The bells of Bonecloud Sect tolled at dawn. Not the crisp rhythm that called disciples to drills, but the heavy, rolling peal that shook the mountain itself.
It was the sound of war.
Disciples poured into the courtyards, robes half-fastened, hair still damp from hurried washing. Some clutched blades with white knuckles, others carried bows, bundles of arrows rattling against their backs. Overseers stormed among them, barking names, slapping shoulders, shoving the hesitant into line.
Banners unfurled from the walls, their fabric snapping in the wind. The sigil of the sect—a skeletal dragon coiled in storm clouds—seemed darker under the pale sun. Even the wind carried unease.
Every man and woman knew what it meant. Tonight, the sect would march.
---
The courtyards seethed with voices.
Junior disciples whispered in huddles, fear leaking from every word.
"They say the corpses don't die."
"I heard one of the inner court's own fists cracked a skull—and it rose again."
"If the dead rise… what chance do we have?"
Senior disciples scoffed loudly, their sneers too sharp, too rehearsed.
"Fools. He is just one boy, hiding behind tricks."
"Yes, and the elders march with us. Do you think corpses can stand against talismans and fire?"
But when the drums echoed from the hall, even their boasting faltered. Some slipped incense sticks into their sleeves and muttered prayers, hoping no one saw.
Fear spread like a second mist across the mountain.
---
In the great hall, the elders stood no longer divided.
The sect master sat enthroned, high-backed chair carved from black stone, his robe heavy with embroidered clouds. His gaze was colder than steel, and when he spoke, no elder dared interrupt.
"Outer disciples fell. Inner disciples failed. No more hesitation. The boy commands an army of corpses and now a warlord. He does not merely defy us—he threatens us. If we let him fester, Bonecloud Sect will be remembered not for its strength, but for birthing a demon."
The words cut through doubt like a blade.
Elder Du slammed his palm on the table. "Then we march with fire and steel! Our dead are sacred, yes, but what is sacred if we are destroyed?! Better ash than disgrace."
Another elder hissed, "The Inner Court watches. If they learn one spiritless boy defied us, they will strip us of our seat. We must crush him utterly—and quickly, before whispers spread further."
A third elder, wrinkled and sharp-eyed, snapped, "The burial grounds hold the sect's bones! Generations of our fallen! Burn them, and we salt our own roots. The ancestors will curse us."
The hall fractured into voices. Burn him out! No, preserve the graves! Strike now! Wait, prepare!
At last, Elder Han stirred. His sleeve still bound, his arm hidden beneath cloth. His voice was hoarse but steady.
"Do not underestimate him again. He is no longer a child. He is the graves themselves. March in strength, or march to die."
The hall fell silent.
The sect master rose, robes sweeping like storm clouds. His eyes were hard as iron.
"Then we march with strength. Assemble three hundred disciples. Ten elders. Burn talismans, poison threads, fire oil. Tonight, we break the burial grounds."
The decree struck like thunder. And outside, the war drum began to beat.
---
Zhao Wu stood in the courtyard as the decree spread. His arm was still bandaged, his face pale, but his lips curled in cruel delight.
He had seen Lin Tian with his own eyes. He had fled like a coward. Fear gnawed at him, whispering of silver-lit eyes and the towering warlord. But rage burned hotter.
"Three hundred," he muttered. "Ten elders. Even a demon cannot withstand that."
He gathered disciples around him, his voice sharp as a blade.
"You all saw it! Brothers turned against us, corpses rising with every cut! That spiritless dog dares mock the sect that raised him. Tonight we show him—we are Bonecloud! We are not bones to kneel before his grave!"
The crowd roared, some in fear, some in fury. Zhao Wu's smirk deepened. He had turned terror into a weapon, and he wielded it like steel.
But later, when the courtyard emptied, he lingered. His hands trembled when no one watched. His breath hitched when he remembered the warlord's halberd cleaving the earth.
He pressed his forehead to the wall, eyes squeezed shut. "Trash," he whispered to himself. "You're still trash. And tomorrow—" His nails bit into his palms. "—tomorrow, I'll bury you."
---
In the burial grounds, the mist thickened.
Lin Tian knelt at the mausoleum's steps, his palm pressed to the soil. The skeletal warlord loomed at his back, halberd buried in the earth like a banner. Dozens of corpses knelt in silent ranks, their pale eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
The ground pulsed beneath him, steady as a heartbeat. But it was not his own. It was the echo of countless dead.
The whispers grew louder. Before, they had been fragments—laughter, weeping, broken oaths. Now they carried weight. Command. Unity.
Lord… command… defend…
Lin Tian's eyes opened, silver light flickering. He rose slowly, body trembling but unbroken, his gaze sweeping the rows of corpses. With every battle, their number swelled. Now more than fifty knelt before him.
But numbers alone would not hold against what the sect prepared.
He turned to the mausoleum. "If I am to stand, I must not only raise soldiers. I must raise a fortress."
The warlord shifted, as if answering.
The mist thickened, curling into shapes—walls, towers, battlements. Bones rattled deep in the soil, arranging themselves into lines unseen.
Lin Tian spread his arms, voice steady.
"Then let this place not be their dumping ground. Let it be my kingdom. The kingdom of the dead."
The graves rumbled. Gravestones split and reformed, jagged lines rising like barricades. Broken spears planted themselves upright, their rust gleaming with faint qi. Corpses dragged stones into place, stacking them into crude walls.
The fortress of the dead began to take shape.
Above the mausoleum, the mist twisted into banners of shadow, snapping in an unseen wind. Their sigils were nothing the living had stitched—but every corpse knelt lower, as though in recognition.
Lin Tian's lips curved. For the first time, the burial grounds did not feel like exile. They felt like home.
---
Night fell.
From the northern wall, the sect's army advanced.
Three hundred disciples marched with torches blazing. Armor clinked, bows rattled, talismans glowed faintly in trembling hands. Ten elders strode at their head, their qi flaring like suns.
Poison threads hissed in spools. Iron jars of fire oil sloshed. Dozens of paper talismans burned with crackling light.
Drums thundered, each strike echoing down the valley. The sound pressed against the mist, daring it to yield.
At their center stood Zhao Wu, crimson sleeves bright against the night, his smirk sharp with triumph.
"Tonight," he muttered, "we bury you, Lin Tian."
---
Lin Tian stood at the heart of the graves, the mausoleum looming behind him, the skeletal warlord planted at his side. His host stretched in rows—fifty corpses, then sixty, then more as bones clawed from shallow graves. Shields raised. Blades glinting.
The mist swirled thicker, curling into towers and banners. Walls of shadow ringed the mausoleum, a fortress crowned by death itself.
The whispers filled his ears, no longer faint but a chorus:
Stand. Defend. Lord of the Dead.
Lin Tian raised his hand.
The corpses slammed their blades into the earth in unison. The sound echoed like thunder.
His silver-lit gaze narrowed.
"Then let them come."
The war drum beat louder. The sect's army marched closer.
The First War of the Graves was about to begin.
---