Morning came to Bonecloud Mountain, but the sect's courtyards felt colder than night.
The bells that usually marked the start of drills rang late, their tones unsteady, as though even the bronze feared to be struck. Disciples gathered not in neat rows but in nervous clumps, whispering behind raised hands. Sparring bouts began and ended half-heartedly, wooden swords clacking once, twice, before both opponents lowered their arms and stole glances northward.
All eyes were drawn to the mist-choked wall.
The elder who had entered the burial grounds had not returned triumphant. He had come back bloodied—his lantern shattered, his qi unstable, his sleeve torn by a blade that should never have touched him. He said nothing of what he saw. Only that the northern path was forbidden until further notice.
That silence was worse than any declaration.
---
Rumors ignited like wildfire.
"Even Elder Han was forced back?" one boy hissed, pale.
"They say his arm was bound because a corpse struck him!" another answered.
"Impossible," a senior scoffed too quickly. "No corpse can wound a cultivator of his realm. It must have been a beast—"
"Then why did he not kill it?" a third whispered. "Why did he not burn the grounds clean?"
The circle of listeners grew. Faces paled.
"I heard they rose again. Every time he cut them down."
"That's nonsense."
"Then why is the burial ground still sealed? Why did he not return with proof?"
The bravest disciples tried to sneer, but even they glanced toward the north, eyes wide. The weakest slipped incense under their sleeves and lit them behind the kitchens, whispering prayers that their bodies would not be dumped in the cursed soil.
Ghost stories bloomed like weeds. Some claimed shadows had crawled along the wall at night. Others swore they heard rattling bones when the wind shifted. By midmorning, half the outer sect had convinced itself the burial grounds no longer held the dead, but something far worse.
---
Zhao Wu stood at the heart of it all, crimson sleeves flaring as he spread his arms. His voice carried like a spear.
"You've all heard," he said, gaze sweeping the courtyard. "Patrols vanish. Disciples dragged screaming into the dark. And now—even an elder retreats bloodied. Do you still doubt?"
No one answered, but no one looked away.
"This is no beast. No ghost." Zhao Wu's voice rose, echoing against the stone. "It is taboo. Corpse refinement!"
Gasps rang out. Some disciples shook their heads violently, others pressed trembling fingers against prayer beads, but none could argue.
"And who was cast into the burial grounds just before this began?" Zhao Wu demanded.
The silence thickened.
Zhao Wu's smile cut like a blade. "Lin Tian. Spiritless. Useless. A dog the sect fed for fifteen wasted years. And now he wallows in filth, raising corpses to claw his way upward. If we do nothing, he will drag us all into the grave with him."
Whispers hissed across the square. Some muttered denial, others fear, but the seed was planted.
One boy stammered, "But… if even Elder Han could not—"
Zhao Wu's hand cracked across his cheek before he could finish. The sound rang sharp.
The boy staggered back, clutching his face.
Zhao Wu loomed over him, eyes burning. "All the more reason to cut this rot from our roots before it festers further. Do you want to watch your brothers turned into puppets? Do you want to see your own corpse rise with empty eyes?"
His followers chorused at once: "Purge the filth! Purge the taboo!"
Soon others joined, voices uncertain at first, then louder, feeding on fear until the courtyard shook with it.
---
In the main hall, the elders convened.
The air was thick with incense meant to mask unease, but it only sharpened the tension.
Elder Han sat stiffly, sleeve torn, arm bound beneath layers of cloth. His silence spoke louder than words.
One elder slammed his fist into the table. "This cannot be hidden. If even one of us was forced back, the Inner Court will learn. Disgrace will follow."
Elder Du snarled, beard bristling. "He is one boy. One spiritless insect. We will send a full squad, wipe the graves clean, and be done."
"And risk losing more?" another snapped. "Do you not see? Already disciples whisper. Fear breeds doubt, and doubt breeds betrayal. If we fail again, rivals will descend like wolves."
The chamber fractured into shouts.
"Strike now!"
"Wait—prepare!"
"Burn it all!"
At last, Elder Han stirred. His voice was hoarse but steady.
"It is no mere child."
The hall froze.
Han's gaze was cold. "He commands the graves. Strike him, and they rise again. Break him, and the mist itself answers. I saw it."
The silence deepened. Even Du's face paled.
Han's jaw clenched. "If we move, we move with all strength. Half measures will only feed him further."
The words landed like stones, and unease rippled through the hall.
---
In the burial grounds, Lin Tian sat cross-legged among his servants.
His breath was ragged, every exhale flecked with blood. His meridians throbbed, stretched to the edge of tearing. His body screamed, but within his dantian, silver light pulsed brighter than ever. He had stepped fully into Qi Refining's first layer. His foundation was no elder's gift—it was carved from death.
Around him stood his four servants—one skeleton cracked nearly to pieces, three corpses slashed and battered. Yet their pale eyes remained fixed on him.
Lin Tian laughed softly, the sound ragged but real. "Even an elder could not crush me."
Pain lanced through him, but he welcomed it. Pain was proof.
Still, the cost gnawed at him. His channels burned, his body trembled, and he knew too much more might shatter him before the sect ever could.
He pressed his palm into the soil. The ground pulsed faintly beneath his hand, as though hidden hearts beat under the dirt. The mist curled tighter, wrapping him like a cloak.
"You lend me strength," he whispered. "And I will raise you all."
The bones rattled faintly, answering.
---
Zhao Wu could not sleep.
Lanterns flickered in his chamber as he paced, his shadow swinging across the walls. Again and again he replayed what he had seen—the corpses rising, Elder Han faltering, Lin Tian standing amid the graves like a lord.
His hands shook. "Trash. He was trash. He cannot—he must not—"
He slammed his fist into the wall. The lantern shuddered.
But beneath the fury coiled fear. Fear that Lin Tian was no longer the insect he had mocked. Fear that if he rose further, Zhao Wu's own place would vanish in the shadow.
The fear festered, twisted, until it burned into resolve.
"The sect cannot ignore this," Zhao Wu muttered. "And I will not let them."
He straightened, eyes gleaming with malice. "Tomorrow, I go to Elder Du. Let the sect turn its full weight on him. Let them bury him in fire. And when they do… I will stand above the ashes."
His laughter filled the room, brittle and sharp.
---
In the burial grounds, Lin Tian forced himself upright.
His servants shifted with him, battered but obedient. Silver light flickered faintly in his gaze. His smile was thin, dangerous.
"They called me trash," he whispered. "But the dead do not call me that. They obey."
He raised his hand. Four figures knelt as one.
"And soon… more will kneel. Living or dead."
The mist thickened, curling like chains across the graves.
And far beyond the fog, the sect prepared to turn its eyes fully upon him.
---