The rain had been falling since dusk.
Not the heavy kind that drowned sound and sight, but a thin, patient rain that soaked into clay walls and bone alike. In the mountains of Qinghe Prefecture, such rain often meant hunger in the coming weeks. Crops rotted quietly, and people learned to endure without complaint.
In a nameless village pressed between two ridges, a woman labored in a house that should have collapsed years ago.
Her breathing was shallow. Each gasp sounded as though it scraped against her ribs before escaping. The midwife crouched nearby, sleeves rolled high, her expression stiff with long familiarity. She had seen too many births in too many poor homes to expect miracles.
Hold on, the old woman said, though her voice carried little conviction.
Outside, the rain tapped against broken tiles. A single oil lamp flickered, throwing long shadows across the walls. The house smelled of damp earth, blood, and smoke.
The child arrived without ceremony.
No cry split the air. No sudden change stirred the rain or wind. The baby lay still for a breath too long, skin pale, chest unmoving.
The midwife's hands paused.
Then barely his lips parted, and a thin sound escaped. Weak, hoarse, as if the child had already learned restraint.
He lives, the midwife muttered.
The woman on the bed exhaled, relief softening her hollow face. She reached out with trembling arms and pulled the child close, as though afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip.
Yuan, she whispered, forcing the name out between exhausted breaths. Call him Yuan.
The midwife glanced down. That name's too heavy.
The woman smiled faintly. Then let him carry it slowly.
The rain continued to fall.
Far beyond the clouds, beyond the limits of mortal sight, a vast and silent structure drifted through the void. Pages of pale light turned one by one, each inscribed with names, origins, and lifespans—records of all lives born beneath Heaven.
A page turned.
Where a name should have appeared, there was nothing.
No mark. No blur. Only blankness.
The page did not resist.
It simply remained empty.
And Heaven, accustomed to obedience, did not look twice.
Li Yuan's childhood passed without distinction.
He was small for his age, his limbs thin and his shoulders narrow. In a village where survival demanded strength, this alone marked him as expendable. He learned early that crying brought scolding, and asking questions brought irritation.
So he stopped doing both.
By the age of six, he carried water from the stream each morning before the sun fully rose. The wooden bucket bruised his palms, and his arms ached long after he returned home. His mother apologized every time.
Li Yuan shook his head. He did not mind the pain. Pain had clear boundaries. Hunger did not.
At eight, he learned how to recognize footsteps.Which ones belonged to drunk men.
Which meant trouble.Which meant it was better to leave.At ten, he learned that silence was not emptiness, but space to observe.
He noticed things others ignored.
The way people spoke more loudly when they were afraid.
The way village elders avoided eye contact when they lied.
The way cultivators, when they occasionally passed overhead, never once looked down.
Flying swords cut through the sky like strokes of silver ink. The villagers knelt in the mud, heads bowed, backs curved in reverence.
Li Yuan knelt too—but never fast enough.
Once, an elder struck him with a stick across the shoulder.
Show respect, the man barked.
Li Yuan bowed lower, lips pressed tight. He did not apologize. Apologies, he had learned, were invitations to be questioned.
That night, lying on a straw mat beside his sleeping mother, he listened to his heartbeat.
Steady. Ordinary.
He wondered, not for the first time, what separated those in the sky from those in the mud.No answer came.The test arrived in autumn.A black-sailed ship descended at the edge of the village, flattening fields as though they were nothing more than scribbles on paper. The air changed immediately. Pressure weighed down on every chest, heavy and cold.
The mark of the Black Mountain Sect was carved into the hull.
Cultivators disembarked one by one, robes clean, expressions indifferent. Their presence alone drew the villagers into submission. Knees hit the ground. Foreheads pressed into dirt.
Children between ten and fifteen, one disciple announced, his voice amplified by qi. Step forward.Hope spread faster than fear.
Parents pushed their children ahead, whispering blessings, promises, prayers. Some cried. Others trembled. All believed this was a chance to escape the slow death of the mountains.Li Yuan stood still.
His mother's hand tightened around his sleeve.
Go, she whispered. At least try.
He nodded and stepped forward.
The test stone was clear and cold, resting on a raised platform. One by one, children placed their hands upon it. Some stones glowed faintly. Others cracked. Gasps followed each reaction.
When Li Yuan's turn came, the disciple barely looked at him.Hand.
Li Yuan placed his palm against the stone.
Nothing happened.No warmth.
No light.No reaction at all.
Silence stretched thin.
The disciple frowned, irritation surfacing. He tested the stone again. Still nothing.
No spiritual root, he said flatly. Next.
A few children snickered. A woman sighed in disappointment.
Li Yuan withdrew his hand and stepped back without protest.
He felt it then just for a moment.
A pressure, faint and distant, like something vast had leaned closer… then pulled away.
Behind the disciples, an old elder narrowed his eyes.Wait, the elder said.The platform quieted.
The elder approached slowly, studying Li Yuan as though he were an object with a flaw that refused to reveal itself. His gaze lingered, then passed over.Strange.
There was no resistance. No rejection.
It was as if the boy simply wasn't there.
Hmph, the elder snorted. Take him as a menial.
The disciple hesitated. But Elder, he
Did I stutter?The disciple bowed. No.
Li Yuan felt his mother's grip tighten before she let go.
That was the last time he saw her.
The Black Mountain Sect was not kind to the weak.
Li Yuan learned this before he even reached the outer gates.
Menials slept in damp stone rooms. Food was rationed. Mistakes were punished without explanation. Strength determined worth, and worth determined survival.
Li Yuan scrubbed floors until his fingers bled. He carried firewood until his legs shook. He spoke little and listened much.
At night, when exhaustion dragged his body toward sleep, his mind remained sharp.
He watched how disciples circulated qi. How elders spoke in half-truths. How power shifted quietly, like a current beneath still water.
He did not know why the test stone had failed.He only knew one thing.He had not been rejected.He had simply not been seen.
And somewhere above the clouds, Heaven turned its pages—
and continued to skip his name.
Chapter 2
Menials Are Not Human
The Black Mountain Sect did not greet new arrivals with ceremony.
Li Yuan learned this the moment he passed through the outer gates.
There were no welcoming elders, no explanations, no promises of cultivation. Only a stone path stained dark by old rain and older blood, winding upward between jagged cliffs. The air itself felt heavier, as though the mountain pressed down on those who dared climb it.
A disciple led the group forward without looking back.
Keep up, he said. If you fall behind, don't bother catching up.
No one asked what would happen if they failed. No one needed to.
By the time they reached the menial quarters, Li Yuan's legs trembled from exhaustion. The buildings squatted at the lowest slope of the mountain, half-hidden by mist and shadow. They looked less like homes and more like storage sheds—long, narrow, and damp.
This is where you stay, the disciple said, gesturing vaguely. This is where you work.
He turned to leave.
A boy beside Li Yuan gathered his courage. Senior Brother… when do we begin cultivating?
The disciple paused.
Slowly, he turned back.
His eyes were calm. Almost bored.
Menials,he said, do not cultivate.
Then he walked away.
The words settled heavily over the group.
Inside the quarters, the smell hit first.
Sweat, mold, rotting straw, and something faintly metallic. Rows of wooden platforms lined the walls, each barely wide enough for a person to lie on. Some were empty. Others were not.
No one explained the rules.
Li Yuan chose a spot near the corner, away from the door and the center of the room. He placed his bundle down and sat quietly, back against the wall.Around him, others whispered.How long do we stay here?Do they really feed us?I heard menials can still become disciples if they work hard…
Li Yuan listened and said nothing.
By nightfall, an overseer arrived.
He was a thick-bodied man with a scar running from ear to jaw, his robe marked with the symbol of the Black Mountain Sect—but faded, as though washed too many times. His gaze swept over the room like a butcher assessing livestock.
"You," he barked, pointing. Line up.They obeyed.The overseer paced before them slowly."Listen carefully," he said. "Because I will not repeat myself."
He stopped in front of a thin boy shaking from cold.
"You are menials. Not disciples. Not people.
The boy flinched.
You exist to work. If you work well, you eat. If you work poorly, you are punished. If you break the overseer shrugged. You are replaced.
Silence. Any questions?No one spoke.
The overseer nodded, satisfied. Good. Tomorrow, before dawn. Miss it, and you won't need breakfast ever again.
He left.
That night, Li Yuan did not sleep.
Not because of fear—but because of observation.
