The Broken Shackles
The air in the Outer Sect Wastelands of the Cloud Ascent Sect was thick with the scent of stagnant water and spiritual rot. It was a place where failures and minor criminals were sent to perform menial tasks a slow, miserable death for any cultivator with talent. Wú Jié, draped in the coarse grey robes of a disgraced disciple, knelt beside a patch of withered Spirit-Grass, his slender fingers idly tracing the dry soil.
He was eighteen years old, possessing a handsome, almost delicate face, yet his eyes held a depth that belonged to ancient epochs.
Three hundred years.
Three hundred years he had spent living under the false doctrines of the so-called "Righteous Dao," culminating in a spectacular, fatal failure during his ascension tribulation. He had been the Heaven's Chosen, the Prodigy destined to reach the peak, but his adherence to moral codes and pointless self-sacrifice had only left him broken, devoured by the karmic backlash of his own virtue.
Now, he was back. Not as a ghost, but fully alive, reborn into his younger self, armed with the cold, hard memory of his future demise.
Morality is the chain that binds the weak. Wú Jié thought, feeling a faint, bitter sneer touch his lips. In this world of cultivation, the only truth is power, and the only ally is self.
His goal was simple and absolute: to defy the cycle of Jié (Tribulation) that had ruined him. He would not just reach the peak; he would stand outside the peak, master of his own fate.
His current predicament was a starting point, a necessary stepping stone. He needed the key to the sect's forgotten Lesser Spirit Meridian, a meager spring of Qi hidden beneath the Outer Sect that was considered too polluted for core disciples. To a genius like Wú Jié, even polluted Qi was better than none, and it was the fastest route to his first realm breakthrough.
The key was held by Elder Mo, the garden caretaker a corpulent, perpetually mournful man who had lost his cultivation base decades ago and now subsisted on cheap, bitter wine.
Wú Jié rose, dusting his hands off with a slow, deliberate motion. He began walking toward Elder Mo's shack, his footsteps silent on the compacted earth.
"Elder Mo," Wú Jié called out, his voice smooth and neutral, devoid of the subservience most disciples showed.
The Elder grunted, nursing a clay jug of wine while sitting on a worn stool. "What do you want, disgraced whelp? Can't you see I'm busy… contemplating?"
"I see you're drinking," Wú Jié corrected, stepping closer. "And you are drinking the 'Sun-Scorched Bitter Dew' vintage, which contains a high concentration of the Crimson Rot Toxin from the low-grade fermenting process. It won't kill you, but it will certainly accelerate the breakdown of your remaining meridians, shortening your life by three years per jar."
Elder Mo's eyes snapped open, a flicker of genuine fear replacing his usual drunken stupor. "What gibberish is this? It's just cheap wine!"
Wú Jié smiled a thin, almost predatory expression. "It is the truth, Elder. And I know precisely how to neutralize it. It involves three simple herbs, one of which you currently have growing right outside your door the 'Silent Bloom.' You likely thought it was just a weed."
He paused, letting the information sink in. This was not a negotiation; it was a transaction where Wú Jié held all the leverage.
"The key to the Lesser Spirit Meridian," Wú Jié stated simply, holding out his hand. "Give it to me, and I will write down the complete formula for the Three-Star Meridian Stabilizing Paste. Not only will it neutralize the Rot Toxin, but it will stabilize your crumbling foundation for another five years. You get five years of peace. I get access to trash Qi."
Elder Mo stared at the young disciple, his terror replaced by a chilling realization. This was not the broken youth rumored to be here. This was a calculating devil who saw the world only in terms of value and exchange. He swallowed hard, then slowly reached into his dirty collar and pulled out a tarnished bronze key.
"You… you dare call the Lesser Meridian 'trash'?" Elder Mo rasped, his hand trembling as he gave up his most prized, secret possession.
Wú Jié took the key. It felt cold and heavy in his palm. "It is a key to nothing, Elder. Your value is in your years, mine is in my time. A fair exchange."
Without another word or glance back, Wú Jié turned and walked towards the neglected well at the back of the grounds, the bronze key now clutched securely in his hand. The first piece of the grand chessboard had been claimed. The Boundless Calamity had begun its ascent.
The Polluted Spring
Wú Jié stood before the forgotten well, the heavy bronze key clutched in his hand. The wellhead was covered by a thick, circular slab of grey stone, its surface slick with moss and the residue of low-grade spiritual energy.
He didn't need to consult any manuals. The memories of his past life were clearer than any scripture. He knew the precise array of the protective seal, the subtle weak point in the locking mechanism, and the exact rotation needed to engage the key.
With a soft click, the seal shattered like cheap glass. He pushed the stone slab aside with inhuman ease, revealing a deep, dark shaft that emitted a foul, mineral-heavy steam.
Most cultivators would wrinkle their nose at the stench, deeming the energy the Lesser Spirit Meridian "polluted" and too slow to be worth the effort. In his past life, Wú Jié would have agreed. Now, he saw only raw potential.
He sealed the well opening with a simple, high-level Isolation Array written in the air using only a trickle of Qi. This was not to protect the meridian, but to prevent the inevitable spiritual fluctuations of his breakthrough from alerting the main sect.
