The Outer Court Laborers Barracks was less a residence and more a communal grave. It was a single, sprawling stone structure nestled behind the sect's sewage run-off, perpetually damp and smelling of sour earth. Arin found a vacant straw mat in a corner, his sole luxury a broken clay bowl.
His new existence was immediately defined by the rhythm of relentless, mind-numbing labor (B1.14). They were the Duskwind Sect's unseen engine: carting massive stone blocks for new construction, manually crushing herbs for medicinal powders, and, most humiliatingly, scrubbing the ornate pavements of the inner courts, where true disciples walked with aloof disdain.
The work was designed to break the spirit and the body, a filtering mechanism to ensure that only those with inherited privilege or innate talent could focus on cultivation. For Arin, however, the bone-deep physical exhaustion was a perverse blessing. It was so intense that it masked the subtle, constant ache of the Divinity Mark's drain. The gnawing hunger in his spirit, the one Seliora's essence maintained, felt like a mere fatigue beneath the weight of stone and sweat. He worked twice as hard as his fellow laborers, earning wary looks from the overseers not because he was zealous, but because he was desperately trying to outrun the pain of his soul.
If my body is already screaming, my soul's screaming is less noticeable.
He spent the first week in a disciplined daze, moving like a machine. But the real failure came at the end of the seventh night.
After the overseer had locked the barracks, Arin sat cross-legged on his mat, the stench and the cacophony of snoring men his only companions. He closed his eyes and attempted his first formal, controlled Cultivation Session. He focused his mind, reaching out to draw the ambient Qi of the Duskwind Mountains into his spiritual sea.
The Qi here was certainly better than in the mortal villages, a thin, silver mist. Arin inhaled, guiding the energy toward his core.
But the moment the Qi entered his system, the crescent Mark on his collarbone awoke. It didn't ignite violently like before; it acted as a slow, deliberate siphon. The newly absorbed Qi didn't settle in his dantian (spiritual core); it was instantly drawn to the Mark, devoured by the cold, infinite presence of the goddess's fragment.
He tried again, straining until sweat beaded on his forehead, but the result was the same. The Mark was an open wound, and every bit of energy he harvested was immediately used to sustain the divine bond. He felt no strengthening, no progression from the Flesh-Touched stage. His mortal cultivation was completely blocked by his divine burden.
Frustration, cold and sharp, replaced exhaustion. He needed power now, not in years. His life depended on reaching the next stage the Blood-Engraved stage where his blood would glow with rudimentary divine runes, offering true resilience and a minor ability.
He stopped the futile meditation. He reached up, pressing two fingers directly onto the cold Mark. He ignored the instinctive mortal fear and forced his will into the center of the wound, seeking the voice of the fragment he had heard before.
The pain was immediate and searing, like touching a live wire. Arin gritted his teeth, his body convulsing slightly on the mat.
'Seliora. Goddess. If you are my anchor, you must guide me. The cultivation here fails. Tell me the path to Blood-Engraved.'
The world outside his mind dissolved. He was no longer on a damp mat, but standing on a black beach under a perpetual silver eclipse. Seliora's fragmented form stood before him, clearer this time, wearing garments woven from starlight and shadow.
"You try to follow the path of mortals, Arin," her voice resonated, a beautiful, haunting sound of crystalline chimes. "It is the path of dust. Their Qi is worthless to my chains. It is drained simply to keep my Lunari fragment from shattering entirely."
She walked toward him, leaving footprints of solidified moonlight on the black sand. "You are not a mortal cultivator. You are a Vessel. Your growth is tied to the Divinity Marks, and those must be earned."
'Earned how?' Arin demanded.
"Through conflict. Through choice. Through sacrifice," Seliora whispered, her eyes fixed on him with a hungry intensity that was both tender and terrifying. "Your divine power requires a specific fuel: the defiance of fate. You are bound by the Law of Balance. You cannot progress by mere meditation; that would make you my mindless puppet."
She knelt down, her essence radiating cold comfort. "The Mark must feed on profound mortal actions. When you overcome a trial, when you face a choice that could mean life or ruin, when you seize what fate decreed you should not have—that is the sacrifice. That allows the shard to fuse, granting the next Mark."
"The next Mark… the Blood-Engraved stage… it will not come from sitting and breathing. It will come when you take a step no mortal dares. You must seek the Triallands, or challenge the system that imprisons you. Power must be taken, Arin. Never given," she concluded.
The vision shattered.
Arin gasped, back on the mat, his entire body drenched in cold sweat. His hands were shaking, but his mind was alight with sudden clarity. The Divinity System was not a cheat; it was a pact. He couldn't cultivate the traditional way. He had to trigger his progression through mortal conflict.
He had to seek out the arrogance of the Duskwind Sect, their challenges, and their inner secrets.
My first challenge…
He thought back to his humiliating work. The disciples mocked the laborers daily, often confiscating their meager spiritual supplements or forcing them to perform dangerous tasks. Tomorrow, he was assigned to clean the Spiritual Herb Garden, a place rumored to be guarded by a petty but powerful inner disciple who enjoyed humiliating the laborers.
That would be his sacrifice. That would be his first deliberate mortal choice to defy the system. He needed a victory, however small, to prove to the system and to Seliora that he was worth the volatile investment.
Arin rose, the familiar hunger of the Mark no longer draining his morale, but steeling his resolve. He was still a labourer, an outcast, but he was now a hunter stalking his own destiny within the sect's walls.