Men shifted in their sleep. Some whimpered softly. One man coughed without stopping, his breath rattling wetly in his chest. No one helped him.
Li Yuan stared at the ceiling and memorized the sounds.
Those who cried loudest were ignored.
Those who stayed silent were watched less.
Near dawn, the coughing stopped.
No one commented on the empty platform in the morning.
Work began immediately.
Menials were divided into groups and assigned tasks without explanation. Some hauled stones. Others scrubbed pathways already clean. Li Yuan was sent to carry water from a spring halfway down the mountain.
The buckets were heavy. The path was steep.
The first time he stumbled, water sloshed out.
The overseer's stick struck his shoulder before he even realized he had slowed.
Again, the man said.
Li Yuan bowed and lifted the bucket.
By noon, his palms were blistered. By evening, his arms shook uncontrollably. Still, he did not complain.
He noticed things.
Which overseers punished randomlyand which punished for reasons.
Which menials collapsed earlyand which paced themselves.
Which tasks killed people quietly.
By the third day, he understood the unspoken rule.
Those who tried to prove themselves died first.
A man named Qiu worked harder than anyone. He volunteered for extra labor, hoping to be noticed. His back bent lower each day. His hands bled openly.
On the fifth day, he collapsed while carrying stones.The overseer kicked him twice.Get up.Qiu did not move.
They dragged his body away.That night, his platform was taken bysomeone else.
Li Yuan adjusted his breathing and continued.
On the seventh day, he met Old Zhou.
Zhou was thin, hunched, and moved slowly but he never collapsed. He never drew attention. He took the heaviest tasks without complaint and finished them just well enough to avoid punishment.
Li Yuan observed him for two days before speaking.
How long have you been here? Li Yuan asked quietly as they scrubbed the same stone steps. Zhou did not look up. Longer than most. How do you survive?
Zhou's brush paused.
By knowing what not to want, he said.
That night, Zhou shared half a bun with him.
Li Yuan accepted without thanks.
They worked together for several days after that.
Then the food started going missing.
Portions shrank. Bowls came back half-empty. Men grew restless. Hunger sharpened tempers.
Li Yuan noticed Zhou's hands shaking more than usual.
One night, as the others slept, Li Yuan watched Zhou slip from the room.He did not follow.
The next morning, the overseer arrived early.
His face was dark.
Someone has been stealing food, he said. "Step forward."
No one moved.The overseer smiled thinly.Then we'll make it simple.
He pointed at the nearest man and struck him across the knees.
The man screamed and collapsed.
Next. Another blow.Li Yuan stood still.He watched Zhou.
Zhou's eyes darted. His breathing quickened.
The overseer raised his stick again.Zhou stepped forward.I did it, he said hoarsely.The overseer nodded. Good.
Zhou did not resist when they dragged him away. Li Yuan did not look away.
Later, men whispered.He shouldn't have admitted it.At least the rest of us were spared.
Li Yuan washed blood from the stone steps that afternoon.He felt nothing.Only understanding.
On the ninth day, the menials were ordered to move broken cultivation stones from a collapsed storehouse.
The stones were cold and heavy, etched with faded patterns.
When Li Yuan's fingers brushed one of them, he felt something strange.Not warmth.
Not energy.A sense of… acknowledgment.It vanished instantly.
The stone remained dull.No one else reacted.
Li Yuan continued working as if nothing had happened.
Above the storehouse, far from sight, a monitoring array flickered once
Chapter 3
The Quiet Ones Last Longer
The death of Old Zhou did not change the routine.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Li Yuan.
The morning bell rang as usual. The menials lined up as usual. Bowls of thin porridge were distributed with the same careless motions. No announcement was made. No warning issued.
It was as if Zhou had never existed.
Li Yuan stood in line, eyes lowered, hands folded inside his sleeves. He noticed the way the space beside him felt wider. He noticed how no one met his gaze. People feared association more than loneliness.
He finished his porridge slowly.
Too fast invited suspicion.
Too slow invited punishment.
Balance, he had learned, was everything.
Work assignments were posted on a cracked stone board near the storehouse. Overseers barked names, dividing bodies into groups. Li Yuan listened carefully.
Stone hauling again.
Not the worst task, but not safe either. Heavy stones crushed fingers. Slips broke legs. Broken men were dragged away quietly.
As they worked, Li Yuan adjusted his pace.
He stopped trying to keep up with the strongest men.
He stopped lagging behind the weakest.
He worked just enough.
That was the line.
A boy two spaces ahead of him strained to lift a stone larger than his chest. His face flushed red. Veins bulged along his neck. He trembled, desperate to prove himself.
Li Yuan looked away.
Moments later, the stone slipped. It crushed the boy's foot.
The scream echoed across the yard.
The overseer arrived quickly.
"One less," he said, gesturing for the body to be moved aside. "Next."
The line closed.
Li Yuan lifted his stone and continued.
By the twelfth day, the menials had learned not to speak unless spoken to.
Li Yuan learned more.
He learned which overseers patrolled during which hours. He learned where shadows fell in the afternoon. He learned that punishments were rarely random—they followed patterns that only looked chaotic to the desperate.
And he learned that attention was a blade.
One afternoon, while carrying water, he noticed an argument break out between two menials ahead of him. One accused the other of stealing food. Voices rose. Hands shoved.
Li Yuan slowed his steps.
The overseer arrived within moments.
Both men were beaten.
Li Yuan was not.
That night, lying on his platform, he repeated the lesson to himself until sleep claimed him.
Do not stand out.
Do not vanish completely.
Stay in between.
On the fifteenth day, rain returned.
Heavy this time.
Mud swallowed paths. Buckets slipped. Tempers frayed.
A man named Han collapsed while scrubbing the outer steps. His breathing turned shallow. His face went gray.
The overseer kicked him.
"Get up."
Han did not respond.
Another kick.
Nothing.
Li Yuan watched carefully.
This was the moment people failed.
Someone always spoke. Someone always begged. Someone always tried to be kind.
That person never lasted long.
The overseer looked around. "Anyone?"
Silence.
Satisfied, he gestured for the body to be removed.
Later that evening, Han's portion of food was redistributed.
Li Yuan received none of it.
That, too, was fair.
It was during the third week that Li Yuan began to notice the change in himself.
His body still ached. His hands were still blistered. But his breathing had grown steadier. His steps more controlled. When lifting heavy objects, his balance felt… better.
Not stronger.
Just more precise.
At night, he sat cross-legged on his platform, copying the posture he had once seen a disciple use while circulating qi. He did not expect results. He did not even hope for them.
Hope was dangerous.
Still, when he breathed slowly, deeply, something subtle shifted inside his chest. A faint warmth appeared—then vanished.
He opened his eyes immediately.
No reaction followed.
No pain. No feedback.
As if whatever he had touched refused to respond.
Li Yuan frowned.
The next abnormality came without warning.
The menials were ordered to clean the abandoned outer hall—a structure damaged during a long-past conflict. Most of the hall had collapsed. Only one wing remained intact, sealed and forgotten.
Dust filled the air as they worked.
Li Yuan was assigned to clear debris near the far wall, away from others.
As he moved a cracked stone slab, his fingers brushed against the ground beneath.
Something pulsed.
Not light.
Not sound.
A sensation—brief and sharp—ran up his arm and settled behind his sternum.
Li Yuan froze.
The pulse vanished.
He waited.
Nothing else happened.
Slowly, he lifted the slab completely.
Beneath it lay a small, broken jade slip. Cracked nearly in half. Most of the characters etched into it were worn away.
Li Yuan did not pick it up immediately.
He looked around first.
No overseer nearby. No other menials close enough to see.
Only then did he slide the jade slip into his sleeve.
His heartbeat quickened.
He forced it to slow.
That night, after lights were extinguished, Li Yuan examined the slip by moonlight.
The remaining characters were incomplete. Faded.
"…Body…"
"…Tempering…"
"…Do not attempt beyond—"
The rest was missing.
Li Yuan's fingers tightened.
Incomplete manuals were dangerous. Everyone knew that. They damaged meridians. Crippled cultivators. Left people worse than before.
Which was exactly why no one wanted them.
Li Yuan lay back down without making a decision.
The next morning, a purge came.
No warning.
Disciples arrived before dawn, their expressions cold. They carried lists. Names were called.
Those chosen were dragged away.
Some screamed. Some begged. Some struggled.
Li Yuan was not called.
