The cold wind of Shang City howled as night fell, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. Zhen Zenin stood alone near the edge of the slums, where flickering lanterns barely held back the dark.
His cultivation had reached Qi Gathering Realm, Stage 3. It wasn't much—but enough.
He needed a spirit crystal to stabilize his foundation. The clan wouldn't give him one. And so, he found another way.
He followed the whispers.
A rogue cultivator had recently returned to Shang City—wounded, unstable, and in possession of a stolen spirit crystal. Zenin tracked him through alleyways, silent as a ghost.
He found the man hunched over near an abandoned shrine, breathing heavily, blood soaking his sleeve.
"Who's there?" the rogue growled, blade drawn.
Zenin stepped forward, black hair billowing, eyes like polished obsidian. "The one who needs what you stole."
The rogue laughed. "A brat dares threaten me?"
But Zenin didn't reply. His fist moved faster than thought, striking the rogue's wrist. Bones cracked. The blade clattered to the ground.
The man screamed—but Zenin was already on him, white flame flaring in his palm.
"Mercy—!"
Zenin's eyes narrowed. "Did you show mercy to the merchant's daughter you crippled?"
The rogue's eyes widened in horror.
Zenin didn't hesitate.
A flash of white flame. The smell of burning flesh. Silence.
The first death.
---
Zenin stood still for a long moment, watching the white flame flicker out. In his hand lay the stolen spirit crystal, pulsing with faint energy.
He felt no joy. No regret.
Only resolve.
"This is the world," he whispered. "Kill or be killed. I've chosen."
He returned to the Zhen Clan before dawn, slipping past guards with ghost-like ease. In his chamber, he sat cross-legged, spirit crystal before him.
And began to absorb.
---