Wei Feng had spent weeks buried in silence beneath the crimson fog of the Valley of Despair, tempering the Qi he had seized. It was volatile—unrefined like crude oil, burning through his veins with every misstep. Each breath, each movement, each pulse of energy had to be wrestled into control.
But even the ruthless pace of cultivation couldn't prepare him for the day the sky bled.
It began as a shimmer in the air. The sun dimmed unnaturally, as if swallowed by a veil. Shadows thickened and bent against their sources, creeping along stone like fingers grasping at light.
Then, the world turned red.
The eclipse bled across the heavens in a slow, malevolent arc. Wei Feng snapped open his eyes mid-meditation, the Qi-rich spring at his side rippling with turbulent energy. The Qi in the valley surged—not with vitality, but with hunger. And beneath that surge came a low, subsonic hum. It didn't enter through the ears. It vibrated directly in his bones.
The ground shuddered.
From the soil, a rupture formed. Cracks spiderwebbed outward, and from the center, a claw-like hand burst forth. It was formed not of flesh, but of condensed shadow—void shaped into fingers. It grasped his wrist before he could flee.
Wei Feng wrenched back, but the hand pulled with no haste—just inevitability.
Then darkness took him.
He awoke on cold stone.
A chamber—circular, vast, suffocating. The walls throbbed with runes, alive with blood-colored light. The scent of iron was thick, as if the air itself had bled. Around him stood others—forty-nine in total. No pattern. A frail elder, a girl too young to speak, a mother heavy with child, a lame boy with burnt hands.
Wei Feng's eyes swept the room. This wasn't random.
They weren't chosen for strength.
They were chosen for weakness.
A voice boomed overhead. It didn't echo. It simply was—present inside the skull, not outside it.
"Welcome to the Trial of Blood Eyes. Two of you shall survive. The rest will be returned to dust. Begin."
Before anyone could speak, light swallowed the chamber.
They stood now on a desolate plain beneath the blood eclipse. The soil was dry and cracked, devoid of life. In the center, a perfect circle glowed faintly. A sigil. A stage.
Then, again, the voice:
"Stand within the circle. Each of you must cast a vote. The one with the most votes shall be executed."
Panic. Screaming. Pleas.
Wei Feng said nothing. He simply stepped forward and watched. Watched the humans unravel.
The first vote came from a panicked man. He pointed to an elderly woman. Her circle flared. A sound like cracking bone echoed—and she was gone. Ash in the wind.
More followed. Chaos broke the group apart. Arguments, false alliances, betrayals born within minutes. A man kissed a girl on the forehead and voted against her in the same breath.
Wei Feng observed.
There were no leaders. Only fear.
He watched which way the crowd moved—who it feared, who it spared. Pregnant women and children became sacred objects. Even the cruel dared not touch them, lest the others turn.
That's how they survive, Wei Feng thought. Not by strength, but by perception.
He voted next. Quietly. A middle-aged man who had killed a teen moments ago. No one objected. That was how you survived. Kill threats, appear rational. Just enough blood to look necessary.
The votes grew more political, less moral.
And Wei Feng… shaped them.
He whispered. Stirred doubts. He pointed out small inconsistencies in stories, used body language like a weapon. Each seed of paranoia he planted took root within minutes.
By the time five remained, there were no alliances. Only eyes darting toward the edge of the circle, hoping someone else would move first.
Wei Feng stood among them. A quiet boy with broken shoes. A woman clutching her belly. Another woman with tear-streaked cheeks. A gaunt youth whose eyes never blinked.
No one spoke.
Then the boy moved.
He raised his hand slowly, almost reverently. Threads of pale-blue Qi spiraled out, forming a blade of trembling energy in the air. He wasn't a child. Not truly. He had just passed as one.
The blade shimmered. It flew.
Wei Feng's gaze sharpened. No emotion. Just calibration.
He stepped forward.
A sword—one he had laid quietly at his feet when the game began—rose with a flick of his finger. It quivered once. Then shot forward.
Two lines of light crossed the field. But only one reached its target.
The blue blade vanished mid-air, Qi scattering like pollen in wind.
Wei Feng's weapon hit the boy's neck cleanly. No scream. Just stillness. Then collapse.
The others stood frozen. The second pregnant woman fell to her knees, sobbing silently, cradling her belly.
"You… you're a monster," she whispered, not at him—but to herself, as if trying to believe the words.
Wei Feng didn't respond. He glanced at the sword now resting again in the dust, exactly where he had placed it hours ago.
He hadn't hidden his power. He had disarmed himself in front of them. That was all it took.
The Veil of the Mortal technique masked his cultivation, lowering his Qi signature to that of a dying beggar. A gift from the Blood Stream manual. He had sat among them as prey—and struck when the wolves bared their throats.
They never saw it coming.
He looked at the woman once more.
There was no victory in his gaze. No malice.
Just calculation.
The voice returned, colder than ever.
"Welcome, survivors. You are now initiates of the Blood Stream Sect."
A portal opened—bleeding crimson light, pulsing like a wound. A new threshold.
Wei Feng stepped into it without looking back. Behind him, the sobs continued—but distant now, like echoes from a life that no longer concerned him.
His hand touched the hilt of the blade.
It was still warm.