He stood in line, eyes lowered, breathing steady.
When it was over, nearly a third of the menials were gone.
The overseer surveyed the survivors.
"Those left," he said, "work harder."
Then he left.
That night, Li Yuan made his decision.
He sat cross-legged on his platform and placed the jade slip before him.
He did not rush.
He reread every visible character until he could recall them perfectly.
Then he began.
He followed the breathing pattern described—slow, uneven, painful. His chest tightened. A sharp ache spread along his ribs.
Sweat soaked his clothes.
Minutes passed.
Then—
Pain.
Not sudden. Not explosive.
A grinding pressure crawled through his limbs, as if his bones were being scraped from the inside.
Li Yuan clenched his teeth and did not scream.
Blood seeped from his pores.
His vision darkened.
He did not stop.
When he finally collapsed, the pain faded gradually, leaving behind exhaustion so deep it felt endless.
But beneath it—
Something remained.
A faint, stubborn presence.
Li Yuan laughed quietly, breathless.
Not because of success.
But because of confirmation.
The next day, no one noticed any change in him.
That was perfect.
Above the Black Mountain Sect, clouds drifted lazily.
Heaven remained silent.
And Li Yuan understood, more clearly than ever before:
The quiet ones lasted longer.
Not because they were weak.
But because no one thought to stop them.then stabilized.An elder frowned at the fluctuation.
Hm.And dismissed it.
That night, Li Yuan lay on his platform, staring into darkness.Menials were not human.
That was the rule.But rules existed for a reason.
They could be bent.They could be avoided.Or if one was invisible enoughThey could be ignored entirely
Chapter 4
Blood Buys Silence
Pain lingered longer than Li Yuan expected.
It did not roar or tear through him the way it had during the night. Instead, it settled deep within his bones, dull and persistent, like cold that refused to leave no matter how tightly one wrapped themselves. Every movement reminded him of it. Every breath carried its echo.
He welcomed it.
Pain meant he was still alive.
At dawn, the menials assembled as usual. The purge from the previous day had thinned their ranks noticeably. Empty spaces dotted the line, gaps that felt wider than they should have. Some men kept their heads low. Others stared straight ahead, eyes glassy.
Li Yuan stood where he always did—neither at the front nor the back.
When the overseer arrived, his gaze swept over them with faint satisfaction.
"Fewer mouths," he said. "Good."
No one reacted.
Work assignments followed quickly. Stone hauling. Path scrubbing. Water carrying. The same endless cycle, only heavier now that fewer bodies remained to share the load.
Li Yuan was sent to scrub the inner stairway—a narrow passage carved into the mountain itself. It was slick with moss and stained dark in places that water alone could not clean.
He knelt and began working.
Each stroke sent a jolt through his arms. His muscles screamed quietly, protesting the strain layered atop last night's damage. He adjusted his breathing, following the broken manual's rhythm—not to cultivate, but to endure.
Slow in.
Slower out.
Nearby, two menials whispered under their breath. Li Yuan caught fragments.
"…not enough food…"
"…someone's hiding it…"
He did not look at them.
By midday, the whispers had spread.
Rations were lighter again. Bowls returned nearly empty. Hunger sharpened faces and shortened tempers. A few men glared openly now, suspicion burning behind their eyes.
Li Yuan noticed who grew angry—and who grew afraid.
Those were different people.
The overseer noticed too.
He arrived in the late afternoon, his stick resting casually across his shoulders. He surveyed the menials in silence for a long moment, letting tension stretch.
"Someone's been stealing," he said.
No one spoke.
He smiled.
"Good. That makes this easier."
He pointed to the nearest man and struck him across the ribs without warning.
The crack echoed sharply.
The man collapsed with a cry, clutching his side.
"Next," the overseer said calmly.
Another blow.
Another body hit the ground.
Panic rippled through the line. Breathing quickened. Eyes darted.
Li Yuan felt his heartbeat accelerate—but he forced it down.
This was the moment.
Someone would break.
They always did.
"Stop!" a voice cried.
A man stumbled forward, shaking violently. His face was pale, lips trembling.
"I—I just took a little," he said. "Just enough to live."
The overseer's expression softened.
"Step closer."
The man obeyed.
The stick fell.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The man's screams cut short.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading.
The overseer wiped his stick on the dead man's clothes.
"Anyone else?"
Silence.
Satisfied, he turned and walked away.
Work resumed.
Li Yuan scrubbed blood from the stone steps until the stains faded into faint shadows. His hands shook—not from fear, but from effort. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing until the tremor subsided.
That night, no one spoke.
Three days later, another theft occurred.
This time, the overseer did not ask.
He ordered everyone to line up and kneel.
The stone beneath their knees was cold and uneven. Hours passed. Muscles cramped. Some men collapsed forward, barely conscious.
Li Yuan remained upright, back straight, eyes down.
The overseer walked among them slowly.
"Someone here thinks they're clever," he said. "Clever people forget their place."
He stopped in front of a young man barely older than Li Yuan. The boy's lips were cracked, his breathing shallow.
"Stand," the overseer said.
The boy tried.
His legs buckled.
The overseer sighed and raised his stick.
Before it fell, the boy screamed, "It wasn't me!"
The stick paused.
The overseer tilted his head. "Then who was it?"
The boy's eyes darted wildly.
Then they fixed on someone else.
"Him!" he cried, pointing. "I saw him sneaking out last night!"
The accused man froze.
"No—I didn't—"
The stick fell anyway.
The boy watched, sobbing, as the other man was beaten until he stopped moving.
Afterward, the overseer crouched in front of the boy.
"You did well," he said. "Sit."
The boy collapsed, shaking.
Li Yuan watched everything.
He understood.
Blood bought silence.
And sometimes—survival.
That night, Li Yuan slept without dreams.
The jade slip burned against his chest.
He did not cultivate every night. He waited. Watched. Chose moments carefully. Each attempt tore at his body, widening cracks that had not yet healed.
But something inside him was changing.
His senses sharpened slightly. His balance improved. He could lift the same stones with marginally less strain.
No one noticed.
That was the most important part.
One evening, as he returned from hauling water, Li Yuan felt it again—the faint pressure, distant and curious, like something passing its gaze over him.
He paused.
The sensation slipped away.
Above the sect, an elder frowned at a fluctuating array.
"It's happening again," a disciple said nervously.
The elder scowled. "Interference. Nothing more."
Still, his gaze lingered longer than before.
The breaking point came a week later.
Food theft escalated. Hunger sharpened desperation. Men began hiding scraps, swallowing too quickly, watching one another with open hostility.
Li Yuan stayed clear.
He ate slowly. He wasted nothing. He never took more than allotted.
It didn't matter.
The overseer arrived at night, lantern light cutting harsh shadows across the menial quarters.
"All of you," he said. "Outside."
They obeyed.
Rain fell lightly, soaking through thin clothes.
The overseer stood before them, his expression unreadable.
"I'm tired of this," he said. "So tonight, we end it."
He pointed randomly.
"You. Step forward."
A man obeyed, trembling.
"You," the overseer said, pointing again. "Accuse him."
The second man froze.
"I—I don't know—"
The stick struck him across the mouth.
Blood sprayed.
"Accuse," the overseer repeated.
The man sobbed and nodded frantically. "He stole. I saw him."
The first man screamed his innocence.
The overseer smiled.
He gestured again.
"Next."
One by one, men were forced to accuse. Truth did not matter. Survival did.
Li Yuan waited.
He counted.
When the overseer's finger finally turned toward him, Li Yuan stepped forward smoothly.
"Accuse," the overseer said.
Li Yuan lifted his gaze for the first time.
He chose his words carefully.
"I did not see him steal," he said. "But I saw him watch others eat."
The accusation was weak. Vague. Safe.
The overseer studied him.
Then nodded.
"Good enough."
The accused man was beaten to death.
Li Yuan stepped back into line, hands steady, face calm.
Something inside him shifted.
Not regret.
Acceptance.
Later that night, alone on his platform, Li Yuan stared into the darkness.
He had crossed a line.
He knew it.
But lines, like rules, existed to be measured.
He pressed his palm against his chest and felt the faint, stubborn presence within.
Small. Fragile.
But real.
He whispered quietly, so softly no one could hear:
"I will live."
Above the Black Mountain Sect, Heaven turned its pages.
Once again, it found nothing.
And moved on.
