The burial grounds were silent after the slaughter.
Corpses knelt in rows beneath the moonlight, their pale eyes reflecting the glow. Blood still dripped from blades, soaking into the soil until the ground seemed to drink it.
Lin Tian stood at the center, his chest heaving, his veins burning with the strain of command. His robes hung in tatters, his body slick with sweat, but he did not fall.
Around him, nearly two dozen undead waited. Some were fresh, faces still familiar to the sect that had sent them; others were older husks, little more than bones held together by his will. All bowed to him.
For the first time, Lin Tian felt it fully—not just the obedience of the dead, but their weight. A host at his command.
The mist curled thicker around him, cold qi seeping into his bones, steadying his exhaustion. The graves whispered faintly, as if approving.
"They called me trash," he murmured. "But trash does not command an army."
His lips curved into a thin smile. "From this night, I am Lord of the Graves."
The corpses bowed deeper, as if affirming the title.
---
At dawn, chaos ruled the Bonecloud Sect.
The survivors of the night staggered back through the gates, bloodied and broken. Their torches sputtered, their cries hollow. Dozens had not returned.
The disciples who remained poured into the courtyards, their whispers sharp with fear.
"Half a squad gone!"
"Some never even screamed—just vanished into the mist."
"I saw Brother Huang's body—eyes pale, blade still in hand. He—he turned on me!"
The words spread faster than fire. No instructor could still them, no elder could silence them. The sect was shaken to its core.
Zhao Wu limped through the square, arm bandaged, face twisted in fury. He had survived, but his pride bled deeper than his flesh.
He shouted loud enough for all to hear: "You saw it! Corpses dragged our brothers down. Lin Tian commands them! He is no disciple—he is a plague! If we do not destroy him, the whole sect will fall!"
The crowd murmured, fear feeding on itself.
One boy stammered, "But if even Elder Han, if even the squads—"
Zhao Wu cut him off, his voice rising. "Then we send more. Stronger! Burn the grounds to ash if we must. Whatever it takes—we end him!"
His words echoed. For the first time, disciples shouted back: "End him! End the taboo!"
Zhao Wu's smirk returned, thin and cruel. Fear had become his weapon, and he wielded it with ease.
---
In the main hall, the elders seethed.
The survivors knelt before them, heads bowed, bodies trembling. Elder Du's glare was murderous. "Shameful! An entire squad lost to one boy!"
One disciple wept openly. "Elder… they would not stay down. Every corpse we cut rose again. Even those who fell at our side—rose to strike us."
The words silenced the hall.
Elder Han leaned forward, eyes cold. "You see now. This is no accident. The graves themselves answer him."
"Then burn it all!" Du roared. "Torch the burial grounds, root and stone! Leave nothing for him to command."
"And scorch our own history with it?" another snapped. "Those grounds hold our dead, our secrets. To burn them would be to shame our ancestors."
Voices clashed—shouts of "destroy him" battling with "wait, plan, prepare." The sect was a storm about to split.
At last, the sect master's voice cut through.
He had remained silent until now, his presence heavy as iron. His eyes were sharp, his tone colder than winter.
"This boy has shaken us once. We will not let him do so again. Prepare the inner disciples. If the outer ranks cannot cleanse the graves, then the sect's true strength will."
The order fell like a blade. The hall bowed, though unease lingered in every glance.
---
Deep within the burial grounds, Lin Tian tested his new strength.
He commanded with a whisper, and twenty corpses shifted into formation. Their steps were uneven, their blades unsteady, but they moved as one.
"Strike."
A line of rusted gravestones shattered beneath their blows.
"Guard."
Shields lifted, forming a crude wall.
"Advance."
They marched through the mist, a tide of death that obeyed his will alone.
Lin Tian's veins burned with the strain, his breath ragged. But the mist fed him, the soil lent him strength. Every command dug his channels wider, every death added to his host.
Still, he felt the price. His body ached as though it belonged to the corpses themselves, hollow and cold. Each time he pushed, he risked breaking.
But the graves whispered louder now, filling his ears with faint voices—some urging, some laughing, some weeping. He could not yet understand the words, but their intent was clear: rise higher.
He pressed a trembling hand to the soil. "Then I will. I will raise you all."
---
That night, the burial grounds stirred.
Lin Tian walked deeper than before—past broken spears and shattered banners, past graves so old their markers were dust. The mist thickened with each step, the whispers louder.
A cracked mausoleum loomed, its doors half-buried in soil. Ancient carvings glowed faintly, lines of script too worn to read.
As he drew near, the mist recoiled like breath sucked inward. The doors groaned, and the sound of rattling bones echoed from within.
His army shifted restlessly, pale eyes flickering.
Lin Tian's silver-lit gaze narrowed. He could feel it—something older, deeper, waiting. The graves were not endless chaos. They had a heart.
And it was calling him.
---
At the sect's walls, torches blazed. Disciples sharpened blades, elders readied talismans, drums beat a war rhythm.
But in the shadows, Zhao Wu stood with clenched fists, his eyes blazing.
"He grows stronger every night. If we wait, he will command not dozens, but hundreds. And then—not even the sect master will stand above him."
His lips curled into a bitter smile. "So rise, Lin Tian. Rise as high as you can. When you fall, I will be the one to bury you."
---
In the mist, Lin Tian raised his hand. Two dozen corpses dropped to their knees as one, their voices silent but their obedience thunderous.
He whispered to the graves, voice steady despite his pain.
"They cast me here to die. Instead, I rise. And I will not stop. Not until every knee bends—living or dead."
The mist swallowed his words, carrying them deep into the bones of the mountain.
And the graves answered, rattling faintly in the dark.
---