The cold of the Ancestral Stone was not the biting chill of winter ice, nor the soothing cool of a river stone. It was a dead, abyssal cold that seemed to drink the heat from Eren Vale's palm.
Eren stood center stage on the Obsidian Dais, his arm extended, fingers splayed against the rough, meteor-forged surface of the monolith. He held his breath. The air in the Grand Hall of the Vale Clan was thick enough to choke on, saturated with the scent of burning sandalwood and the heavy, electric pressure of a thousand staring eyes.
*Pulse,* he commanded silently. *Wake up.*
He waited for the surge. The elders had described it a hundred times in their lectures: a torrent of liquid fire rushing from the dantian, traveling through the meridians, and exploding into the stone to reveal the color of one's destiny. A Red Root for fire, Blue for water, Gold for the rare metallic hardening.
Eren squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his will into his hand. *Anything. Give me anything. Even a blurred, Muddy Root is better than this.*
Nothing.
The silence in the hall stretched, tearing at the edges of his sanity. A second passed. Then ten. The stone remained a stubborn, lifeless slab of black rock. It did not hum. It did not glow. It merely existed, indifferent to the desperate boy trembling before it.
Eren's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sweat on his brow turned icy. He pushed harder, straining until the veins in his neck bulged, trying to force spiritual energy that simply wasn't there.
"Is the array broken?" someone whispered from the gallery. The sound was amplified by the acoustic architecture of the hall, cutting through the silence like a whip.
"Don't be a fool," another voice hissed back. "The Ancestral Stone never errs. It judges the blood."
Eren opened his eyes. The stone was still dark. It was a mirror of obsidian, reflecting nothing but his own pale, terrified face.
*No.*
The realization didn't hit him all at once. It seeped in, a slow, paralyzing poison. He wasn't late to bloom. He wasn't blocked. He was empty.
From the corner of his vision, Eren saw the Elder presiding over the ceremony step forward. Elder Ma. The old man usually smelled of rice wine and wore a mask of drunken indifference, but today, his eyes were sharp, devoid of their usual hazy warmth. He looked at the stone, then at Eren, and finally, he looked down at the scroll in his hands.
Elder Ma cleared his throat. The sound echoed like a gavel strike.
"Result..." Ma's voice wavered for a fraction of a second before hardening into professional detachment. "Null."
The word hung in the air.
"Assessment: Mortal Root."
The dam broke.
It started with a gasp from the section reserved for the branch families—a collective intake of breath that sounded like a vacuum sealing. Then came the murmurs, rising in volume and pitch like a swarm of agitated hornets.
"Mortal? The Patriarch's firstborn?"
"A cripple. He's a spiritual cripple."
"Impossible. The Vales have produced cultivators for six hundred years."
"Look at him. He's shaking. Pathetic."
Eren pulled his hand back as if the stone had burned him. He turned, his legs feeling like they were made of wet clay. He looked toward the high throne at the far end of the dais.
Patriarch Silas Vale sat there. His posture was impeccable, his robes woven from silk spun by Spirit Spiders, shimmering with a subtle, protective luminescence. He did not lean forward. He did not gasp. He did not look angry.
He looked... bored.
That was the dagger that finally pierced Eren's heart. His father, the man who had driven him to memorize the meridians before he could walk, the man who had sacrificed Eren's mother to the clan's ambitions—though Eren only knew she had died 'serving the family'—was looking at him with the same disinterest one might show a broken tool.
"Father," Eren croaked. His voice was small, swallowed by the cavernous hall.
Silas didn't blink. He raised a hand, and the roaring crowd fell instantly silent. The discipline of the Vale Clan was absolute, born of fear.
"Eren," Silas said. His voice was smooth, a baritone rumble that carried without effort. It wasn't a question. It was an acknowledgment of presence, nothing more.
"The stone..." Eren gestured vaguely behind him, his hands trembling. "I can try again. Maybe my meridians are dormant. I've read about cases—Delayed Awakening. If I just have access to the Spirit Pool, I can force them open—"
"Silence."