Chapter 5
A Stone That Should Not React
The stone yard lay at the far edge of the Black Mountain Sect, wedged between a collapsed storehouse and a cliff face scarred by old blade marks. Disciples rarely came here. Broken things were brought to the edge of the mountain for a reason—to be forgotten.
Li Yuan arrived at dawn with the rest of the menials.
Their task was simple.
Move the unusable cultivation stones from the ruined storehouse and stack them by the cliff so they could later be thrown away. The stones were heavy, dull, and cracked through their cores. Worthless to disciples. Dangerous to menials.
The overseer watched from a distance, arms crossed.
"Break one," he called out, "and you'll replace it."
No one asked what that meant.
Li Yuan bent down and lifted the first stone.
It was colder than he expected.
Not the natural chill of rock left in shade, but something deeper, as if the cold seeped inward instead of resting on the surface. He adjusted his grip and carried it toward the stacking area, breathing evenly.
Halfway there, the pain in his chest stirred.
It was faint—so faint he might have ignored it before. A subtle pressure, like a fingertip pressing lightly against the inside of his sternum.
Li Yuan slowed his steps.
The sensation sharpened.
He stopped.
The stone in his arms pulsed.
Once.
Not light.
Not sound.
Recognition.
Li Yuan's fingers tightened reflexively.
The pulse vanished.
He stood still for a full breath, then another, scanning his surroundings without lifting his head. No one was looking at him. Overseers were shouting at another group. Menials were too exhausted to notice anything beyond their own suffering.
Carefully, Li Yuan resumed walking.
The stone did not react again.
He stacked it with the others and returned for another.
The second stone was inert.
The third as well.
By the fourth, his heartbeat had slowed back to normal.
He told himself it meant nothing.
That was the safest conclusion.
The reaction came again near noon.
Li Yuan was clearing rubble inside the collapsed storehouse, working alone in a corner thick with dust. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating broken arrays etched into the floor.
He brushed aside debris and uncovered a flat, circular stone embedded in the ground.
The moment his fingers touched it, pain flared behind his ribs.
Sharp. Immediate.
Li Yuan sucked in a breath and nearly pulled away—but forced himself to stay still.
The stone vibrated faintly.
Dust trembled.
The etched patterns along its surface flickered, then dimmed.
Li Yuan's vision blurred.
Not from pain.
From pressure.
It felt as though something vast had turned its attention toward the storehouse—then hesitated.
And withdrew.
The sensation vanished.
Li Yuan exhaled slowly.
His hands were steady.
That frightened him more than the pain.
He covered the stone with rubble again and returned to work without haste.
That night, the menial quarters buzzed with quiet unease.
Whispers spread.
"Did you feel that earlier?"
"The air felt strange."
"My head hurt for no reason."
Li Yuan lay still on his platform, eyes open, listening.
He said nothing.
Inside his chest, the faint presence stirred restlessly, as if unsettled.
He did not cultivate that night.
He waited.
Two days later, the overseer received new orders.
All menials were to assist in clearing the inner storage hall—an area normally restricted. Disciples oversaw the work this time, their expressions impatient, their gazes sharp.
Li Yuan recognized the hall immediately.
It was older than the rest of the sect.
The walls were etched with incomplete formations, most damaged beyond repair. Broken pillars lay scattered like fallen bones. At the center of the hall stood a massive stone slab, half-buried and wrapped in chains.
A cultivation stone.
An intact one.
The moment Li Yuan stepped inside, the pressure returned.
Stronger.
His breathing faltered for half a step before he corrected it. He lowered his gaze and followed instructions precisely.
Menials were ordered to clear debris around the slab.
"Careful," a disciple snapped. "Don't touch the core."
Li Yuan worked at the outer edge, deliberately positioning himself farther away.
It didn't help.
The stone reacted anyway.
A low hum filled the hall—so faint most menials didn't consciously register it. But Li Yuan felt it in his bones.
The pressure in his chest surged.
Something tugged.
Not violently.
Insistently.
Li Yuan clenched his jaw and focused on the broken breathing technique from the jade slip, using it to anchor himself.
The stone's surface flickered.
Just once.
A nearby disciple stiffened.
"Did you see that?" he asked sharply.
Another shook his head. "See what?"
The disciple frowned and turned toward the monitoring array at the side of the hall.
Its surface rippled, then stabilized.
He hesitated.
"Overseer," he called. "Did the array—"
The overseer waved dismissively. "It's old. Ignore it."
Work resumed.
Li Yuan kept his head down.
But the stone did not stop reacting.
Each time Li Yuan moved closer—even by accident—the pressure intensified. The faint presence within his chest responded, pulsing in slow, uneven rhythm.
He felt… acknowledged.
Not welcomed.
Recognized.
And that terrified him.
High above the hall, in a chamber layered with formations, an elder opened his eyes.
The monitoring array before him flickered irregularly.
Again.
His brow furrowed.
"That's the third time," he murmured.
A disciple bowed nearby. "Interference, Elder?"
The elder did not answer immediately.
"No," he said finally. "Interference has patterns."
He stood and approached the array, injecting a thread of qi.
The image sharpened.
Menials moved about the hall like ants. Disciples supervised lazily. The cultivation stone lay silent.
Mostly.
The elder's gaze narrowed.
"There," he said softly.
The fluctuation was brief. Almost imperceptible.
Centered not on the stone—
But near one of the menials.
The elder watched closely.
Nothing else happened.
He frowned.
Impossible.
Menials had no qi. No cultivation. No reason to interact with an intact stone.
And yet—
"Watch that one," he ordered quietly.
The disciple hesitated. "Which one, Elder?"
The elder stared at the array.
Then paused.
His expression shifted subtly.
"…Strange," he muttered.
"There's nothing there."
The reaction stopped abruptly that evening.
The stone fell completely silent.
Li Yuan felt the pressure fade as if it had never existed. His chest ached faintly, like a muscle after strain.
He returned to the menial quarters exhausted—but alert.
That night, as he lay awake, a realization settled over him.
The stones were not reacting to his cultivation.
They were reacting to his existence.
He was not triggering them.
He was being tested by them.
Li Yuan closed his eyes.
For the first time since arriving at the Black Mountain Sect, he allowed himself a thought he had never dared entertain before.
If Heaven did not record him…
then Heaven's tools could not judge him.
Above the sect, the monitoring array flickered one final time.
The elder stared at the empty space on the image, unease tightening his chest.
"Someone is there," he said slowly.
"I just can't see them."
Chapter 6
Pain Is a Language
The first night after the stone fell silent, Li Yuan did not cultivate.
He lay on his platform with his hands resting on his abdomen, eyes half-open, listening to the breathing of the men around him. The menial quarters were never truly quiet. There was always coughing, shifting, the occasional stifled sob. Tonight, those sounds felt closer, heavier.
His chest still ached.
Not sharply—just enough to remind him that something inside him had been strained. He resisted the urge to probe it further. Experience had taught him that forcing answers only invited damage.
So he waited.
By the third night, the ache had settled into a steady warmth.
Li Yuan sat up slowly, careful not to draw attention. The lanterns had long been extinguished. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the roof, thin and cold.
He retrieved the broken jade slip from inside his clothes.
The characters were still incomplete. Still dangerous.
He traced them with his eyes, recalling every stroke from memory. The breathing pattern described was uneven by design, forcing the body to adjust constantly instead of settling into comfort.
A method meant for desperation.
Li Yuan inhaled.
Slow.
Shallow.
Then deep.
Pain answered immediately.
It crawled outward from his sternum, spreading along his ribs like something alive. His muscles tightened instinctively, trying to resist.
He forced them to relax.
Sweat formed along his temples. His heartbeat grew erratic.
He did not stop.
Minutes passed.
The pain intensified, sharpening until it felt as though his bones were being scraped from the inside. His breath hitched. His vision dimmed around the edges.
Li Yuan clenched his jaw and focused on counting each exhale.
Not to endure.
To understand.
The pain wasn't random.
It followed paths.
When he inhaled too deeply, it flared along his arms. When he exhaled too slowly, pressure built in his spine. The broken method was forcing his body to open channels that were never meant to open naturally.
That was why it destroyed people.
Li Yuan adjusted his breathing again—slightly faster, slightly shallower.
The pain shifted.
Still intense. Still punishing.
But controlled.
A faint sensation stirred beneath it.
Not warmth.
Density.
As if something inside him had gained weight.
Li Yuan held the pattern until his muscles began to tremble uncontrollably. When his body finally gave out, he collapsed forward, gasping quietly into his bedding.
