The scent of sandalwood incense filled the Hall of Law Enforcement, yet it could not conceal a stench that no nose could detect—
the stench of fate being severed.
Yan Kesh knelt at the center of the hall. His back was straight, his gaze fixed on the blue stone tiles beneath his knees. His hands did not tremble. No cold sweat dampened his temples. His expression was calm, like an ancient pond undisturbed by wind, even though he knew exactly what was about to happen.
Before him sat the three Elders of the Yan Clan upon high seats carved with dragon heads. They did not look at Yan Kesh with hatred, nor with pity. Their gazes were those of merchants discarding a rotten fruit from a basket, lest it contaminate the rest.
"Yan Kesh," the Grand Elder's voice resounded—heavy, flat, devoid of emotion.
"The Ash-White Soul Root within your body has been confirmed damaged. It is incapable of retaining Heaven and Earth Qi. It is nothing more than a leaking vessel."
Yan Kesh did not reply. He merely listened. He knew this fact better than anyone. For three years, he had consumed the clan's spirit stones and swallowed Qi-Gathering Pills, yet the result had always been the same—emptiness.
"This clan is built upon the foundation of strength and benefit," the Second Elder continued, a gaunt man with a long white beard.
"Our resources are limited. To allocate spirit stones to you is equivalent to throwing fresh meat into an abyss. It is a sin against our ancestors and an injustice to other talented disciples."
The words were sharp, crafted to crush the pride of a young man.
Yet Yan Kesh's mind remained silent.
Justice, he thought coldly, his lips tightly sealed.
A beautiful word to disguise profit and loss.
They were not wrong.
If I were in their position, I would do the same. Preserving the weak only drags the strong down.
"I understand, Elders," Yan Kesh said at last. His voice was level, cutting through any expectation that he might beg or despair.
"The clan's decision is law."
The Grand Elder's brows lifted slightly. Yan Kesh's composure was an anomaly. Most expelled disciples would kowtow, wail, or at least reveal desperation. But this young man accepted his ruin as if he were receiving a cup of tea.
"It is good that you know your place," the Grand Elder nodded. He raised his palm, and an ancient bronze disc floated into the air.
"To preserve the purity of the clan's energy flow, we must revoke your right to cultivate. Your connection to the Yan Clan Breathing Technique will be severed—now."
"Accept your fate."
The bronze light flared, piercing Yan Kesh's chest.
The pain that followed was not that of a blade, but of deprivation. Yan Kesh felt the remaining warmth in his lower abdomen forcibly extracted. The meridians that once carried Qi dried up instantly, leaving behind a bone-chilling cold. His dull gray Soul Root completely extinguished, becoming a lifeless stone within his body.
He was no longer a cultivator.
He was an ordinary mortal—
an ant in a world where elephants could fly.
Yan Kesh did not grimace. He observed the pain with a clear mind, recording the sensation of losing power as a lesson.
Pain is a signal, he thought.
A signal that I am still alive.
A signal that this world is honest in its cruelty.
The bronze light dimmed. The ritual ended.
"From this day onward, you are no longer an inner disciple. Your name is erased from the line of inheritance," the Grand Elder declared, waving his hand casually—a gesture of effortless expulsion.
"Leave. The Black Mist Forest at the northern border requires a caretaker for the ancestral graves. Spend the rest of your life there. At the very least, you can still be useful as a keeper of dust."
Gravekeeper.
A refined death sentence.
The Black Mist Forest was a land where chaotic energies gathered—a place where ordinary mortals would slowly perish from miasma poisoning.
Yan Kesh rose slowly. He brushed the dust from his robes and bowed with flawless courtesy. His movements were precise, as if he were a soulless puppet.
"This disciple accepts the order," he said.
He turned and walked out of the Hall of Law Enforcement. The afternoon sun stabbed into his eyes, yet he did not blink. Behind him, the elders had already begun discussing the market price of medicinal herbs for the coming harvest, forgetting his existence in an instant.
Yan Kesh descended the stone steps. His face remained expressionless, yet within his mind, a cold conclusion took shape—hard as freshly forged steel.
They do not hate me.
They merely decided that my value is lower than the cost of maintaining me.
This world does not recognize anger.
The heavens do not hate the grass they scorch dry, nor does the tiger hate the deer it devours.
Everything is simply a matter of who eats—and who is eaten.
Yan Kesh looked down at his powerless hands.
If I wish to survive,
I do not need mercy.
I do not need rage.
I only need to ensure that next time—
I am the one holding the knife of calculation.
His steps were steady as he headed toward the northern gate, toward the death that had been prepared for him.
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