The sun rose over the Bonecloud Sect, but the burial grounds remained shrouded in their own kind of twilight.
The mist that clung to the graves did not burn away with dawn. It slithered across cracked stones and broken weapons, curling like pale snakes around the husks of forgotten lives.
Lin Tian stood at the center of it, the stench of rust and dried blood thick in the air. Two figures knelt before him—a skeleton stripped to bare bone, and the reanimated corpse of a disciple, hollow eyes staring, blade clutched limply in its hand.
He stared at them both, heart thundering. Even after hours, the sight stirred something primal in him: fear, awe, and hunger.
"Stand," he ordered softly.
Both obeyed.
The skeletal servant rose, joints clicking as dust fell from its limbs. The corpse followed, jerky at first before settling into an eerie rhythm. Two different forms of death—yet both were his to command.
A shiver coursed through him. The elders would call it a curse. They would call it a taboo fit only for demons.
But to Lin Tian, it was salvation.
---
He spent the morning testing their limits.
"Strike."
Bone and flesh slammed into a battered gravestone. The stone trembled, cracked, then split into rubble under their combined blows.
"Run."
They sprinted across the uneven ground, scattering bones in their wake. The skeleton clattered loudly with every stride, while the corpse stumbled, dragged itself upright, then found a grotesque rhythm—its feet thudding against the dirt like muffled drums.
"Together."
They charged side by side, smashing into another mound of stone, their combined weight crushing it into dust.
Lin Tian paced, studying them like a commander drilling soldiers. His orders grew sharper.
"Flank. Defend. Switch!"
The skeleton spun awkwardly, bones rattling. The corpse lifted its blade, striking clumsily but with relentless force. Their movements lacked grace, but they obeyed. That was enough.
Each act fed into Lin Tian's dantian. The cold qi pulsed brighter, circulating through his meridians with every command carried out. It burned in its own way, stretching channels that had never carried energy before. His body ached as if beaten, but beneath the pain was strength.
By the time sweat slicked his brow, his servants were battered—bones cracked, skin torn, robes shredded—but they still moved. Still obeyed.
Lin Tian sank onto a stone, gasping, but his eyes gleamed with hunger.
"With each command… I grow stronger. With each corpse, I climb higher."
For fifteen years he had dreamed of a path. Here it was, carved not by the heavens, but by the graves.
---
Within the sect walls, the day carried on as usual—at least on the surface.
Disciples gathered in the courtyards for drills, wooden swords clashing as shouts echoed off the mountains. The clang of steel rang crisp, but beneath the noise, whispers spread like insects.
"Did you hear? Two outer disciples vanished last night near the burial grounds."
"They said the ground was stained black, and the air smelled of incense and rot."
"Ghosts. It must be ghosts."
A trio of juniors huddled near the well, speaking in hushed voices. One burned incense secretly, pressing palms together in nervous prayer.
Older disciples scoffed, though not convincingly. "Nonsense. The dead don't rise. The burial grounds are cursed, yes, but nothing crawls out."
Yet when sparring began again, not one dared glance toward the northern path. Even bravado could not silence the unease.
That evening, junior disciples slipped offerings—fruit, talismans, even copper coins—at the base of the northern wall, muttering pleas not to be dragged into the graves.
Rumor thickened the air. Everyone felt something had shifted in the night, though none could name it.
---
Zhao Wu heard the whispers too.
He strutted into the training yard in crimson silks, fabric bright against the gray stone. A gaggle of flatterers trailed after him, laughing too loudly at every smirk he gave.
His lips curled with disdain as a disciple repeated the gossip.
"Two gone? Both from my cohort?" He clicked his tongue. "Pathetic. They probably ran away like cowards. If they wandered near the burial grounds, then the ghosts dragged them off. Either way, trash meets trash."
His sycophants echoed his laughter. But Zhao Wu's eyes flicked north, toward the misty wall that marked the burial grounds.
He remembered Lin Tian's thin body tossed through those gates. He remembered the dull thud when it struck stone. He remembered the look of despair in his eyes.
And yet… unease slithered through him.
He grabbed one of the flatterers by the collar. "Draw."
The boy fumbled out a wooden blade, hands shaking. Zhao Wu slapped it aside with casual force, shoving him sprawling in the dirt. Laughter erupted from the others, but Zhao Wu's sneer faltered as his gaze drifted north again.
If Lin Tian still lived… then what?
He clenched his jaw, shoved the thought away, and barked for training to resume. But doubt gnawed at him all the same.
---
That evening, elders gathered in the main hall.
Tall lanterns lit the chamber, casting long shadows across carved pillars. Incense filled the air, but unease threaded through the smoke.
"Two disciples missing. Rumors spreading. Order must be restored."
"Bah. If they were weak enough to die in the burial grounds, they were never worth feeding," Elder Du snorted, beard bristling with disdain. "Better to let the bones take them than waste resources."
"Still," another elder pressed, "the burial grounds have been restless. This is not the first time whispers have come. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps what?" Du snapped. "That demons dance in the dark? Ghosts dragging the unworthy away? We are cultivators, not frightened children."
The hall murmured in agreement. No one wished to admit fear of their own sect's grounds.
But not all faces were convinced. One elder remained silent throughout, his eyes narrow, expression unreadable.
He remembered the ceremony. He remembered the boy with pale hair, cast aside as spiritless waste, thrown into the graves.
His gaze shifted toward the northern wall, toward the mist that never lifted. His lips pressed thin.
Something had changed.
---
Back in the burial grounds, Lin Tian sat cross-legged among bones, cold qi coiling through him like smoke. His servants stood at his side: bone sentinel and corpse soldier, silent and vigilant.
He drew the energy into his channels, forcing them wider, stronger. Pain lanced through his body, sharp and relentless, but it was pain he welcomed. His bones felt denser, his muscles firmer, his breath steadier.
When he opened his eyes, the world looked different. The mist no longer drifted aimlessly—it curled toward him, faint silver threads weaving into his skin.
And in the silence, he heard whispers. Low. Faint. Impossible to grasp. Perhaps only wind through broken spears. Perhaps the voices of the forgotten.
But in his heart, he knew.
He was walking a path the sect feared to name.
"The Dao of Death…" he whispered.
The words tasted heavy, dangerous, inevitable.
He rose, his servants shifting at his command. His gaze turned toward the walls where lanterns glowed faintly in the distance.
"They cast me aside. They laughed at me. But I will climb from the graves they scorn. And one day… even they will kneel."
The bones rattled faintly, as if laughing with him.
And Lin Tian, once powerless, smiled into the night.
---