Blood seeped from his pores, dark against pale skin.
He lay still for a long time.
Then, slowly, the pain receded.
What remained was exhaustion so deep it felt like sinking into the earth.
But beneath that—
Something else.
A faint, stubborn presence.
Li Yuan laughed softly into the darkness, breathless and hoarse.
The next day, his body felt wrong.
Not injured.
Different.
When he stood, his balance corrected itself instinctively. When he lifted a bucket of water, the weight settled more evenly across his frame.
He was not stronger.
But he was more… connected.
Li Yuan kept his head down and worked as usual.
He scrubbed stone paths. Hauled debris. Endured curses and kicks without reaction. No one noticed the subtle shift in the way he moved.
That was good.
At midday, as he bent to lift a stone, a sudden spike of pain shot through his back.
He nearly collapsed.
He bit down hard and forced himself upright.
Too far.
He had pushed too much the night before.
His body reminded him of the cost.
That evening, he did not cultivate.
Instead, he sat quietly and observed his own breathing, noting where tension lingered and where warmth gathered. The broken method had opened something—but it had not stabilized it.
Without guidance, each step forward risked collapse.
Li Yuan understood that clearly.
He needed patience.
On the fifth night, the pain returned differently.
It came slower.
Deeper.
As he followed the breathing pattern, the familiar grinding sensation appeared—but this time, it did not spread outward. It compressed inward, coiling tight beneath his sternum.
Pressure built.
Li Yuan's vision went white.
For a moment, he thought he had gone too far.
Then—
Something snapped.
Not violently.
Cleanly.
The pressure vanished.
In its place was emptiness.
Li Yuan gasped, air rushing into his lungs. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then, slowly, warmth spread outward from his chest, flowing into his limbs in faint, steady pulses.
Not qi.
Not yet.
But something closer to alignment.
His body felt… heavier.
Denser.
As if it had settled into itself for the first time.
Li Yuan remained seated until dawn, afraid that moving might break whatever fragile balance he had achieved.
When morning came, he stood carefully.
No pain.
Only soreness.
And beneath it, an unfamiliar sense of stability.
Days passed.
Li Yuan continued working.
He did not attempt the breathing method every night anymore. He cultivated once every two or three days, allowing his body to adapt. Each session left him exhausted—but slightly more refined.
He could feel it now.
A faint resistance beneath his skin. His muscles responded more efficiently. Impacts hurt less, though they still hurt.
Body Tempering.
Not a breakthrough.
Not a level.
Just the very beginning.
Exactly as it should be.
One afternoon, as he carried water past the stone yard, he felt a familiar pressure brush against him.
He froze.
The sensation was distant. Watchful.
He did not look up.
The pressure lingered for a heartbeat—
Then slipped away.
Li Yuan exhaled slowly.
Someone was watching.
Not Heaven.
Something closer.
That night, he did not cultivate.
Instead, he memorized every sound around him, every breath, every shift of weight.
He was not strong.
Not yet.
But he was changing.
And change, in a place like this, was dangerous.
On the tenth night since the stone incident, Li Yuan felt it clearly for the first time.
Not pain.
Not pressure.
But presence.
As he sat quietly, focusing on his breathing without activating the broken method, something inside him responded.
A faint, pulsing rhythm.
Slow.
Steady.
His heartbeat matched it instinctively.
Li Yuan's eyes widened slightly.
This wasn't power.
It was foundation.
The kind no one noticed until it was too late.
He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness.
Pain was a language.
And he was finally learning how to listen.
Above the Black Mountain Sect, clouds drifted lazily.
Heaven remained silent.
And Li Yuan remained unseen.
Chapter 7
Eyes Above the Pit
The Black Mountain Sect never truly slept.
Even at night, the mountain breathed with quiet observation. Lanterns flickered in distant halls. Footsteps echoed along stone corridors where no one walked. The menials never noticed, but Li Yuan did.
He had grown used to the sounds of pain, labor, and hunger. He had grown used to the oversight of human overseers. But the night brought something else: an almost imperceptible weight, as if countless eyes watched from above.
Li Yuan crouched on his platform, listening.
A soft rustle came from the far corner. Not a manial. Not an animal. Something smaller. Fainter. Watching.
He did not move. He did not look.
The moment passed.
And yet, the feeling did not leave.
By morning, subtle changes made themselves apparent.
Tasks became more regimented. Overseers paced differently, walking along the edges of groups rather than the center. Some menials disappeared mid-assignment. No announcements. No explanations. Just vanished.
Rumors spread quickly among the remaining menials.
"He didn't survive the inspection," whispered one boy, voice trembling.
"They're taken to the mountainside," another said. "Disciples check their qi… or so they say."
Li Yuan observed quietly. He noted patterns. The menials who disappeared tended to be the ones drawing attention—complaining, overworking, or moving too quickly. The silent, the careful, the invisible—like him—were left alone.
He understood something crucial:
The mountain itself watched. And it judged.
The next day, the menials were summoned for a "retest."
A narrow platform had been constructed in the center of the yard. A single cultivation stone rested atop it, cracked but intact. Disciples lined the perimeter, standing tall and silent, their eyes like blades. The overseer gestured for them to form a line.
Li Yuan stepped forward with the others, keeping his posture low. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the lingering effects of the body tempering exercises. He had grown stronger, but not invincible.
Each manial was instructed to touch the stone briefly. If it reacted… the elders would notice.
The first few men stepped forward. The stone remained inert. Nothing happened.
Li Yuan's turn approached. He inhaled slowly, steadying his pulse. Then, instinctively, he touched the stone.
A faint tremor passed beneath his fingertips. Not light. Not energy.
Recognition.
The stone vibrated subtly—just enough to register to the peripheral arrays scattered around the yard. Disciples tensed. Overseers murmured.
Li Yuan withdrew his hand slowly, calm on the surface. Inside, a storm roared.
Someone had noticed.
But the moment passed. The stone went still.
He exhaled slowly. No one looked directly at him. No one accused.
Yet he could feel the weight of countless eyes above. Watching. Waiting. Judging.
That night, he slept lightly, alert to every creak of the platform, every whisper of the wind through broken windows.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room. Small, silent. Observing.
Li Yuan did not flinch. He did not acknowledge it. He remained motionless.
When the shadow retreated, the feeling of being watched persisted. Not human. Not disciple. Not overseer. Something else.
It was subtle. Faint. Constant.
And he could not shake it.
The following days were filled with increased scrutiny.
Menials were ordered to repeat tasks multiple times. Broken stones had to be moved again. Paths were scrubbed clean over and over. Any mistake, no matter how small, drew attention from disciples who had never intervened before.
Li Yuan adjusted.
He moved slower, more deliberate. He calculated every step. Every breath. Every gesture.
The other menials faltered. Some broke under pressure. Some disappeared entirely.
Li Yuan did not.
Not because he was stronger.
Because he was quiet. Invisible. Calculated.
By the end of the week, the elders themselves visited.
They did not enter the menial quarters. They observed from above, in chambers filled with monitoring arrays and faint qi-sensing formations.
Li Yuan's pulse quickened as he carried stones across the yard. Not from fear. From awareness.
He felt the arrays probing. Not detecting power. Not detecting cultivation. Only presence.
And presence was dangerous.
The elder paused, brow furrowed. "No… nothing."
The array flickered once. The image showed him—just barely.
The elder frowned, leaning closer. "Who is that?"
The disciple assisting him shook his head. "No qi, Elder. Only… existence."
The elder's expression hardened. He whispered something, and the array returned to normal.
Li Yuan did not know what had been said. He did not need to. He felt it. The attention had passed—but it would return.
He would not be free of it. Not yet.
That night, Li Yuan sat cross-legged on his platform.
He focused on breathing, deliberately slow and controlled. Each inhalation, each exhalation, each pulse of his chest—the faint presence within him responded.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible.
He could not cultivate fully under observation. Not yet. Too dangerous.
But he could align. Prepare. Wait.
He listened to the silence. The sounds of menials sleeping. The drip of water. The distant screech of wind through stone.
And he waited for the watchers to blink.
For now, he was invisible.
But the mountain, the sect, and the elders had begun to notice.
And once they did…
Invisibility would not be enough.
Chapter 8
The Rules of the Pit
By now, Li Yuan understood the unspoken hierarchy.
