The days slipped by, quiet yet heavy, as though the very air of the sect carried a weight unspoken.
Jianyu kept to his routine, waking early to sweep the courtyard assigned to outer disciples, joining the
line at the dining hall for his meager share of food, and attending the perfunctory lessons where elders
lectured about qi circulation and the foundations of combat arts. He lowered his gaze, answered when
spoken to, and presented himself as the same mediocre orphan who had long been overlooked. To his
peers, he was nothing but a shadow in their midst, an example of stagnation.
But Jianyu could feel the difference in the way the sect's rhythm pulsed. It was subtle at first—small
murmurs that Wu Shifen had not returned from his mission, whispers carried in the corridors between
practice sessions, sneers that he must have been chasing glory and lost himself in the wilderness. At
first, none were alarmed. A genius like Wu Shifen was expected to take risks. His boldness was
celebrated, and his arrogance excused.
Yet as days turned into a full week, concern began to replace confidence. "He should have returned by
now," one disciple muttered as Jianyu passed by the well where they drew water. Another whispered,
"The elders are asking questions." Jianyu pretended not to hear, his steps unhurried, his face blank.
By the second week, the sect's atmosphere shifted sharply. The name of Wu Shifen was spoken with
unease rather than admiration. Disciples who had once flattered him began to glance over their
shoulders as though his ghost might return, demanding why they had not followed. The elders, who had
once praised his talent, convened behind closed doors. Rumors spread like wildfire: that Wu Shifen had
ventured too far into the forest and been slain by a beast; that rival sects had ambushed him to remove
a rising star; that he had stumbled upon some great treasure and secluded himself in secret cultivation.
Jianyu heard it all, storing every whisper away like pieces of a puzzle. Each rumor was a blade with no
edge, yet together they formed a net tightening slowly. He knew the truth lay buried in the soil where
blood had soaked into the roots of the forest trees. He also knew that if even a trace of suspicion turned
toward him, his fragile disguise might crumble.
So he played his role to perfection. During training, he stumbled when practicing sword forms, his
strikes slow and uneven. When sparring, he allowed himself to be defeated easily, grunting in pain as
he fell to the ground, his opponents smirking in contempt. He endured insults with bowed head, never
raising his voice in defense. To all, he was still the same Jianyu—untalented, unremarkable, unworthy
of notice.
But when the night deepened and shadows cloaked the sect, Jianyu became something else. He
slipped into the forest to train in silence, the Heaven Devouring Art swirling within him like a vast abyss.
Beast cores cracked between his teeth, their poisonous essence devoured without trace, their strength
absorbed into his marrow. He struck stones until they splintered, his fists growing tougher than iron. He
balanced upon thin branches while channeling qi, steadying both body and spirit. With each passing
night, he grew stronger, his foundation deeper, his control more precise.
One evening, while returning from such training, Jianyu overheard two disciples speaking in hushed
tones near the storage hall.
"Elder Ming sent scouts into the forest. They found signs of battle near the waterfall."
"Battle?"
"Yes. The ground was scarred, and blood stained the rocks. But no body was found. Some say Wu
Shifen fell there."
Jianyu's chest tightened. He forced himself to continue walking, steps slow and steady, though his
heart thundered like a war drum. The place they had described was close—too close—to where he had
buried the body. The Heaven Devouring Art had consumed most of the traces, yet perhaps something
had remained, some shred of evidence. He clenched his jaw, calming his breath. Fear was a weakness
he could not allow.
That night, he returned to the site under cover of darkness. The forest was quiet, moonlight filtering
through the leaves, the waterfall roaring as though mocking his caution. He knelt by the earth he had
disturbed weeks before, brushing his hand across the soil. It was undisturbed. The body lay deep
beneath, hidden from sight, the scent of blood long washed away by rain and time. Relief flooded him,
but he did not linger. Lingering bred mistakes.
The next morning, the sect gathered for announcements in the main square. Elder Ming stood at the
front, his robes immaculate, his face carved in solemn lines. His gaze swept over the disciples like a
hawk watching for prey.
"Wu Shifen has not returned," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "His absence has extended
beyond what is acceptable. Scouts have searched, but no trace of him remains. From this day forth, he
is considered missing."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some disciples exchanged anxious glances, others muttered in
disbelief. Missing. The word weighed heavily, more final than absent, yet not as sharp as dead. It left
space for hope, and for fear.
Elder Ming continued, "The sect will not rest until the truth is uncovered. All disciples are to remain
vigilant. Report anything unusual. Secrets fester like rot, and rot will not be tolerated." His gaze
sharpened as he said those last words, lingering briefly on the crowd before him. Jianyu kept his head
bowed, his expression carefully blank, but he felt the weight of that gaze pressing upon him.
From that day, the sect's vigilance grew. Patrols doubled at the gates. Elders summoned disciples for
questioning, their words gentle but their eyes sharp. Jianyu, like others, was called before them.
"What did you see during your mission?" an elder asked, his tone mild.
"Nothing beyond the ordinary, Elder," Jianyu replied, his voice steady. "The beasts were fierce, the
forest dangerous. I barely escaped with my life."
The elder studied him for a long moment before nodding and dismissing him. Jianyu bowed deeply,
hiding the tension in his shoulders until he was safely outside.
The questioning did not stop there. Disciples whispered of being watched, of elders probing into their
actions, their possessions, their movements. Suspicion swirled like a storm cloud gathering overhead,
waiting to burst.
Still, Jianyu endured. He maintained his mask of weakness by day and fed his abyss of strength by
night. He trained with growing intensity, each session pushing him closer to mastery of his newfound
body. His fists struck harder, his blade moved swifter, his qi flowed smoother. Yet never did he reveal it.
Not even a flicker of his true ability slipped before others' eyes.
At times, he wondered if his caution was enough. Would the elders sense the truth? Would his peers
turn on him if even a hint of his secret escaped? Fear gnawed at him, but beneath that fear burned a
fire fiercer still—the will to climb, to endure, to conquer. He had tasted the path of power, and nothing
could turn him back now.
One night, standing at the edge of the forest with moonlight silvering the trees, Jianyu whispered to
himself, "Let them search. Let them suspect. I will not falter. My strength will grow, and when the time
comes, none shall bind me."
And in the shadows, the sect's whispers grew louder, suspicion deepening, the storm drawing ever
nearer.