At the stroke of midnight, the Graveyard Hills were utterly silent. Not even stray dogs dared to wander here.
Ji Muchen lay pressed behind a neglected tomb, barely half a mile away, wrapped in a tattered straw mat he'd scavenged. The mildew stench mixed with the damp scent of grave soil, stinging his nostrils. Only his eyes peeked out, glowing faintly gold under the weak moonlight—a telltale sign that his **All-Spirit Resonance Technique** had reached an extreme state.
He had been lying there for over half an hour; his limbs were numb from the cold.
Beneath a gnarled, dead locust tree ahead, a shadow moved—digging.
It was Zhao Xiaoliu.
The moon hung low, pale as washed-out linen, revealing only a vague silhouette. Zhao Xiaoliu stooped, gripping a short-handled iron spade, stabbing repeatedly into the frozen earth. Each thud cut through the night, sharp and metallic. Every few strikes, he'd lift his head and glance around, his neck creaking like an alarmed owl.
Ji Muchen held his breath, slowing even his heartbeat to a whisper.
He remembered the note that Zhou Xiaohuan had slipped into the brick ledge of the well three nights ago, charcoal scrawled and crooked:
*"Zhao Xiaoliu, at midnight, went alone to the backhill graveyard to dig something. Wrapped it in black cloth and went north afterward."*
At the time, Ji Muchen hadn't paid it much mind. A lowly servant digging at the graveyard? Probably petty coin or worthless trinkets buried by some dead disciple.
But now, watching Zhao Xiaoliu dig with a frenzy that bordered on madness, something felt off.
Too urgent. Not like he was searching for money… but for… life itself.
"Scrrrk…!"
The spade struck something hard. Zhao Xiaoliu froze, threw it aside, and knelt, clawing with his hands. His nails cracked and bled, yet he barely noticed. A few frantic scoops later, he yanked something from the pit:
A clay jar.
Palm-sized, caked in wet mud, sealed with oiled paper, bound with three loops of coarse hemp rope. Zhao Xiaoliu held it, shoulders trembling violently, letting out strange gasps—part sob, part laughter. Hands shaking, he untied the rope, tore the paper, and plunged his fingers inside to pull out…
Bones.
Human finger bones, blackened and decayed, with remnants of flesh clinging stubbornly, glistening dimly like greasy shadows under the moon.
He raised them to his nose, inhaling deeply, chest heaving like bellows. Then, cautiously, he returned the bones to the jar, resealed it, and buried it back in the pit. He tamped the soil, then stacked a few broken headstones on top in a crooked triangle.
Finally, he collapsed on the cold earth, gasping, white mist curling from his mouth into the moonlight before dissipating.
After a long pause, he rose, slung the spade over his shoulder, and staggered toward the servants' quarters. His figure flickered between tomb mounds until it vanished into the dense night.
When the footsteps faded completely, Ji Muchen emerged from beneath the straw mat.
He approached the locust tree, eyes scanning the fresh mound. The soil had been compacted tightly, the three jagged headstones forming a triangle that, aligned with the old tree, pointed almost exactly north—toward the forbidden grounds, rumored to harbor an ancient battlefield so tainted with yin energy that even inner disciples were forbidden entry.
He didn't dig.
He knew better. Zhao Xiaoliu would return tomorrow. Any interference now would alert him.
Squatting, Ji Muchen brushed aside the topsoil at the edge, noticing a faint crimson trace—not blood, but coarse mineral dust, with a faint metallic scent… and a whisper of **demonic energy**.
He pinched a bit, bringing it to his nose.
It was **Redblood Sand**, a low-grade forging material used to temper weapons. When mixed with living souls, its energy turns into **Weeping Blood Sand**, ideal for crafting dark, cursed instruments. And this dust carried traces of **magic energy**.
He straightened, eyes sweeping the graveyard.
Most buried here were servants, outer disciples who met sudden ends, or unclaimed prisoners. The area was thick with resentment and sorrow. To bury bones here with Weeping Blood Sand…
What exactly was Zhao Xiaoliu forging?
