This time, the transition was unlike any before.
When the voice of the Heavenly Dao thundered, announcing the end of the first trial, Ashen's body was barely able to stay alive. Yet he was given no chance to rest. The ground beneath him collapsed like a broken mirage, and the sky tore apart to reveal a heavy darkness that swallowed everything.
For a moment he felt himself falling… falling into a bottomless pit.
But when he regained awareness, he was not among blood or in the ancient arena. He was somewhere else… a place that dripped with death itself.
The air was heavy, choking, filled with the stench of rotten flesh and rusted iron.
The walls were gray and dim, like cave stone, but unnaturally smooth, as if carved on purpose to be a stage for slaughter.
From the ceiling hung hundreds of black iron chains.
At their ends were sharp hooks, rusted and dripping with dark blood that seemed to have never dried for thousands of years.
But what made Ashen's chest tighten was not the chains… it was what hung from them.
Hundreds of corpses.
Rows upon rows stretching far into the darkness. Some torn apart without limbs, some missing half their bodies, some nothing but exposed bones covered by ripped skin.
The ground beneath was filled with scattered remains: arms, legs, crushed heads. The entire place was nothing but a massive slaughterhouse.
But what froze Ashen's blood… was that he recognized those faces.
The faces of his clan.
The faces of the Primordial Blood Clan… his uncles, his brothers, the elders, even children no older than five. All of them were here.
Hanging like livestock, mutilated bodies with empty eyes staring at him.
"…No… no… this is impossible."
His voice came out hoarse, barely audible to himself.
But the corpses were not illusions. He could hear the drops of blood falling from their torn limbs. He could smell the stench that no human nose could mistake. He could see the remains scattered beneath his feet.
He stepped back, and the sound of dragging iron echoed behind him.
He looked up… and saw one of the corpses move.
Not a full movement… just a small twitch. But it was enough to ignite terror in his veins.
Then the sound began.
A scream… loud, sharp, as if it came from thousands of throats at once.
It was not distant. It came from around him, above him, beneath his feet.
The corpses of the clan screamed.
Their voices were not just cries of pain. They were screams of accusation.
Why did you survive?
You are the reason we died.
If you had been stronger, we would not have been slaughtered like cattle.
Your weakness is our curse.
Ashen's body shook. He tried to cover his ears, but the voices were not coming from outside. They were carving directly into his skull.
What made it worse was that the faces of the corpses began to move, their torn mouths stretching, their hollow eyes glowing faint red.
"Traitor… you survived alone… you left us to die."
"We were the clan… and you were the hope… but you were too weak to save us."
The screams broke apart into whispers.
Ancient, cold whispers that coiled around him like unseen snakes.
Every whisper was a needle piercing his heart.
He stumbled forward, tripping over a severed arm.
He raised his eyes and saw one face staring directly at him. It was his older brother. The body hung from a hook through the shoulder, swaying slowly. But the mouth moved…
"Why… did you leave me…?"
Ashen's body froze. He could not move forward or back. Every breath grew heavier, as if the air itself refused to enter his lungs.
"Why didn't you die with us…?"
"You should have been the first to be slaughtered."
"You are our curse, Ashen."
Their whispers wrapped around his head, driving him close to madness. Every voice became an image. He imagined how they were killed one by one, how he stood powerless while his clan was destroyed.
His chest tightened. His legs trembled. His fingers dug into his palms until blood flowed.
But he could not stop looking.
Every corpse was a memory. Ev
ery eye was a curse.
And every curse shattered another piece of his soul.