The next morning, the sect's courtyards buzzed like a hive of hornets struck with a stick.
Normally, dawn drills brought sharp order: disciples lined in rows, wooden swords striking in rhythm, elders' shouts cracking like whips. But this morning, discipline frayed. Groups clustered in corners, their whispers louder than any practice strikes. Even the instructors barked with less authority, their own eyes flicking north toward the wall.
"Did you hear? The patrol didn't come back."
"They say four gone—just like that!"
"No… not gone. My brother swears he heard them. Screams in the night, carried down the mountain. Said it sounded like they were being torn apart."
"Lies. Ghost stories to scare cowards. The dead don't rise."
"Then where are their bodies? Where are the lanterns they carried?"
The words spread like fire, leaping from lips to lips. Even those who mocked the rumors still looked pale. When their eyes strayed northward, they lingered too long.
Some disciples tried to ward off the fear with ritual. A girl slipped three incense sticks beneath the northern wall, bowing three times with trembling hands. Another boy pressed a talisman to his forehead, whispering shaky prayers. One, braver in voice but not in heart, muttered aloud:
"Please, let me die clean, not in the graves."
The sect's discipline cracked beneath the weight of rumor. The Bonecloud Sect had survived spirit beasts, rival sects, and famine—but what could it do against whispers that the dead had begun to obey?
---
Zhao Wu walked through the chaos like a flame feeding on dry grass. His crimson sleeves billowed as he strutted, his entourage of sycophants trailing close behind.
He didn't try to quiet the rumors. He fanned them.
"Four gone?" His laughter was sharp, forcing nearby disciples to look his way. His eyes flicked north, unease quickly masked by arrogance. "Patrols vanish, screams echo, lanterns swallowed by fog. Tell me—what does that sound like?"
"Ghosts!" a junior blurted, eager to please him.
"No." Zhao Wu's smile was thin and cruel. "It sounds like a taboo. A corpse refiner."
The words struck like a hammer blow. Gasps rippled through the courtyard.
"But… that's forbidden. No disciple would dare—"
Zhao Wu raised a hand, silencing them. "Forbidden, yes. But the sect threw someone into the burial grounds just yesterday. Spiritless. Worthless. Someone who should have died the moment the gates shut." His voice dropped to a hiss, yet every ear strained to catch it. "And yet… screams rang through the night. Disciples vanish. The grounds stink of rot."
He let the words hang. Lin Tian's name was not spoken, but every face that had sneered at him yesterday remembered.
One disciple, braver than most, frowned. "You speak wildly, Zhao Wu. Elder Du will punish if you—"
Zhao Wu's hand lashed out. The slap cracked across the courtyard. The boy staggered, clutching his cheek, stunned.
Gasps followed.
Zhao Wu's eyes gleamed with vicious delight. "Punish me? For what—speaking truth? The elders want obedience, not silence. If trash plays with corpses, I'll drag him into the light myself."
His sycophants laughed, some nervously, others with forced bravado. The courtyard hummed with fear and hunger for spectacle. Zhao Wu drank it in like wine.
---
In the main hall, the elders gathered.
The chamber smelled of old incense and authority, but today the air was heavy with unease. Lanterns flickered as though disturbed by more than drafts.
"Four more disciples vanished. This cannot be ignored."
"It is the burial grounds. They are cursed, we all know this."
"Cursed or not, the sect weakens. Whispers spread. Disciples cower instead of train. If this continues, our rivals will smell weakness."
Elder Du slammed his palm onto the table, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder. "Enough! Weaklings falling to ghosts is no loss. Let the grounds devour them. The sect grows stronger by discarding trash."
Another elder sneered. "And when whispers reach the Inner Court? When our name is spoken with laughter at their feasts? Will that strengthen us?"
Silence followed. Even Du's scowl faltered.
The quiet elder who had spoken little before lifted his gaze. His voice was calm, deliberate, carrying weight beyond volume. "Send me."
Heads turned.
"The burial grounds stir. If it is nothing, I will silence the whispers. If it is something… I will end it before the sect's name is stained further."
The hall fell still. No one wished to face the northern mist, but no one wished to appear weaker than this elder either.
At last, Elder Du waved a hand. "Fine. Go. But return quickly. The sect wastes no time on shadows."
The silent elder inclined his head, though his eyes remained fixed northward, as if already seeing through stone and fog to the graves beyond.
---
In the burial grounds, Lin Tian knelt among his servants.
The skeleton loomed at his side, bones cracked but bound by will. Three corpses knelt nearby, weapons clutched in pale fingers, eyes empty yet waiting. Together, they formed the beginnings of an army.
Lin Tian inhaled deeply, corpse qi rushing into him. His dantian pulsed brighter, meridians humming. His body felt stronger, sharper—but beneath the surge lay strain.
Pain lanced through him, sharper than before. His bones ached as if pressed from within. His vision blurred. Sweat ran cold down his brow.
For the first time, he felt the cost.
The more he commanded, the more he absorbed, the more his body demanded. His power was no gift—it was a hunger, endless and dangerous.
Still, he smiled.
"This path will devour me…" He rose, eyes flashing silver. "…but I will devour more first."
He barked orders. "Flank. Guard. Switch!"
The skeleton clattered into position, limbs stiff but precise. The corpse soldiers lurched into formation, blades swinging in imperfect arcs. Lin Tian corrected them, step by step, forcing crude discipline.
They moved like clumsy soldiers at first, but they moved.
The burial grounds seemed to hum with each motion. Bones rattled faintly—not from wind, but as if answering him. Mist curled closer, brushing against his skin like fingers.
Lin Tian stilled, eyes narrowing. It's not just me. The grounds themselves… they respond.
The thought struck like lightning. Perhaps I was not cast here by chance. Perhaps… this was always where I was meant to awaken.
His lips curled. "Then let this place be my sect."
---
That night, Zhao Wu stood at the northern wall, staring into the mist. His fists clenched so tightly his nails drew blood.
Trash. Spiritless. Useless.
He repeated the words like a mantra, but they rang hollow now. He had seen what stalked the graves. He had heard the screams torn from his fellow disciples.
Fear gnawed at him. But rage burned hotter.
"No," he whispered. "I'll drag him out myself if I must. I'll prove to the sect what he is."
The mist shifted as though listening. Zhao Wu's breath caught, but he turned away, jaw tight, refusing to let fear show.
---
In the burial grounds, Lin Tian opened his eyes from meditation. Silver light flickered faintly in his gaze. His servants stood unmoving, shadows stretched long by the moon.
He breathed deep, voice low.
"They called me trash. They threw me into the dark. But it is in the dark that I rise. The Dao of Death answers me… and soon, the world will as well."
The graves rattled faintly, as if laughing with him.
And far beyond the mist, the elder sent to investigate placed his foot on the northern path.
---