It was not the disciples, or the overseers, or even the elders at the top that ruled the menials. It was the invisible system—the rules buried beneath labor, punishment, and hunger.
The strongest didn't last. The loudest didn't last. The desperate always died first.
Those who survived were quiet. Calculated. Observant.
Li Yuan had become one of them.
The menials had divided themselves silently into groups over the past month.
The first group, the loud ones, tried to appeal to the overseers. They begged, complained, worked beyond exhaustion hoping for attention. Every one of them disappeared within the first week.
The second group, the overachievers, volunteered for extra tasks, carried heavier loads, scrubbed more paths than ordered. They lasted slightly longer—but sooner or later, the overseer found a reason to punish them. Some were beaten to death. Others were dragged away without explanation.
The survivors were the quiet ones: invisible, patient, and careful. They knew when to speak, when to act, and when to yield.
Li Yuan counted himself among them.
Observation was key.
He watched the men around him carefully.
There was Wen, the man with the cracked hand, who never spoke but carried the heaviest stones. He had the strength to resist, but not the patience. He had survived this long only by sheer endurance, but everyone knew endurance had a limit.
There was Qiao, a boy with sharp eyes and a nervous gait. He watched everyone, always alert, always calculating. He had learned to hoard scraps of food and avoid punishment, but he flinched at the slightest sound.
And then there was Li Yuan himself—quiet, careful, but aware in ways no one else was. He had no strength, no rank, no allies. He had only observation, patience, and restraint.
These were the tools of survival.
He had also learned the language of the overseers.
Not words. Not commands. But gestures, glances, and timing.
A flick of an eyebrow could signal mercy.
A pause in walking could signal scrutiny.
A sharp exhale could signal imminent punishment.
Li Yuan counted and memorized every nuance.
By doing nothing extraordinary, he became extraordinary. Invisible. Unnoticed.
Hunger was the sharpest teacher.
Rations had shrunk again. Menials had begun stealing food in desperation, and the overseer punished swiftly.
Li Yuan did not steal. He rationed what he had carefully, chewing slowly, drinking sparingly, making each bite last.
He noticed who broke first.
Who became paranoid.
Who started whispering, watching, waiting for others to slip.
It was a subtle war, fought in glances, gestures, and silence.
Li Yuan never lost.
One night, Qiao approached him quietly.
"Li Yuan," he whispered. "Do you… feel it too?"
Li Yuan raised an eyebrow, keeping his voice low.
"Feel what?"
Qiao glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide. "The eyes. The attention… it's not just disciples or overseers. Something else watches sometimes."
Li Yuan nodded slowly. "I know."
Qiao swallowed hard. "Do you think it's dangerous?"
Li Yuan studied him. Carefully. Slowly.
"Yes," he said simply. "But dangerous things can be avoided if you know the rules."
Qiao's eyes widened, but he said nothing more.
That was the other rule of the pit: silence was survival.
Over the next week, Li Yuan tested the limits of observation.
He watched who could carry more stones without slowing.
He watched who could endure punishment without flinching.
He watched who had a strategy, and who had none.
He moved quietly among menials, never touching, never speaking unnecessarily. He made mental notes of weakness, strength, and reaction time.
He also tested the overseers.
Small deviations. Slight pauses. Tiny mistakes. Every time, he noted their response. How long before they punished? How precise was their notice?
No one punished him. Not yet.
He had learned a critical lesson:
To survive, one must be aware of everything, but reveal nothing.
One night, hunger reached a peak.
Some men attempted to steal scraps from the kitchen. They were caught. The overseer punished them in front of the others—a warning. Bones cracked. Blood spilled. Silence followed.
Li Yuan watched. His stomach growled. He had to ration the tiny bit of porridge left. But he resisted the urge to steal.
Hunger, he realized, was also a weapon. Not just pain—but fear, discipline, and control.
Those who broke first under hunger often died first. Those who resisted survived.
Li Yuan had survived.
As days passed, he noticed other subtleties.
Some menials would fake weakness to avoid labor, but the overseer's eyes were sharp. Others would overcompensate, hoping to gain favor, only to vanish in the next purge.
Li Yuan mimicked neither.
He worked steadily. He ate sparingly. He spoke rarely. He watched everything.
This was not cowardice. It was calculation.
By the end of the week, Li Yuan had mapped the invisible landscape of the menial quarters:
Where overseers walked.
Where disciples lingered.
Where attention fell, and where it never reached.
He knew who could be trusted. No one.
He knew who might protect him. No one.
He knew the law of the pit:
Invisible survives. Visible dies.
At night, Li Yuan practiced subtle cultivation—not the full method from the jade slip, but minor alignment exercises. Nothing overt. He focused on muscle control, balance, and internal awareness.
His body grew stronger in small increments. Not noticeable. Not remarkable. But necessary.
Even if someone was watching, no one could accuse him. He was quiet. Invisible.
The menials whispered, worried about disappearances.
Li Yuan did not whisper. He observed.
Every sound, every pause, every glance told a story.
He memorized it all.
By the time the moon rose high one night, Li Yuan realized something terrifying—and exhilarating.
He was learning faster than anyone around him.Not in strength. Not in cultivation.
But in survival.
The rules of the pit were clear:
Observe everything.
Speak as little as possible.Do not attract attention.Endure pain, hunger, and humiliation without complaint.
Wait for opportunity.
Li Yuan followed them perfectly.
And as he lay on his platform, staring at the ceiling, he whispered quietly to himself:
When the time comes… I will be ready.
Above the Black Mountain Sect, countless eyes watched.
Some huChapter 9
Purge of the Silent
The night was colder than usual.
A thin mist clung to the ground, curling around the legs of the menials as they lined up for the evening roll call. Lanterns flickered in the distance, their light barely reaching the inner yard. Even the wind seemed hesitant, as if it, too, feared the overseers.
Li Yuan stood among the silent ranks, back straight, eyes lowered.
He had learned the patterns of observation. He had memorized the steps of punishment. He had counted the hours of scrutiny.
And yet, tonight, the tension in the air was different.
It began quietly.
The boy Wen, who had carried stones heavier than his own chest, did not appear for the roll call.
At first, no one noticed.
Then the overseer's gaze swept over the line. His eyes paused where Wen should have stood. A slight frown appeared.
"Where is he?" the overseer demanded, voice low and dangerous.
No one answered.
The overseer stepped closer. His presence alone seemed to press the air from the menials' lungs.
"Answer!" he barked.
One trembling man whispered, barely audible, "I… I do not know, Overseer…"
The overseer's eyes narrowed. He lifted his stick, tapping it once on the stone path. Silence followed. Every manial held their breath.
"Search the yard," the overseer ordered. "Do not speak unless spoken to."
The search began immediately.
Menials were sent into the shadows of the ruined outer halls, the broken stairways, and the collapsed storage chambers. Lanterns swayed, throwing long, jagged shadows across the walls.
Li Yuan moved deliberately, observing. Not just for Wen, but for patterns—where the overseers looked first, how the disciples adjusted, and the reactions of men who had survived this long.
He saw the fear in their eyes.
It was sharper than hunger.
Half an hour later, a shrill scream pierced the night.
Menials froze. Even the overseer's footfalls faltered.
The cry came from the storage hall near the cliff edge.
Li Yuan rushed silently to the area, careful to avoid drawing attention. He found the disciples standing over the body of a manial who had been whispering too much, too often.
Blood ran along the stone floor. Limbs were broken. The manial's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
No one spoke.
The overseer gestured, and menials dragged the body into the shadows. There was no sound except the soft clink of stone against stone.
Li Yuan swallowed. He did not flinch.
He had seen enough.
Then, they found Wen.
He had been hiding behind a collapsed wall, hoping no one would notice him. The overseer spotted him first.
Without a word, the overseer raised his stick.
Wen fell to his knees, begging silently.
But the overseer did not pause. He struck once. Twice. Three times.
The sound of cracking bones echoed sharply.
Li Yuan's stomach turned, but he did not move. He would not move.
Not now. Not ever.
Wen's body went still.
The overseer examined him briefly, then nodded. "The rest of you," he said, voice quiet but lethal, "remember him."
No one spoke. No one breathed audibly.
That night, the menials whispered in hushed tones, though the overseers and disciples did not hear.
Li Yuan sat on his platform, eyes open, listening to the shifting shadows.
Fear was tangible. Hunger was still present. But now, the knowledge of consequences—the absolute finality of disappearance—hung heavier than either.