The command wasn't shouted. It was simply stated, carrying the weight of a cultivator in the Core Formation realm. The pressure in the room intensified, a physical weight pressing down on Eren's shoulders, forcing him to his knees. He gasped, his lungs struggling to expand against the crushing spiritual aura.
Silas stood up. He descended the three steps from the high throne, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. He stopped ten paces from Eren.
"The Ancestral Stone acts as a conduit for the Heavens," Silas said, addressing the hall rather than his son. "It does not lie. It does not malfunction. It measures potential."
Silas turned his gaze to the side of the dais, where the other young examinees stood. Among them was Kaelen Vale, Eren's younger half-brother.
Kaelen was practically glowing. Even without the stone, the ambient qi around him rippled. He stood with his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look surprised. He looked vindicated.
"A Mortal Root," Silas continued, turning back to Eren, "is a genetic dead end. It consumes resources but yields no power. In the world of cultivation, power is the only currency that matters. Without it, you are not a practitioner. You are livestock."
Eren flinched. The word *livestock* hit him harder than a physical blow.
"I am your son," Eren whispered, staring at the intricate embroidery on his father's boots. "I have studied the texts. I know the theory better than anyone. I can serve the clan as a scholar. I can manage the estates."
"The Vale Clan is not a merchant guild," Silas replied coldly. "We are a Martial Family. We hold our lands by the blade and the spirit. A Patriarch cannot be succeeded by a mortal. A branch cannot be led by a cripple."
Silas turned his head slightly toward the VIP seating area. "Lady Sunfall."
Eren's stomach twisted. He dared to look up, past his father, to the guest of honor. Lirael Sunfall. She sat in a chair of white jade, her expression unreadable behind a veil of sheer silk. They had been betrothed since birth, a political union to fuse the Vale toughness with the Sunfall affinity for fire arts.
Lirael did not look at Eren. Her gaze was fixed on the empty space above his head. Her hands were folded perfectly in her lap, knuckles white. Was she angry? Ashamed? Or was she merely relieved that she wouldn't have to marry a waste?
"The engagement is, naturally, annulled," Silas declared. "The Sunfall bloodline cannot be diluted by a Mortal Root. It would be an insult to their ancestors."
Lirael gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod. She didn't speak. She didn't fight for him.
Eren felt a sudden, sharp heat in his pocket. His hand instinctively brushed against the fabric. Inside was a small, crudely carved wooden doll. His mother had made it for him before she died—or vanished, as the clan records claimed. It was ugly, uneven, and utterly devoid of spiritual value. It was the only thing in this world that loved him without condition.
He gripped the doll through the cloth, anchoring himself to reality.
"Stand up, Eren," Silas commanded.
Eren struggled to his feet, fighting the lingering pressure of his father's aura. His legs shook, but he stood. He would not crawl. Not here.
"You have failed the Awakening," Silas announced, his voice projecting to the farthest corners of the gallery. "According to the laws laid down by our ancestors, the Vale Clan does not harbor waste. To feed a mortal who contributes nothing is to steal resources from a genius who could reach the Heavens."
Kaelen stepped forward then, unable to contain himself. "Father implies you are a parasite, brother," he said, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. "You've eaten the clan's spirit rice for seventeen years. You've worn silk meant for warriors. And for what? To give us... *this*?" He gestured mockingly at the dark stone.
"Know your place, Kaelen," Silas snapped, though there was no real bite in it. He turned his eyes back to Eren. "The law is clear."
Silas reached into his sleeve and pulled out a jade tablet. It was Eren's identity token, the proof of his lineage, glowing with a soft, internal light linked to the clan's formation.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Silas crushed the jade.
*Crack.*
The sound was louder than a bone breaking. The light inside the jade died instantly, the dust slipping through Silas's fingers to dirty the pristine floor.
"Eren Vale is dead," Silas proclaimed.
The crowd gasped again, but this time, there was a hungry edge to it. They smelled blood in the water.
"Standing before us is a nameless mortal," Silas continued, his eyes devoid of any paternal recognition. "By the decree of the Patriarch, you are hereby stripped of the Vale surname. You are stripped of your rank. You are stripped of your citizenship within the Inner City."
