Chapter 2
"In this world, Qi flows like light. But shadows don't need light. They need something else—fear, pain, silence."
The first thing Bai Shen felt when he opened his eyes was not the air or the ground beneath him. It was pressure.
Not from the outside.
From within.
His blood was thicker. His breath slower. His vision sharper. He could hear the slow drip of water echoing off the cavern walls, the movement of tiny insects crawling beneath the stones, the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
And within that stillness, he could hear his own shadow breathing.
The corpse that had spoken to him was gone. Turned to ash, scattered on the throne of bone and stone.
But the power it left behind—the black flame that had stabbed into his chest—remained.
It didn't just settle in his core.
It became his core.
Shen stood slowly.
The world moved differently now. Not faster. Not slower.
Just… quieter.
Like everything waited for him to move first.
He climbed back toward the surface. The tunnel groaned with every step, reacting to the new energy radiating from his veins. Vines withered as he brushed past. Ice hissed and cracked as he passed beneath frozen ceilings.
By the time he reached the top of the cliff, dawn was breaking across the peaks.
The Bloodroot Clan still slept.
He didn't.
Couldn't.
The power inside him wouldn't let him.
That morning, he walked into the sparring yard.
The disciples didn't recognize him at first.
He wore no shirt, only torn, frost-stained pants. Blood crusted along his arms and chest. His body was still bruised, broken in places—but he stood tall. Still.
When Bai Liang noticed him, he stepped forward, brows drawn tight.
"You crawl out of your hole just to get beaten again?"
Shen said nothing.
He raised his eyes—and they were black. Not from bruising. From something deeper. His pupils were gone, replaced by shimmering void.
The moment Bai Liang sneered, Shen's shadow moved.
It surged up like smoke, fast and silent.
A skeletal hand burst from the stone floor and wrapped around Bai Liang's throat, lifting him into the air.
Screams erupted around the courtyard. Some disciples stumbled back. Others ran.
One instructor tried to interfere.
He didn't reach them.
Shen's shadow lunged, slamming the man into a wall hard enough to leave a crack.
And through it all, Shen didn't move an inch.
"You called my father a traitor," he said.
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
"I wonder what your blood says."
Bai Liang choked, feet kicking wildly as the hand squeezed.
Then—
A deep voice boomed.
"Enough!"
Elder Kwan stood at the edge of the courtyard, robes flapping in the wind, staff raised high.
The light around him twisted as he activated a powerful suppressor seal—one meant to bind rogue cultivators or demon-blooded invaders.
Golden runes raced across the stone floor.
Shen's shadow recoiled with a hiss, fading back into the ground.
Bai Liang collapsed, gasping, barely conscious.
Kwan's voice shook with fury—and something else.
Fear.
"You've awakened it…" he said. "The Shadow Core. The cursed inheritance."
Shen looked at him, face unreadable.
"I didn't ask for it."
"You should have died the moment it touched you."
"I did."
Kwan's face paled.
Before anyone else could speak, Shen collapsed—his knees buckling under the weight of exhaustion and the internal storm tearing through his soul.
Darkness claimed him.
He awoke in chains.
The dungeon beneath Bloodroot Temple was a place few ever saw. Carved deep into the rock, laced with spirit seals and suppression arrays, it was where criminals, traitors, and monsters were kept.
Now, they had made a cell for him.
He sat in silence, hands bound in stone cuffs etched with silver runes. A glowing inscription hovered above the door, draining energy from the room constantly.
He should've felt weak.
But the Shadow Core inside him wasn't Qi-based.
It didn't care about suppression.
It fed on isolation.
On silence.
On rage.
Shen breathed slowly, controlling it. He could feel it trying to rise again. Whispering to him. Promising power if he'd just let go.
But not yet.
He needed control first.
He needed answers.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
One set.
Light.
Measured.
When the door opened, it wasn't an elder.
It was a girl.
She wore dark robes with silver-threaded trim. Her face was veiled, but her eyes—sharp, gray, watchful—revealed more than most.
"You don't belong here," she said.
Shen stared at her. "You're not Bloodroot."
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
She stepped closer.
"To see if you're worth saving."
Her name was Mara.
She wasn't part of any recognized sect—but Shen noticed her movements. The way she stood slightly to the left of the doorframe. The tension in her shoulders. She was trained. Not just in cultivation.
In killing.
She didn't confirm it.
But when she lifted the sleeve of her robe to reveal a tattoo—an ancient spiral marking once worn by the Fifth Shade Sect—Shen understood.
"You're a survivor."
"Last one. Maybe."
"Why come here?"
"To find you."
She explained quickly.
The Shadow Fist Sect hadn't truly died during the Purge. A few branches survived, scattered and hidden. The Fifth Shade was one of them—trained in secrecy, tasked with watching for signs that the Core had passed on.
And now, it had.
To Bai Shen.
"You're not a mistake," Mara said. "You're a design."
Shen looked at the glowing runes overhead. "Then why do I feel like a curse?"
"Because you are," she said bluntly. "But you're a curse with a choice."
That night, she freed him.
The dungeon guards never noticed her blade.
They never got the chance to scream.
Shen followed her through the old sewer tunnels beneath the temple—half-collapsed ruins built long before the current sect rose to power. They moved silently, shadows parting around them.
He could feel his Core stirring.
Excited.
Outside the walls, beneath a crescent moon, he felt it again.
The hunger.
But it didn't control him this time.
He controlled it.
And in that control, something changed.
The black energy in his veins shifted, swirling faster, compressing tighter.
A message flashed in his mind—etched in shadow.
Tier One: Shadow Core — Stabilized.
They made camp near a ruined watchtower deep in the wilderness.
Mara lit no fire.
Shen sat cross-legged, breathing slowly.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now you learn how to stop being prey," she said.
She tossed him a scroll. It was made of dark animal hide and sealed with blood.
He opened it—and darkness poured into his mind.
Not words.
Techniques.
Memories.
Rituals.
The foundation of Shadow Dao.
He saw the names flash across his inner vision:
Soul Grip – Summon a spectral fist to restrain physical or spiritual enemies.
Veil Step – Shift through shadows in line of sight.
Fear Mark – Infect enemy thoughts with illusions fed by their own terror.
Shen's hands trembled as he gripped the scroll.
This was no mere cultivation technique.
It was a weapon forged from pain.
Flashback: His father, kneeling before the clan.
Bloodied. Eyes broken.
Declaring loyalty before they ran him through.
A lie.
A slaughter.
A warning.
Present:
Shen opened his palm.
Shadow flared along his fingers—not flame, not light, but living darkness.
He smiled for the first time in years.
Not in joy.
But in purpose.
Mara stood beside him, arms crossed.
"They'll send hunters," she said. "Bloodroot doesn't tolerate what it fears."
Shen nodded. "Then let them come."
He closed his hand.
The shadow vanished.
And somewhere, miles away, deep within the temple's war hall, an elder's eyes snapped open.
"The Shadow Fist… has awakened."