The Awakening Square of the Bonecloud Sect overflowed with voices.
From the first light of dawn, the plaza had been dressed for ceremony. Banners stitched with the sect's sigil—black storm clouds coiled around a skeletal dragon—snapped in the cold wind. Lanterns swayed from iron chains, each flame trembling like a captive star. Incense poured from bronze braziers, thick and cloying, meant to steady hearts and smother the stench of nerves.
Drums echoed in slow, deliberate rhythm. With every beat, another youth climbed the altar steps, pressed their palms to the jade slab, and waited for the heavens to speak.
The altar was carved from a single block of dark jade, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly as if drinking in the very air. When touched, the stone revealed the disciple's spirit root: the hidden thread between mortal flesh and the Dao.
One by one, roots flared into being.
"Fire Root, middle-grade!"
"Lightning Root, high-grade!"
"Water Root, low-grade—but still usable!"
Each proclamation rippled through the crowd. Proud parents wept openly. Elders stroked their beards, calculating the value of each child like merchants counting treasure. Younger disciples whispered enviously, already comparing who would rise and who would stagnate.
At the edge of the crowd, a thin youth stood silent.
His robe was patched at the elbows. His shoulders were narrow. His fists clenched until blood welled from his nails.
His name was Lin Tian. Fifteen years old. Orphan. Sect ward. And for fifteen years, he had waited for this day.
Once, as a child sweeping the steps of the sect library, he overheard two elders whispering.
> "That boy? Spiritless. His parents were nobodies. Keeping him here is charity."
"A pity. He'll never step onto the Dao. Better he become servant stock."
The words had cut deeper than any blade. Yet from that day, Lin Tian dreamed. He dreamed of stepping onto this very altar, of watching the jade blaze with light so brilliant it burned the sneers off their faces. He dreamed of hearing the elder proclaim a root so rare the sect would tremble at their mistake.
For once, they would look at him not with pity, not with contempt—but with awe.
His turn came.
The noise of the square seemed to dim as he climbed the steps. His heartbeat drowned out the drums.
He pressed his palms to the altar.
The jade was cold. Too cold.
The runes stirred faintly, flickering with pale light. Qi rushed through him like a tide—only to collapse instantly.
The light that should have risen in a pillar sputtered, gasped, and died.
The altar was silent.
The heavens gave no answer.
A long pause followed. Even the drums faltered.
Then the presiding elder's face twisted with contempt. His voice rang out, sharp enough to pierce bone.
"Spiritless. A wasted shell."
The words cracked across the square like thunder.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then laughter erupted.
"Trash!"
"No root? Not even a mortal grade?"
"Bonecloud Sect has raised dogs with more talent!"
The sound was merciless. Dozens of voices jeering, mocking, spitting like arrows.
Lin Tian stood frozen, his heart hollow, his vision swimming.
But one voice cut sharper than the rest.
A youth in crimson silks stepped forward, eyes narrow with cruel delight. Zhao Wu—inner disciple, son of an elder. Rival since childhood.
Zhao Wu's lips curled into a sneer. "To think the sect wasted food on you all these years. Spiritless? You don't even deserve to stand in the square."
He struck without warning.
A palm slammed into Lin Tian's chest.
The impact hurled him from the altar. Blood sprayed across the jade as his body crashed against the stone steps.
The crowd roared with laughter. Some clapped. A few even jeered for him to crawl like the worm he was.
The elders remained still. Not one lifted a hand. To them, what was the worth of defending trash?
Zhao Wu dusted his sleeves, voice dripping poison. "If I were Elder, I'd drag him to the burial grounds now. Let the bones have him. Better fertilizer than disciple."
One elder finally spoke—voice cold, unfeeling.
"Drag him out. The sect wastes no food on corpses that still breathe."
Two disciples seized Lin Tian by the arms. His head lolled, blood dripping from his lips, vision blurring. He could barely hear the crowd's laughter as they hauled him away.
Through the gates. Past the torches. Past the sneers and spittle.
The great doors slammed shut behind him.
Silence fell.
---
Ahead stretched the burial grounds.
An endless field of bones and shallow graves sprawled beneath the moonlight. Rusted swords jutted from the earth like broken ribs. Shattered banners swayed in the wind, their sigils faded to ghosts. The air reeked of rust and old incense, as if the dead themselves still lingered in the soil.
Here, the Bonecloud Sect discarded its failures—disciples slain in duels, enemies defeated in war, traitors executed. The honored dead were entombed in jade crypts. Only the unworthy, the forgotten, and the despised rotted here.
Lin Tian staggered forward, falling to his knees. His chest burned. His dignity was ashes.
He pressed his hand against the soil, nails digging into the dirt until they split.
For fifteen years, he had endured mockery. For fifteen years, he had dreamed of proving himself.
But the heavens had given him nothing.
Nothing but the cold, the pain, and the laughter of those who believed themselves chosen.
Tears mingled with blood as he whispered, voice broken:
"If I cannot live as one of the living… then let me rise with the dead."
The wind shifted.
Bones rattled.
The earth shivered beneath his hand.
At first he thought it was his imagination. Then he saw it: movement at the edge of the mound.
A skeletal hand, thin and pale as moonlight, clawed up through the dirt.
Lin Tian's breath caught.
Another hand followed. Then a skull. A ribcage. One by one, bones dragged themselves free, rising with agonizing slowness until they stood tall, hollow sockets staring into him.
For a heartbeat, terror surged. His legs screamed to flee. His heart hammered.
But the skeleton did not strike.
It bowed.
And in that moment, something vast and cold flooded into him. Qi—dark, heavy, endless—surged through his veins. His dantian, dormant for fifteen years, stirred awake. His body trembled as power he was never meant to touch crackled beneath his skin.
A whisper brushed his ear. It was not sound, not thought, but truth itself.
[You have taken your first step upon the Dao of Death.]
Lin Tian's lips curled into a smile—thin, trembling, but real.
"The living mocked me… but the dead obey."
The burial grounds echoed with rattling bones, like laughter carried on the wind.
And for the first time in his life, Lin Tian was no longer powerless.
---