---
The next morning, before dawn, Ji Muchen carried the copper token to the forge hall.
The two guards at the entrance smiled nervously at the sight of it, part flattery, part fear:
*"Ji Shidi, so early? Master Huoyun left the corner fire pit, Section C3, for you. Use it anytime."*
Ji Muchen thanked them and passed through the bustling hall.
Furnaces roared. The hammering of metal rang deafening. Bare-chested disciples struck red-hot iron billets on anvils, sweat hissing into flames, filling the air with the acrid mix of metal, scorched charcoal, and body odor.
The corner fire chamber, built along the hill in stone rooms with thick ironwood doors, held Section C3. Pushing the door open, the hinge groaned like the sigh of an old beast.
Inside, the room spanned roughly ten feet square. At its center, a pit the size of a well-mouth revealed molten rock flowing like the earth's sleeping veins. Heat slammed into him, stinging his face. Around the pit, faded fire-gathering sigils were etched, while discarded iron slag and mineral scraps littered the corners like a tiny graveyard.
For disciples, this was a poor chamber. The fire was unstable, chaotic—only enough to practice.
For Ji Muchen, a servant, it was heaven. With the fire's aid, he could advance his **All-Spirit Resonance Technique** at least thirty percent faster.
He closed the door and sat cross-legged on a worn mat.
His jade flute rested across his knees, cool and smooth against the fiery heat. Channeling his technique, his spirit extended into the pit's fire.
**Boom—**
A thunderous roar echoed in his mind, spilling a flood of chaotic memories: mineral veins, the resentment of centuries of burnt impurities, fragments of weapon spirits crying and clashing—like opening a door straight to hell.
He drew back sharply, sweat beading his forehead. This fire was tainted.
It made sense. For over a century, the forge had burned bloodied weapons and cursed objects. Normal disciples only drew the surface energy, but his technique sensed the chaos beneath.
Calming himself, he crafted a rudimentary **fire purification array** with cold iron slag and shards of Calmheart Copper, isolating only the pure fire spirit.
After two hours, the bottleneck in his Qi cultivation eased. He exhaled, the swirling mist briefly forming a miniature vortex before vanishing.
The junk around him—slated as waste—was treasure. Lightning-charred charcoal, star-pattern steel thin as a cicada wing, soft jade powder—tools to forge, empower, and craft in ways others never imagined.
A commotion outside drew near.
*"This fire chamber is empty! Why can't I use it?"* a young, ornate-dressed disciple demanded.
*"It's in use! Master Huoyun said so!"*
*"By who?"*
*"A servant."*
*"A servant?!"* The voice rose to a shrill, outraged pitch. Steps thundered. The door burst open.
Lin Tianying, a pampered inner disciple of sixteen, stormed in, flanked by two lackeys. Spotting Ji Muchen, his face flushed crimson.
*"You? A servant using the fire chamber?"*
Ji Muchen stood, calm and respectful, and explained the compromise. Lin Tianying snapped, hands reaching, but was interrupted by a low, chilling hum.
Master Huoyun himself entered, fiery eyes blazing.
*"Lin Tianying, cause trouble here instead of grandstanding with your grandfather?"*
The boy froze, his fury curdling into forced submission. Master Huoyun's presence settled everything.
Once alone again, Ji Muchen's gaze returned to the star-pattern steel in his hand, recalling the Weeping Blood Sand from the graveyard.
A visible adversary, a hidden threat.
He smiled, faint, like a hidden blade.
Holding the steel, eyes fixed on the molten depths, he imagined: if he tempered this with the fire spirit corrupted by demonic energy… what would be forged?
A dart that slays demons?
Or a weapon that devours dark energy itself?
A cold, sharp smile touched his lips.
Outside, dusk fell. The bell atop the Red Dust Pavilion rang, startling a murder of crows into flight, blackening the sky above the forge like spilled ink.
---