He had survived the first wave of purges. The silent ones had endured. But survival demanded more than endurance now.
It demanded calculation.
Li Yuan thought back to the jade slip, to the faint presence in his chest.
He understood that power alone would not save him. Even cultivation would not.
Survival required invisibility, patience, and mental precision. Every movement, every breath, every reaction had to be measured.
Wen had failed because he had acted on instinct. He had spoken. He had sought mercy.
Li Yuan would do neither.
He began cataloging everything he had seen over the past month.
When menials disappeared, what patterns preceded it?
How did the overseers behave before a punishment?
Which menials drew attention first, and why?
He wrote these patterns mentally, memorizing them. They would become a map.
Even the smallest mistakes were fatal. A misstep in the middle of the yard, a flicker of fear, a whisper of defiance—any of these could lead to the same fate as Wen.
By the end of the week, the menials had learned another lesson.
The mountain did not reward effort.
The mountain did not reward strength.
The mountain did not reward skill.
It rewarded survival.
Li Yuan had survived.
Not because of strength.
Not because of speed.
Not because of cunning.
Because he had learned the rules.
Be quiet.
Be invisible.
Observe everything.
Speak only when necessary.
Endure, always.
The menials whispered, fearing disappearance. Li Yuan listened, but did not whisper.
He knew something else:
The watchers above, whether human or otherwise, had noticed the change in him.
And that meant the next purge might not just be about silence or theft.
That night, he practiced mental exercises.
Not cultivation, not alignment, not qi circulation.
Observation. Patience. Focus.
Every sense stretched, every movement calculated. Every sound cataloged. Every shadow mapped.
He imagined scenarios in which he might be targeted next. He ran them through his mind, step by step.
And he realized, with a cold clarity, that the mountain would not stop.
The sect would not stop.
Not until all mistakes were erased.
And he would have to survive.
No matter what.
As he lay on his platform, Li Yuan whispered quietly to himself, voice so soft it would not carry:
Every step is a trap. Every sound is a blade. Every shadow is a watcher.
I will survive.
I will endure.
I will wait.
Above the Black Mountain Sect, unseen eyes remained.
Some human. Some otherwise.
And they had begun to mark him.
But they had not yet acted.
Li Yuan smiled faintly.
He would be ready.
Chapter 10
Test in the Shadows
The wind that night carried a hollow chill. It wound between the collapsed walls, lifting dust and whispering along the stone paths. Lanterns flickered uncertainly, casting long, uneven shadows.
Li Yuan moved quietly among them, careful not to attract attention. Even in darkness, the overseers and disciples watched. Their gaze was constant. Unblinking. Invisible.
He had learned to measure every step, every breath, every pause.
Tonight, the mountain was testing him again.
It began with a disappearance.
Qiao, the nervous boy with sharp eyes, did not return to the menial quarters.
At first, Li Yuan thought he had been delayed. Then the whispers began.
"Qiao didn't finish the tasks," muttered one manial.
"They've taken him," said another, voice trembling.
The overseer did not speak. He did not need to. His silence carried authority heavier than any stick.
Menials scrambled, searching the yard and the collapsed stairways, lanterns swinging violently in trembling hands. But no one dared linger in one place too long. To linger was to draw attention. To draw attention was to vanish.
Li Yuan observed.
Not out of fear. Out of calculation.
He noticed patterns.
Menials who were taken always disappeared in silence, without cries, without resistance. The overseer and disciples intervened only when a trace of defiance or error appeared.
Those who moved with measured care, who avoided excess motion, who avoided panic—those survived.
Li Yuan had survived before. He would survive again.
Hours passed.
The search yielded nothing.
The overseer finally signaled the menials to return to quarters. Silence dominated the yard, broken only by the scraping of feet on stone. Lanterns flickered one final time before being extinguished.
Li Yuan returned to his platform, crouching low, senses straining.
Something was off.
Not the disappearance itself. That was normal.
But the watchers were sharper tonight. The pressure was heavier.
Someone—or something—was testing him specifically.
He did not sleep.
Instead, Li Yuan practiced subtle alignment exercises.
No cultivation. Not yet.
Muscle control. Balance. Breath management. Mental focus. Every sense expanded to its limit. Every sound cataloged. Every shadow mapped.
He imagined Qiao's removal, step by step, reasoning how it had occurred. What path the overseer had chosen. What errors Qiao had made.
And he identified his own vulnerabilities.
Small things: hesitation in movement, slight deviation in walking patterns, involuntary glances.
Those were dangerous.
He corrected them in practice, over and over, until muscle memory began to take over.
By midnight, he crouched at the edge of the sleeping area, observing the faint lantern glow from the distance.
A shadow moved near the far wall. Subtle. Swift.
Li Yuan froze.
Not human. Not ordinary.
The shadow paused. Adjusted. Then retreated.
He did not follow. He did not react.
He cataloged. Patience. Observation.
Every movement of the watcher was a lesson. Every hesitation was a weakness to note.
And he would use it.
The next day, the yard seemed calmer—but tension remained.
Menials whispered, fear still evident in every movement.
Li Yuan worked silently. He carried stones, scrubbed paths, and hauled water with measured efficiency. No excess motion. No missteps.
The overseer observed from a distance, then left without incident.
It was a test. He knew it.
That night, another manial disappeared.
This time, Li Yuan observed from a corner.
The manial had been careless. He had glanced at the overseer while performing a task, his hands trembling. He had hesitated mid-step, unsure where to place the stone. That moment had been enough.
The overseer's shadow fell over him. He was gone before anyone else could react.
Silence followed.
Li Yuan's heart rate remained steady.
Observation over emotion. Patience over panic. Awareness over impulse.
He had survived this long because he understood the law of the pit.
By the end of the week, Li Yuan had learned more about the unseen watchers than ever before.
They struck when hesitation appeared.
They measured attention, not strength.
They sought mistakes, not effort.
He realized that the mountain's tests were not designed to eliminate the weak alone. They eliminated the careless. The impulsive. The unprepared.
And to survive, one had to be invisible and precise, even under fear and hunger.
He practiced in shadows.
Not cultivation, not yet. But mental exercises. Awareness drills. Predicting movement. Controlling body responses. Training reflexes to respond correctly before danger appeared.
Li Yuan became a shadow within shadows.
On the tenth night, he noticed subtle changes.
The watchers were sharper. More deliberate. Their presence was heavier. Not human. Not ordinary.
He cataloged their patterns. He memorized the pulse of the yard, the rhythm of footsteps, the timing of lantern flickers.
By the time he lay on his platform, he could anticipate when the overseer would approach. He could detect the slightest disturbance in the air before anyone moved.
He had adapted.
He had survived the purge of the silent.
And he knew the mountain would continue testing him.
In the darkness, Li Yuan whispered quietly:
Every shadow is a threat. Every sound is a weapon. Every glance can be death.
I will survive.I will endure.I will learn.
Above the Black Mountain Sect, eyes watched.
Human and otherwise.
And they had begun to notice Li Yuan, more than before.
But they had not yet acted.
And he would be ready.man.
Chapter 11
The First Mistake
The Black Mountain Sect had rules unspoken but universally enforced.
Small errors could be deadly. Hesitation, misplacement, or even a fleeting glance in the wrong direction could end a life. Li Yuan had survived this long by understanding the patterns of punishment, the invisible hierarchy, and the subtle language of observation.
But tonight, the rules would be tested—not on him, but on someone else.
It began with a stone.
A manial named Jiang, young and nervous, was tasked with moving a cracked cultivation stone from the storage hall to the stacking yard.
He was careful at first, walking with precise steps. Lantern light reflected off the stone's surface. His back remained straight, his breath measured.
Li Yuan watched from the shadows, noting everything: the overseer's position, the timing of the disciples' patrol, the ambient noises masking small movements.
Jiang was careful, almost perfect.
Almost.
Halfway across the yard, the stone slipped slightly.
A small sound—stone scraping against stone.
Jiang froze. His hands trembled.
Li Yuan's senses heightened.
The overseer's shadow moved, slow and deliberate. The disciples shifted positions. Something had registered.
A flicker of panic crossed Jiang's face. He swallowed. Hesitated. Adjusted his grip too late.
The stone slipped again.
A sharp crack. The sound cut through the yard.
The overseer's voice was quiet but lethal:
"Stop."
Every manial froze. The night seemed to stretch. The wind stilled. Lantern light flickered once, twice, then steadied.
