Consciousness returned to Ruan like fragments of light trying to pierce through the dark fog in his mind. At first, he felt nothing but a weight pressing down on his entire body. Not the weight of stone or earth, but the weight of another body—cold and lifeless.
The air around him was stifling, and the thick stench of rot seeped into his nose, making his stomach twist and nausea rise to his throat.
For a few moments he stayed still, unsure whether he was truly alive or merely floating in the shadows between life and death. Only a faint humming sound reached his ears, like the distant, weakened breath of the world itself.
Slowly, sensation returned to his body.
Not comfort.
Not warmth.
But a horrifying cold, the damp feel of earth and dead flesh clinging to his robes, and the stabbing pain of bones pressing against his body. As that sensation grew clearer, Ruan's mind formed its first question:
Where am I.
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy as though held down by something. It took a long time before his eyes finally cracked open.
What he saw first was not the sky or a cave ceiling, but the pale gray of human skin.
A partially decayed body.
Empty eyes.
Hair soaked with dirt and dried blood.
Ruan's heart nearly stopped.
He flinched slightly, but even that small movement sent sharp pain shooting from his ribs to his shoulder. His breath broke, but he forced himself to stay conscious. As his vision cleared, he realized something that froze his blood.
He was lying in the middle of a pile of corpses.
Not one or two.
But dozens.
Bodies piled over each other, covering the valley floor like a sheet of human skin. Some were intact, some severely damaged, and most were slowly rotting, their flesh darkened. The stench of death was so thick it felt like liquid rot entering his lungs.
Ruan's body was wedged among them, as though he was just another corpse. He felt a cold hand—he didn't know whose—clutching his arm. The chest of another corpse was right beside his face, and a brittle cracking sound echoed when he moved his head, as if fragile bones were breaking under the weight of other bodies.
He held his breath, trying to steady himself.
But full awareness only brought new terror.
The corpses did not merely surround him.
He was buried within them.
As if the world had tried to bury him together with the dead of this valley.
With the little strength he had left, he tried pushing himself up. His hand pressed against something mushy—crushed flesh. He suppressed the urge to gag and forced himself to move again. His body rose slightly, but the pain from his broken bones nearly sent him collapsing back down.
"Get up… I have to get up…" he murmured, his voice sounding like a dream.
But even though he managed to lift himself a few inches, his weakened body slipped and fell back among the corpses. His head struck the swollen shoulder of another corpse, releasing dust and tiny flakes of dead skin into the air.
Ruan went still for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut.
The world felt like it was laughing at him.
He had been condemned by the sect he served, thrown off a cliff like worthless trash, and now he woke in the midst of nameless dead bodies.
But something inside him refused to give in.
He remembered the voice—the one he heard before losing consciousness.
Soft yet firm, saying he was not finished.
Those words resurfaced in his mind, slow but strong, like cloth being pulled from beneath water.
You are not finished.
He exhaled shakily.
That single phrase sparked a faint ember in his chest—just enough to make him try again.
With a staggering motion, he pressed his right foot against the corpse-covered ground and slowly lifted his body. His hand grabbed another corpse's arm for support, sending chills through his skin, but he had no other option.
He had to get out of this pile or he would die—not from wounds, but from suffocating in this stench.
After several attempts, he finally managed to shift himself into a half-seated position. From there he drew in a deep breath, though the air felt like poison corroding his lungs.
He looked around the cave he once thought was a shelter.
It was not a shelter at all.
It was merely a doorway leading to a larger area—a massive hollow in the valley filled entirely with corpses. The faint glow of the symbol behind him lit up the rough stone surfaces and cast shadows over the scattered bodies.
Most of the corpses wore the robes of different sects.
Green robes from Verdant Vein.
Dark blue robes from a water-based sect.
Gray robes from a hunting sect.
Even shredded white robes—likely belonging to a high-level cultivator who never returned from the valley.
Ruan swallowed hard, though his throat was dry and aching.
"How many… people have died here…"
The question needed no answer.
The Valley of Old Corpses was infamous for having no escape. But he had never imagined what that truly meant until now—when he stood among the most horrifying evidence of all those tales.
He dragged himself to the edge of the pile and finally slipped free from the mound of bodies. His knees hit the cold, damp ground, and he struggled not to collapse. When he attempted to stand, his entire body trembled violently.
But he forced himself.
Slowly—painfully slowly—he rose, half-hunched.
The valley wall beside him felt like the skin of ancient stone—hard and rough. He touched it to steady himself. When his fingers brushed the stone, he felt something unusual. Marks—scratches like writing or symbols, but far rougher than the glowing carvings he had seen earlier.
He traced them lightly. The lines felt cold and sharp beneath his skin, like claw marks from a massive beast.
"Did… all these corpses… die to creatures like that…"
From within the thin mist drifting at the far end of the cave, a low growl echoed—making Ruan's heartbeat slow.
The sound wasn't loud, but it was clearly from something large.
Something that hadn't seen him yet, but was in the same area.
A valley creature watching from the shadows.
Instinctively, Ruan lowered his body, even though his bones protested fiercely. But he didn't dare make a sound. He held his breath.
Every second felt like a stretched, endless minute.
The growl came again.
Closer this time.
And the loud, heavy breaths followed from within the mist. The creature was sniffing the air—searching for the scent of something alive.
The scent of Ruan.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the valley's cold crawl deeper into his bones. If the creature found him, he had no chance to fight. His body wasn't even strong enough to lift his staff.
But after what felt like an eternity, the footsteps drifted away.
The sound of a massive body dragging over dirt and stone faded, farther and farther, until it disappeared into the darkness.
Ruan released a very slow breath, afraid that even the movement of air could draw the creature back. When his shoulders loosened a little, he examined his surroundings again.
He had to leave this cave.
He had to find a safer place—far from the corpse pile and the creatures prowling nearby. But when he attempted to step forward, his foot faltered and the world spun momentarily.
His internal injuries were still too severe to carry him far.
But he could not stay.
In a nearly voiceless whisper, he told himself,
"The voice was right… I'm not finished…"
There was still a small amount of strength left inside him.
Not from his body, but from a determination slowly forming—born from darkness and despair.
He took his first step out of the corpse-filled area.
A small, heavy step, yet it felt like the most meaningful step of his life.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Each step was a struggle between life and death.
And deep within the valley, something watched his movements—
as though the world itself was observing the rebirth of someone who had been cast away.
As Ruan left the corpse pile behind, he did not notice the faint symbols etched on several bodies begin to tremble softly, as if his presence was waking something long dormant.
But for now, he knew only one thing:
He was still alive.
And that was enough to make him walk.