Dropping into the shaft, he landed lightly on a narrow stone ledge above a pool of viscous, glowing water. This was the legendary "trash Qi." He sat cross-legged, placing his focus not on the water, but on his own broken foundation.
His past life's demise had left his spiritual root shattered, forcing him to start at the absolute lowest rung, the Mortal Realm: First Layer (Qi Condensation).
The memory of the ancient technique he had failed to master the Boundless Void Sutra flared in his mind. It was a demonic, high-risk method that focused on devouring spiritual energy, not guiding it.
The key to the Boundless Void Sutra is absolute assimilation, he reflected. Do not filter, do not purify. Take the pollution, the corruption, and the spiritual impurities, and use them to forge a foundation stronger than the "pure" paths.
He plunged his hands into the pool, activating the terrifying technique.
A cold, agonizing spiritual suction erupted from his body. The murky, concentrated Qi of the Lesser Meridian rushed toward him, bypassing his meridians, and slamming directly into his Dantian. It was a torrent of raw, unfiltered energy that should have caused his spiritual root to fracture immediately.
A normal cultivator would have spent months gently coaxing this energy. Wú Jié was not normal. He was driven by three centuries of accumulated knowledge and the burning hatred of his own failure.
Mortal Realm: First Layer—Break!
The water around his hands turned turbulent, the spiritual pollution condensing into a thick, black haze before dissolving completely.
Mortal Realm: Second Layer—Break!
The low, rumbling noise from the pool intensified. The amount of spiritual energy he was devouring was astronomical, the rate of his absorption unheard of. He was drawing the meager energy reserve of the entire Outer Sect and turning it into a furnace for his rebirth.
Mortal Realm: Third Layer—Break!
In under two hours, Wú Jié had not only stabilized his spiritual root but had torn through three cultivation layers, a speed that would cause the most elite prodigies of the inner sect to weep in shame. His foundation, forged in the fires of pollution and driven by unrestrained malice, was now terrifyingly robust.
He opened his eyes. The pool was still full, but the visible spiritual glow had dimmed significantly. He had taken enough for now. The taste of power was intoxicating, and the promise of what the real world held spurred him on.
He deactivated the Boundless Void Sutra and, with a subtle exertion of his newly gained strength, prepared to leave.
The Price of Silence
Wú Jié emerged from the well shaft, replacing the stone slab and repairing the isolation array as if nothing had happened. The air outside felt fresh, though the sun had long since set, leaving the wasteland illuminated only by a weak crescent moon.
He didn't need his spiritual sense to know he was no longer alone. Elder Mo was waiting, shivering in the shadow of his shack.
The Elder was not drunk now. His eyes were wide and terrified, staring not at the well, but at Wú Jié himself. The Elder had felt the catastrophic spiritual surge a pressure that pulsed once, intensely, and then vanished, leaving a cold vacuum behind.
"You… you took too much," Elder Mo whispered, his voice cracking with fear. "The spiritual flow… it's dead. It'll be months before it recovers."
Wú Jié looked at the old man. The stabilizing paste he had promised was a lie. He had no intention of wasting resources on a spent tool. Elder Mo knew about the key, knew about the well, and now knew about Wú Jié's inhuman speed. Elder Mo was a loose thread.
"I only took what was needed," Wú Jié said, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. "Did you think I would spend months gathering Qi in that puddle?"
Elder Mo's face drained of color. He finally understood the nature of the man before him. This was not a talented disciple; this was a force of destruction that was merely pausing at a low level.
"Wú Jié, I swear on my Dantian, I will not speak a word! I only want my quiet life back!" Elder Mo pleaded, falling to his knees and slamming his forehead against the dirt.
Wú Jié looked down, his obsidian eyes like chips of ancient ice. The thought of killing the Elder was immediate, efficient, and clean. It would remove the problem entirely.
But... killing an Outer Sect elder, even one disgraced, would create immediate ripples of investigation. It would draw attention before he was ready to move. Unrestrained evil did not mean reckless evil.
He needed the Elder to be a reliable, silent gatekeeper for the time being.
"Rise, Elder Mo," Wú Jié commanded.
The Elder scrambled back to his feet, trembling.
Wú Jié reached out a hand, but instead of striking, he casually dropped the tarnished bronze key back into the Elder's lap.
"You will not speak, not because you fear punishment from the heavens, but because you fear me," Wú Jié stated calmly. "If even a whisper of the Lesser Meridian's depletion reaches the Inner Sect, they will blame the current holder. That would be you."
He tilted his head slightly, the faint moonlight catching the cold geometry of his expression.
"But if you hold the key, and you maintain the silence, I will occasionally reward your diligence. Perhaps a pill that might genuinely extend your miserable life, or perhaps some rare wine that is not poisoned. We will maintain this arrangement."
Wú Jié turned, his form already dissolving into the shadows toward the Outer Sect barracks.
"Remember, Elder," Wú Jié's voice drifted back, cold as a winter storm. "Your existence is no longer your own. It is a resource I have chosen not to spend yet. Do not force my hand."
Elder Mo remained kneeling, the bronze key clutched like a burning coal in his hand, staring at the empty space where the "disgraced whelp" had stood. He knew he had just encountered a truly terrifying entity a devil who didn't offer death, but a life of eternal, watchful dread.
Wú Jié, the Boundless Calamity, had begun his second ascent.