Jiang did not stop. His panic had overtaken him. He bent lower, trying to stabilize the stone.
The overseer moved closer, footsteps measured, inevitable.
Li Yuan's heart rate remained steady. Observation over emotion. Awareness over panic. Silence over reaction.
The stone fell.
Cracking loudly.
Jiang's hands went slack. He looked up. The overseer's stick was raised.
No hesitation. No words.
The first strike landed on his shoulder. The second, on his legs. A third on his arms. The manial collapsed, unable to move.
The disciples did not intervene. Their silence was part of the lesson.
Li Yuan's stomach churned, but he remained motionless. He did not flinch. He cataloged every strike, every movement, every error Jiang had made.
This was survival in its purest form.
By the time the overseer finished, Jiang was broken but alive.
Some menials wept quietly. Others stared, rigid, afraid to breathe.
Li Yuan did not cry. He did not flinch. He observed.
He knew precisely why Jiang had failed:
Hesitation in critical moments.
Panic overriding precision.
Movement without consideration of observers.
These were mistakes Li Yuan would never make.
That night, he lay awake on his platform.
Jiang's cries had stopped. But the lesson had been absorbed by everyone who survived.
Li Yuan closed his eyes. The room was filled with silence, broken only by distant footsteps and the faint creak of wood.
He reviewed the sequence over and over in his mind.
Every sound. Every shadow. Every pause.
Patience. Observation. Precision.
The mountain demanded it. The sect demanded it. The invisible watchers demanded it.
And Li Yuan had delivered.
He knew something else:
The overseer did not punish arbitrarily.
Mistakes were noticed. Patterns were observed. Weakness was marked.
The punishment was not for pain. It was for teaching. For survival.
He understood now: those who survived were not lucky. They were precise, disciplined, and aware.
The mistakes of others were lessons.
And he would not make them.
Days passed with no further incident.
Li Yuan worked as usual, quietly, invisibly. He observed the menials. He cataloged movements, timing, and behavior.
The overseers and disciples walked past, unnoticing him.
The silent ones survived.
Li Yuan was among them.
By the seventh night after Jiang's mistake, the tension had grown thick.
The menials moved slower, more cautiously. Whispered warnings passed quietly among them.
Li Yuan did not whisper. He did not react. He only observed.
The mountain, the overseers, the disciples—they tested everyone.
Some survived. Most did not.
The rules were simple, yet deadly:
Every movement was observed.
Every sound was measured.
Every hesitation was punished.
Every misstep ended in injury—or disappearance.
Li Yuan had mastered these rules.
And he would survive.
That night, he began a new routine.
Not cultivation. Not alignment.
Mental exercises.
Testing reflexes. Predicting patterns. Measuring sound, shadow, and motion.
He placed himself in scenarios, imagining mistakes, predicting punishment. Every movement rehearsed. Every reaction calculated.
He became sharper. Faster. Quieter.
The first mistake of another had taught him everything.
And he would not repeat it.
By dawn, Li Yuan understood one final truth:
The mountain did not need to attack him directly.
It tested the weak around him. It measured reactions. It recorded patterns.
Survival was not about power. Not about cultivation.
It was about strategy, patience, and awareness.
Li Yuan had learned it.
He would survive.
No matter the cost.
And when the time came, the watchers above would finally see him.
But by then… it would be too late for them.
Chapter 12
The Discarded Manual
Li Yuan had learned the rules of the pit.
He knew the patterns of oversight, the weight of observation, and the consequences of mistakes. Survival required patience, precision, and absolute control over every movement and breath.
But patience alone could not bring him power.
For that, he would need something forbidden, discarded, and dangerous.
It began in the ruins of the old storage hall.
The place no menial ever entered. Broken walls, collapsed beams, and shattered cultivation stones filled the air with dust. The disciples avoided it, and the overseers did not care. It was a place meant to be forgotten.
Li Yuan moved quietly through the rubble, eyes scanning the debris. He had been observing this place for days, noting shadows, lantern positions, and the timing of patrols.
And then he saw it: a partially buried box of bamboo slips.
It had been hidden beneath a fallen beam, almost entirely covered in dust and debris. The seals were broken. The characters were faded but legible.
He crouched low, heart steady, and examined it.
The manual was old. Ancient.
The title was simple: The Path of the Silent Stone.
He did not recognize the author. The sect had likely discarded it for being too dangerous, too unorthodox, or too incomplete.
He lifted the box carefully. The bamboo slips smelled of old wood and dust, with faint traces of ink and talismanic energy.
Li Yuan's pulse quickened slightly—not with fear, but anticipation.
This was what he had been waiting for.
He had studied discarded knowledge before, in fragments. But nothing like this.
The slips contained techniques for cultivating without drawing attention. The methods were subtle, internal, and incredibly precise. Every breath, every muscle adjustment, every thought was part of the process.
There was no flashy power. No immediate breakthroughs.
Only slow, deliberate development.
And that suited him perfectly.
Li Yuan waited until nightfall.
The menials slept in their platform bunks. Lanterns had been extinguished. The wind carried faint echoes through the ruined halls, masking sound.
He retrieved the slips. Carefully spread them before him.
First, he memorized the patterns. The bamboo slips were filled with diagrams and tiny annotations indicating pressure points, breath ratios, and muscle alignment. Every line mattered. Every stroke mattered.
He traced them with his fingers slowly, memorizing each detail. The slightest misalignment could lead to injury—or death.
He began the first exercise.
It was subtle. A small adjustment of the spine. A contraction of muscles normally unused. A shift in breathing that required both precision and control.
Immediately, pain flared. Not sharp, not crippling—but enough to demand full focus.
Li Yuan inhaled carefully. Exhaled deliberately. He adjusted his posture, responding to the pain. Not resisting. Not forcing. Only listening.
The first exercise was not about power. It was about alignment. Awareness. Foundation.
Hours passed.
The pain ebbed and flowed, demanding attention, testing control, punishing sloppiness.
Li Yuan did not stop. He counted every breath. Corrected every minor deviation.
By dawn, he had finished the first session.
He was exhausted. His body trembled with effort, yet he felt… balanced.
The next nights were similar.
Each session introduced slightly more complexity: minor internal energy circulation, subtle shifts in qi flow, faint activation of meridian channels that were normally dormant in ordinary menials.
Li Yuan did not attempt full cultivation. The slips warned of detection if energy was drawn too overtly.
He trained invisibly. Internally. Subtly.
He documented everything mentally.
Timing of movements
Pain patterns
Muscular responses
Breath alignment
By the fifth night, he could perform the first set of exercises without error. Pain was still present—but manageable. His awareness had sharpened. Every muscle, every nerve, every thought was under control.
The mountain and the overseers remained unaware.
One night, he felt a shift.
Not from the manual. Not from his body.
From the ruins themselves.
The cracked stones beneath the collapsed beams vibrated faintly. A low hum, almost imperceptible.
Li Yuan froze. His senses expanded. The vibration was deliberate. Not random. Not natural.
He did not move. He observed.
The sensation passed as quickly as it appeared.But it left a mark.
Something ancient, buried beneath the sect, was reacting. And it had acknowledged him.
Li Yuan did not flinch. He did not react. He only recorded.
The exercises continued.
Days stretched into weeks. Li Yuan's body grew stronger. His muscles adapted to the subtle alignments. Pain became a guide, not a threat. His awareness expanded to encompass every whisper, every shadow, every faint motion around him.
He was cultivating. Slowly. Dangerously. Secretly.
And yet, survival remained paramount.
The mountain still watched. The overseers and disciples still measured mistakes.
One misstep could undo everything.
By the end of the month, Li Yuan had mastered the first stage of the Path of the Silent Stone.
Not enough to be noticed. Not enough to be powerful.
But enough to survive. Enough to endure. Enough to wait.
And he realized something crucial:
The manual had not been discarded for incompetence. It had been discarded because it required discipline, patience, and survival instincts that most menials—most disciples—would never have.He had all of them.
And now, with foundation set, the next stage would begin.
But that would require more than patience.
It would require perfect timing, absolute secrecy, and continued control over fear itself.
Li Yuan closed the bamboo slips, sliding them back into the box.
He lay on his platform, listening to the silence of the night.
The wind whispered across the stone yard.
He could hear distant footsteps, faint breathing, shadows shifting.
And above it all, the invisible watchers waited.
He did not fear them.He only waited.
And when the time came He would be ready.