it had been near the end of the trials. The chaos was unmatched—people killing and clawing for survival. Wei Feng had hidden himself, observing, calculating. That's when he saw the young man, a beginner cultivator who had cornered a pregnant woman and her child.
The young man had been ruthless, his sword sharp and unwavering. Wei Feng watched, his instincts screaming to intervene. But he'd hesitated. He told himself he was gauging the situation, waiting for the right moment. The truth, however, was that he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved. The young man struck, the sword cutting the woman down first, then the boy. Their screams echoed in the mountain, piercing through the carnage.
That moment sealed it for Wei Feng. He could have let the young man move on, avoid confrontation, survive another day. But something about the brutality, the cold efficiency, mirrored too much of himself—the corporate tyrant, the man who made decisions that ruined lives without ever dirtying his hands. The irony was not lost on him.
With a flick of his mind, Wei Feng manipulated a fallen sword nearby, sending it gliding silently across the blood-soaked ground. The young man barely had time to react before the blade sliced through his neck, clean and precise. He staggered, his hands clawing at the air before crumpling to the ground.
Wei Feng hadn't moved until the young man's body was completely still. When he approached, his gaze lingered on the lifeless face, still twisted with shock and rage. Calculated. Necessary. Survival, he'd told himself then, repeating the words like a mantra as he retrieved the sword and disappeared into the shadows.
That night, the guilt had come for him. In the eerie quiet of his cave, Wei Feng woke with a start, his breath ragged, his body drenched in sweat. His mind replayed the scene—the slice of the blade, the sound of the body hitting the ground, the child's cries cut short. It was more than just the act itself. It was the coldness of his calculation that haunted him. He hadn't intervened to save the woman and child; he had done it to remove a threat.
For a brief moment, the old guilt from his past life bled through—the faces of those he'd destroyed as Brian Thompson, masked by contracts and bottom lines. Now, there was no mask. The blood was on his hands.
Wei Feng clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. "Weakness," he hissed through gritted teeth. Yet the nightmares lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind, a grim reminder that he was not yet the monster he needed to become.
Wei Feng sat cross-legged in his cave, the dim crystal light casting shadows across the rough stone walls. The Blood Abyss Mountain was no ordinary peak; it was an underground city carved into stone, with endless caverns and tunnels like veins of a living organism.
The sect had granted him this cave—a confined, dark space more like a grave than a residence. He chuckled bitterly. The initiates from the eclipse were now outer disciples, the lowest rank in a hierarchy designed to foster savagery. The Blood Eyes Sect didn't care for them. To the sect, they were disposable bugs in a jar, fighting for survival.
Wei Feng's gaze lingered on the jagged wall. The true power of the sect lay with the Core Formation elders, monsters capable of annihilating hundreds, and above them, the Nascent Soul Peak Masters, the true titans of the Blood Eyes Sect. Outer disciples like him were nothing—fodder in a brutal system.
The knife floated before him, spinning slowly. His telekinetic control, discovered during the trials, had grown sharper. The blade hovered near his face, moving with precision as it shaved away the stubble on his chin. Each motion felt meditative, his focus sharpening with the blade's edge.
His reflection in the knife's surface revealed his changed appearance—harsher, scarred, and eerily calm. His once unremarkable features now bore a cold intensity. This was no longer the corporate tyrant Brian Glock. This was Wei Feng, forged by blood and survival.
The mountain wasn't a sanctuary but a crucible. Kill or be killed—that was the law. Some initiates adapted and thrived; others crumbled. Wei Feng smirked coldly.
"Bugs in a jar, huh? Then I'll be the one who eats the rest."
He rose, guiding the knife back into his robe, and moved to the corner where water-filled buckets shimmered. A flick of his mind raised the water into a rippling orb. Thin streams flowed over his hands and face, cleansing him. His telekinetic control was now as precise as his own limbs.
Removing his robe revealed his chest, where pulsing red veins stretched ominously—a reminder of the parasite the sect had implanted in every outer disciple. A failsafe against betrayal, the parasite would kill them if triggered. Wei Feng's expression remained unreadable as he muttered:
"The sect doesn't trust its own dogs. Can't blame them."
Most outer disciples completed missions within the dangerous sect grounds. Wei Feng chose otherwise, opting for tasks beyond its borders.
"It's no safer out there," he mused, "but at least I won't have to watch my back every second."
His gaze shifted to stacks of books piled in the cave. Unlike others who spent merit points on cultivation techniques, Wei Feng had invested in knowledge.
"This body's memories aren't enough," he muttered. "I need to understand this world—its rules, its players."
One manual stood out, costing him all his points. Its forbidden technique could alter his facial structure, a painful process to render him unrecognizable. It wasn't just to hide from the sect but also from the enemies of Wei Feng's original body.
"The Wei clan's reach might not extend here," he said, "but I won't take chances."
As the water orb splashed back into the bucket, Wei Feng donned a fresh robe. He wasn't just surviving; he was preparing. This cave wasn't a grave to him—it was a forge. Sitting back down, the knife hovered before him once more, his reflection distorted in its surface.
"This place will shape me. Let's see what kind of blade I become."