Eren felt the blood drain from his face. "Father... where will I go? The Outer City? I can work. I can—"
"The Outer City is for the families of servants," Silas cut him off. "They serve a purpose. You do not."
Silas pointed a finger toward the massive iron doors at the entrance of the hall.
"Your sentence is exile. You will be transported immediately to the Grey Wastes."
The silence that followed this declaration was absolute. Even Kaelen's smirk faltered for a second.
The Grey Wastes.
It wasn't just a slum. It was the spiritual sewer of the continent. It was where the runoff of corrupted qi, industrial alchemy sludge, and broken failures gathered. It was a lawless sprawling hellscape outside the protective arrays of civilization. Mortals didn't survive there. Cultivators sent there were usually dead within a week, eaten by mutated beasts or harvested by the gangs for their organs.
"That's a death sentence," Eren whispered. The horror finally broke through his shock. "You're killing me."
"I am showing you mercy," Silas said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper that only Eren could hear. "If you stayed here, Kaelen would kill you in your sleep within a month to secure his succession. In the Wastes, you have a chance to live like the vermin you were born to be. Scavenge. Survive if you can. But do it away from my sight."
Silas straightened up, his face becoming a mask of stone once more. He looked past Eren, toward the armored guards standing by the pillars.
"Escort the exile to the transport wagon. He is to take nothing but the clothes on his back."
"Wait!" Eren shouted, stepping back. "You can't do this! I am your blood! I am your son!"
"My son died the moment that stone remained dark," Silas said, turning his back. He walked toward the throne, his robes sweeping the floor, erasing the dust of the crushed jade tablet.
Two guards, massive men in black lacquered armor, materialized on either side of Eren. They didn't treat him with the gentleness reserved for a Young Master. One gripped his left arm, his gauntlet digging into the muscle with bruising force. The other grabbed his shoulder.
"Move, trash," the guard growled.
Eren dug his heels in, panic flaring hot and white. "Lirael!" he screamed, looking toward the jade chair. "Lirael, please! Speak to him!"
Lirael Sunfall stood up. For a heartbeat, she looked at him. Her eyes met his. In them, he saw a flicker of something—pain? Regret?
Then, she turned away, her fire-red robes swirling as she followed Silas toward the back of the hall.
"No!" Eren thrashed, but he was a mortal boy against warriors who had opened three meridians. He was a doll in the hands of giants.
They dragged him backward. His boots squeaked against the polished obsidian floor. He watched the distance grow between him and his father, between him and his life. The gathered crowd—cousins, uncles, people who had smiled at him yesterday—parted like the sea, their faces twisted into sneers of disgust. They didn't see a tragedy; they saw contamination being removed.
As they reached the heavy iron doors, the guard on his right stopped. He reached into Eren's pocket.
"Contraband check," the guard grunted. His rough hand fished out the wooden doll.
"No! That's mine!" Eren lunged, snapping his teeth at the guard's hand.
The guard laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He looked at the crude carving, then tossed it carelessly over his shoulder. It skittered across the floor, coming to a rest near a gutter drain.
"No toys where you're going, kid," the guard said, shoving Eren forward.
The iron doors groaned open, revealing the blinding, harsh light of the midday sun—a sun that felt colder than the darkest night. Outside, a cage wagon waited, the iron bars rusted and stained with something dark and dried.
The guard kicked Eren in the back of the knee. Eren buckled, falling hard onto the dirt of the courtyard, the taste of dust filling his mouth.
"Get in," the guard commanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Eren looked up at the cage. He looked back at the closing doors of the Ancestral Hall. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed the interior was Kaelen, standing on the dais, watching him with eyes that promised this wasn't the end of his suffering—it was merely the prologue.
Eren scrambled into the cage, the metal door slamming shut with a finality that echoed in his marrow.
As the wagon lurched forward, the wheels grinding against the stone, Eren curled into a ball, his hand clutching the empty space in his pocket where the doll had been. The rage didn't come yet. There was only a hollow, vibrating emptiness where his soul used to be.
He stared through the bars as the wagon gathered speed, leaving the pristine avenues of the Inner City behind, rolling inexorably toward the towering, smog-choked gates that marked the boundary of the civilized world.
Beyond them lay the grey.