The landing wasn't a sanctuary. It was a kill box.
Yang Yi sat with his back to the cold stone wall, watching the dozen cultivators scattered across the platform. They weren't meditating. They were eyeing each other like wolves in a famine.
The gate to the next thousand steps remained shut. A massive slab of basalt, carved with weeping demon faces, blocked the path.
A man in the center of the plaza stood up. He wore the heavy, plated armor of the Iron Mountain Sect. His skin had a metallic sheen, a sign of the Iron Bone technique. He tapped a massive war hammer against his palm.
"Rest time is over."
The man's voice boomed over the wind.
"I am Chen Tu. The gate opens when the sun hits the meridian. That's in five minutes."
He pointed his hammer at the gathered crowd.
"But the path ahead is narrow. Too crowded. So we're going to lighten the load."
Two other disciples from his sect stepped out from the shadows near the gate. They blocked the mechanism, arms crossed, smirking.
Chen Tu grinned. "Leave your tokens. Leave your weapons. Jump off the edge. Or we throw you off."
A cultivator near the rim—a skinny youth with a spear—bristled. "You can't do this. The rules say—"
Chen Tu moved.
He didn't look fast, but his stride covered ten feet in a heartbeat. He swung the hammer.
Crack.
The youth's spear shattered. The hammer head continued its arc, slamming into the boy's chest.
Ribs collapsed. The boy flew backward, tumbling off the sheer cliff of the landing. His scream faded into the clouds below.
Chen Tu rested the hammer on his shoulder. He didn't even look winded.
"Anyone else want to quote the rulebook?"
Silence blanketed the platform.
Yang Yi watched the display. Iron Bone technique. High defense. Slow recovery speed. He relies on intimidation to end fights before his stamina drains.
He stood up. He dusted off his trousers.
Chen Tu turned, his eyes locking onto Yang Yi. He sneered at the bloodstained peasant clothes and the cheap sword.
"A rat made it to the landing. Impressive. Jump, rat. Save me the effort."
Yang Yi walked toward the gate. He didn't draw his sword. He kept his hands loose at his sides.
"I'm walking through that gate."
Chen Tu laughed. A harsh, metallic sound. "You're walking to your grave."
He swung the hammer again. A horizontal sweep meant to liquefy organs.
Yang Yi didn't dodge backward. He stepped in.
He dropped to his knees, sliding across the smooth stone. The hammer roared inches above his head, the wind pressure ruffling his hair.
He stopped directly between Chen Tu's legs.
He drove his fist upward.
It wasn't a punch. It was a spear-hand thrust, fingers stiffened with all the essence he had left, aiming for the perineum. The one spot the Iron Bone technique couldn't harden.
Chen Tu's eyes bulged. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The hammer fell from his nerveless fingers, clanging loudly against the stone.
Yang Yi stood up. He grabbed the back of the kneeling giant's head and slammed his face into the pavement.
Stone cracked. Chen Tu went limp.
Yang Yi stepped over the body. He looked at the two disciples guarding the gate.
"Move."
The disciples exchanged a glance. Their leader was down in two seconds. Their confidence evaporated. They stepped aside, weapons lowered, fear replacing their arrogance.
A low rumble shook the mountain.
The sun hit the zenith.
The weeping demon faces on the basalt gate opened their mouths. Chains rattled. The massive slab groaned and began to rise, revealing the next stage.
It wasn't stairs.
It was a chasm.
Across a hundred-foot gap, the path continued. Connecting the landing to the next cliff face were three massive, rusted iron chains. No handrails. No floor. Just chains swaying in the violent mountain winds.
Below the chains, mist swirled. Shapes moved in the fog—flying beasts, waiting for a meal to fall.
"The Bridge of Penance," a voice whispered from the crowd.
Yang Yi stared at the chains. The wind howled through the gap, strong enough to knock a grown man sideways.
He felt a presence beside him.
The ice girl from the stairs stood there. She looked pale, clutching her ribs where he had swept her, but her eyes were focused on the abyss.
"You fight dirty."
Yang Yi checked the straps on his boots. "I fight to win. You fight to look good. That's why you lost."
She scoffed, a puff of cold air leaving her lips. "The chains are slick with moss. And the Wind Eagles are nesting below."
"Then don't fall."
Yang Yi stepped onto the center chain.
The metal was cold and slippery, coated in centuries of grime and condensation. The chain dipped under his weight, swinging wildly.
A shriek pierced the air from below.
A Wind Eagle rose from the mist, its wingspan twelve feet across, talons like scythes. It screeched, diving for the lone figure on the chain.
Yang Yi drew his sword. He balanced on the swaying iron, suspended over death.
"Come on."