The inner disciple's courtyard loomed like a fortress above the outer sect's crumbling dormitories.
Clean stone paths led through sculpted gardens. Mist from spirit formations bathed the area in a quiet, oppressive calm. The scent of rare flowers mixed with the faint pressure of refined Qi, so thick it made the air heavy.
Zhen Wuji stepped forward, alone.
The guards at the gate looked down their noses at him. One was a tall youth with a jade token hanging from his belt; the other held a long spear that hummed with minor spirit inscriptions.
"No mortals beyond this point," the tall one said, smirking. "You lost, garbage?"
"I was summoned," Wuji replied simply, lifting the token he'd been handed—black-inked, with a red crescent mark. A token of command from an Inner Disciple.
The guards stiffened slightly. The smirk faded from the taller one's lips. "Wait."
He vanished inside. A few minutes later, he returned, expression unreadable.
"You may enter. Do not touch anything. Do not speak unless spoken to."
Wuji stepped past him without answering.
He was led to a circular platform surrounded by spirit fog. At its center sat a youth dressed in gold-stitched robes. His expression was serene, but his eyes carried the chill of contempt.
He was Yu Hanlei, ranked forty-seventh among the Three-Scars Sect's Inner Disciples.
He looked no older than twenty, but the pressure emanating from him was overwhelming—like sitting before a sleeping beast.
"I've heard," Hanlei said, voice smooth, "that you passed the outer trials without using Qi."
Wuji said nothing.
"That's quite a feat," Hanlei continued. "You must have a special bloodline or a hidden treasure. Perhaps some ancient legacy? It doesn't matter. You're in my sect now."
Still, Wuji did not answer.
Hanlei's gaze narrowed. "I dislike arrogance. I offered this meeting to see if you could be useful."
"I don't need to be useful to you," Wuji said evenly.
Silence.
Then a flick of Hanlei's finger.
BOOM.
A wave of Qi slammed into Wuji's chest like a hammer. He staggered back a step. Blood rushed up his throat—but he swallowed it.
Hanlei tilted his head. "Not even a grunt. Interesting. But you're mistaken."
His voice sharpened.
"You are not here because you earned respect. You are here to learn your place."
A servant wheeled in a cart. On it were bone weights—forged from beast bones mixed with spiritual iron. Each weighed one hundred jin.
"Put these on," Hanlei said. "Let's see how well your body cultivation holds up."
Wuji said nothing. He stepped forward and strapped the first two weights to his arms. Then his legs. Then his waist.
His spine groaned. His knees bent slightly. Each breath grew heavier—but his eyes remained still.
"Good," Hanlei said. "Now walk. To the end of the garden and back. Five times."
Wuji began walking.
Each step pressed his feet into the marble path. His muscles trembled. His veins bulged. The weights pulled at his joints, tested his balance, made every breath a challenge.
But he kept walking.
Around him, inner sect servants and juniors began to gather, whispering and sneering.
"He's doing it bare-bodied?"
"That's five hundred jin in total!"
"He'll collapse before the second round."
But Wuji didn't stop.
By the third lap, blood dripped from his palms where the wrist weights tore skin.
By the fourth, his legs shook with every step.
By the fifth—
His body roared.
Not outwardly—but inwardly.
The [Heaven-Crushing Titan Body Scripture] surged like a rising tide. His bones pulsed, marrow vibrating with a deep, thunderous rhythm.
This was resistance. This was pressure. Exactly what his cultivation demanded.
He finished the fifth lap and stood before Hanlei once more.
His shirt was soaked. His arms hung like steel hammers. But his spine was straight.
Hanlei leaned back, tapping a finger on the stone table beside him.
"Not bad," he admitted. "But let me ask you—what is your goal, Zhen Wuji?"
Wuji looked him in the eye.
"To crush everything that tries to control me."
Hanlei laughed. Not mockingly, but genuinely amused.
"You'll die early with that kind of talk. But I like that fire. Still, this sect is ruled by strength, not ideals. If you ever want to rise, you'll need more than muscle."
Wuji turned to leave.
"One more thing," Hanlei said lazily. "You'll be assigned to the Gravel Division. It's where we toss the rough stones and uncut jade. Let's see how you shine there."
Wuji didn't answer.
The Gravel Division was as decrepit as its name implied.
Outer disciples here were either too poor, too weak, or too unlucky to earn better positions. Their quarters were crumbling, the cultivation grounds barely functioning, and their instructors indifferent.
But Wuji liked it.
No politics. No expectations. Just silence—and hardship.
He trained daily.
He sparred with rocks, lifted boulders, struck ironwood poles until his fists bled, then healed them through controlled breath. He swam upstream against mountain rivers to temper his muscles, ate the most basic grains, and resisted sleep until his body reached its limit.
The [Heaven-Crushing Titan Body Scripture] advanced again.
He broke into the Second Engraving.
His bones thickened.
His muscles compressed, increasing density without bloating.
He discovered a new trait—Stone-Skin Pulse—a passive resistance to spiritual Qi attacks. Not through Qi, but sheer body toughness. Even weak-grade Qi techniques now only bruised him.
But word spread again.
"Zhen Wuji advanced again. Without spirit stones."
"I heard he broke the steel weights meant for outer disciples."
Some admired him. Others hated him.
But one group couldn't ignore him any longer—the Red Fang Disciples.
The Red Fang were a dominant clique of second-tier disciples who oversaw resource allocation in the outer sect. Their leader, Lu Qing, was a former elite candidate with mid-stage Qi Condensation and a cruel streak.
He didn't like losing attention.
And Zhen Wuji was stealing it.
One night, Wuji returned to his quarters to find his door smashed open.
Inside, his stone bed was overturned. His practice logs were burned. His spare robes torn to pieces.
At the center of the room stood three youths in red-hemmed robes. One leaned on a curved saber, smirking. Another twirled a copper coin between his fingers.
The one in front cracked his knuckles.
"So," he said, "you're the muscle freak who thinks he can ignore the sect rules."
Wuji stared.
"And you are?"
"Senior Ma Hong, Red Fang's enforcer. We heard you've been… slacking on your tribute payments. Spirit stones, herbs, or respect. Take your pick."
Wuji stepped forward.
"I have nothing for you."
"Oh?" Ma Hong's grin widened. "Then I'll take your bones instead."
He stepped in, fast.
His palm struck toward Wuji's chest with the Lesser Burning Qi Palm, a second-layer technique. The air shimmered with heat.
But Wuji didn't dodge.
He caught the strike with his forearm—and the sound of impact rang out like a bell.
Ma Hong staggered back, clutching his wrist.
"What… what the hell?!"
Wuji stepped forward.
"You're weak," he said calmly, "because you rely on Qi to make you feel powerful."
He punched.
Ma Hong raised his arms to block.
CRACK.
Ma Hong screamed as his forearm fractured under the blow. He was flung across the room, crashing through a wooden beam.
The other two tried to flee.
Wuji didn't let them.
When the dust settled, three bodies lay groaning outside the Gravel Division quarters.
Disciples peeked through cracked doors, eyes wide.
It was official now.
Zhen Wuji had defied not only a sect rule—but one of its dominant factions.
He had declared war.
And the sect?
The sect was watching