu turned and spoke:
"Stand down. Ascend through honor, not through arrogance."
Silence. The three disciples bowed and vanished into the woods without another word.
V. Training and Ritual
That night, Lin Chen conducted his first sect foundation ritual.
The nine briquettes burned hot around him. He wore a simple circlet carved from duststone—his only treasure—forged during a sparring session with Qiu Bo.
As the moon rose higher, he lit incense and whispered:
"By dust I rise. By dust I endure. May those who join me learn not the path of easy power, but the path of rooted growth."
Lan Shu struck a gong. Its chime echoed across the courtyard. The nine new disciples knelt. They held thick iron rings representing the layers of the Dust Vein Realm. As it cooled, they grasped the ring, stepped through the circle, and vowed:
"I swear to breathe dust, to anchor will, to rise from nothing."
No grand decree. No scroll signing. But the crowd that gathered—friends, curious villagers, distant observers—realized something new had been born under the moon.
VI. First Inner Conflict
Not everyone agreed.
By dawn, rumors swelled:
"He's too young."
"He killed a disciple—it was murder, not justice."
"Qinghe Pavilion will destroy us for defiance."
One elder of the clan, Madam Zheng, approached Lin Chen.
"Your path… it's dangerous."
"They could call for eradication."
"We're simple people. Why push so hard?"
Lin Chen bowed, eyes lowered.
"Because peace is dust unless it's earned. We live under Heaven, but we are not bound by its will."
She frowned and turned away. Her disdain stung—but Lin Chen turned to his disciples.
"Dust rises from ashes," he said.
"Our strength comes from suffering, not safety."
They nodded, but fear was heavy in their eyes.
VII. The Storm Vein Disciple
On the third night after the ritual, a figure arrived.
On a narrow path beneath the moonlit bamboo grove stepped Hua Yiran, a striking cultivator from Red Crest Peak—raven black hair, midnight silk robes, curves described with paradox: both storm and calm.
She held a folded cloth box wrapped in red ribbon.
"From Elder Xu," she said, voice smooth like dusk.
"For Lin Chen of Rooted Dust Sect."
Inside lay a small mask carved from black jade, etched with the silhouette of a raven in flight.
"This grants you entrance to receive official training at Red Crest Peak," she explained.
"It also carries a token for impossible protection. But respect is earned."
Her gaze met his.
"You've done well. But there are storms coming. I will train with you. If dust truly rises beneath the wind, let me be that wind."
Lin Chen took the mask.
"I accept—not for glory," he said, "but for knowledge. And so we may endure."
She nodded.
"Then let the storms come."
VIII. Growth and Purpose
With Hua Yiran's arrival, training advanced rapidly.
Under moonlight and on wind-swept slopes, she and Lin Chen sparred with cotton roots and empty glades. She taught footwork derived from lightning, qi control drawn from emptiness. She teased his pride hardening his stance, guided Lan Shu's hands with soft correction, and challenged Wei Yan to stretch beyond fear.
Every strike, every breath, buried them deeper in the Dust Way.
Lin Chen watched as his fledgling disciples grew—some in strength, some in spirit, some in betrayal. Over meals of coarse rice, he taught them not to fear hardship.
"Power isn't given," he told them.
"It is carved out of dust, hammered by will, shaped by destiny."
IX. The Return of the Pavilion
Three months passed.
Red letters arrived from Qinghe Pavilion.
They issued a formal invitation—and a warning: attend or be declared enemies of the state's sanctity.
Lin Chen stood before his shrine with his inner circle.
He read the letter aloud:
"The guilt of breaking sect rules is yours. Come. Prove your worth. Or be erased."
Silence.
Lan Shu's lips trembled.
"They say we're traitors," she whispered.
Lin Chen looked at each of them:
"We do not fear erasure. We fear nothing. Because we have each other. And dust... always returns."
X. Departure to Qinghe
A week later, Lin Chen and his five strongest disciples set out for Qinghe Pavilion's border lands. Hua Yiran accompanied in silent escort, perched atop a pale spirit crane that glided above the forest canopy.
At their departure, Cao Jiang—leader of the Pavilion envoys—approached.
"I won't ask for submission," he said.
"But remember—if you fail, we will erase Rooted Dust from memory."
Lin Chen bowed low.
"I don't fear forgotten dust. I only fear unseen growth."
XI. The Road Forward
As they soared over the Broken Fang ridges, every disciple looked to Lin Chen with eyes of quiet concern and determination. The crushing weight of challenge trailed them, but so did hope of something greater.
He felt the mask upon his chest—black jade, raven-thin ribbon—and whispered to the wind:
"I am dust, and yet I rise. Not because Heaven demands it, but because I remember what it means to exist."
In that moment, the Broken Fang Mountains stretched out beneath, rivers glinting silver, forests trembling in dusk breeze, and the world seemed to fold into something both infinite and intimate.
The path ahead was perilous. Yet he had built something solid here—roots born of pain, resolve carved from dust, a fledgling sect called Rooted Dust.
And he would grow it—layer by layer, realm by realm—until even sky itself bowed before dust.
End of Chapter 7.