The dawn that followed the Opening Ceremony was not a welcoming one. A thick, yellowish fog had rolled in from the valleys surrounding Black-Silt Ridge.
This was Miasma Morning, a time when the boundary between the physical world and the void was at its thinnest.
Mo Jue stood at the gates of the Northern Kennels. His body was cold, his skin slightly clammy from a night of tempering, but his eyes were like two shards of polished obsidian. He had already processed the physical discomfort.
The Northern Kennels was a place of nightmare.
It was a sprawling complex of reinforced stone pits and iron-barred cages, built specifically to house the Dao Phantoms captured by the clan's hunting parties.
To a normal mortal, entering this place felt like walking into the maw of a beast. The air was filled with a discordant symphony of sounds: high-pitched shrieks that defied biological vocal cords, low vibrations that made the marrow in one's bones ache, and a heavy, oppressive silence that felt like a weight on the chest.
"You're early."
Old Man Shen, the kennel-master, emerged from the fog. His right arm was tucked into his tunic, trembling uncontrollably, and his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps.
"The distribution is in an hour. The Clan Head and the Elders will be here to oversee the selection. You should be waiting with the others at the village square," Shen said, spitting a glob of dark phlegm onto the muddy ground.
"The crowd is a distraction," Mo Jue replied. "I am here to inspect the assets"
Old Man Shen squinted at him, a flicker of something resembling respect crossing his weathered face. "Cage seven. But don't go near the bars. The Howling Shadow hasn't been fed in three days. The Elders like them hungry for the selection"
Mo Jue walked past him toward the seventh pit.
The cage was a sunken stone well, covered by a heavy grate of Soul-Jade-infused iron.
Inside, there was no visible creature. Only a patch of darkness that seemed thicker than the surrounding shadows, a pool of ink that refused to reflect the morning light.
As Mo Jue looked down, the darkness stirred.
A pair of elongated, luminous slits opened within the shadow—eyes that held no pupils, only a swirling, violet mist. A sound began to rise from the pit, a low-frequency hum that vibrated the very air. It wasn't a growl; it was the sound of air being torn apart.
Target: Howling Shadow. Rank: 1 (Peak-Stage).
Type: Sound/Shadow/Slaughter Attribute.
In his previous life, this Phantom had been the death of a B-grade youth named Mo Hao. The boy's 55% capacity had been shredded within seconds, leaving him a mindless vessel that spent the rest of his short life screaming at the moon.
Mo Jue knelt by the grate. He did not pull back when the shadow lunged, slamming against the iron bars with a force that made the stones rattle. A blast of cold, necrotic essence hit him in the face, smelling of old graves.
"A 74% capacity is a spacious cage," Mo Jue whispered, his voice barely audible over the Phantom's hum. "Welcome your master!"
The shadow in the pit froze. The violet slits narrowed. Phantoms were not sentient in the human sense, but they were sensitive to the weight of a soul.
In that moment, the Howling Shadow sensed something it had never encountered in a mortal: the stench of a demon.
The humming stopped. The shadow retreated into the corner of the pit, its eyes fixed on Mo Jue with a mixture of predatory hunger and instinctive caution.
"Good," Mo Jue murmured.
An hour later, the sounds of approaching footsteps broke the silence. The Clan Head, followed by a procession of Elders and the remaining thirty-odd Seedlings, arrived at the kennels. Mo Lin was at the front of the group, his face pale but his eyes burning with ambition.
"Today, you take the first step toward true power," the Clan Head announced, his voice booming through the fog. "The selection is based on merit. Mo Jue, as the top-rated vessel, you choose first. Mo Lin, you are second. The rest of you will be assigned based on compatibility."
The Elders took their positions around the central selection platform. They were there to provide suppression support.
If a Phantom attempted to kill its prospective host during the graft, the Elders would use their own essence to force the monster back. It was a safety net that most clans provided for their high-tier talents.
Mo Jue stepped forward. He didn't look at the cages the Elders had prepared—the docile Mist-Haze or the sturdy Stone-Skin Wraiths. He pointed directly toward the seventh pit.
"I choose the Howling Shadow," Mo Jue said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The Head Elder stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "Mo Jue, do not be arrogant. The Howling Shadow is a Slaughter-type. Even with a 74% capacity, your soul is soft. You have no experience in suppression. Choosing this beast is akin to inviting a tiger into a paper tent."
"Experience is gained through conflict," Mo Jue replied, his tone as flat as a ledger entry. "This is the sharpest blade in the kennel."
The Clan Head looked at Mo Jue for a long moment. He saw the coldness in the boy's eyes, a stillness that was unnatural. Is he truly that confident, or is he simply a fool? the Head wondered. But 74% was a significant investment. He couldn't let it be wasted.
"We will provide double suppression," the Clan Head decided. "Elder Mo Yan, join me. If the boy falters, we force the Shadow into a sleep-state immediately."
Mo Lin watched from the sidelines, a sneer tugging at his lips. Go ahead, genius. Let it rip your throat out. I'll take the second-best and live to see your funeral.
The iron grate of cage seven was hauled open by four strong laborers using pulleys.
The moment the light hit the pit, the Howling Shadow erupted. It didn't crawl out; it surged like a geyser of black ink. The temperature in the kennel dropped by ten degrees. The air was filled with a piercing, subsonic shriek that made the weaker Seedlings fall to their knees.
The shadow lunged toward Mo Jue, a claw made of solidified darkness reaching for his chest.
"Contain!" the Head Elder roared, his hands flashing in a ritual gesture. Two beams of golden light shot from the Elders, slamming into the Shadow and pinning it to the ground. The Phantom thrashed, its violet eyes glowing with a frenzied light.
Mo Jue didn't wait. He stepped into the circle of suppression.
He placed his hand directly into the center of the black mass.
The cold was instantaneous. It felt as though his blood had turned to shards of glass. The Howling Shadow sensed the opening and began its invasion.
It didn't need to be invited; it wanted the warmth of a living vessel to feed its hunger.
The shadow flowed up Mo Jue's arm, turning the skin a bruised, necrotic purple. It entered his chest, heading straight for the Reliquary.
Within the soul-space, the Hollowed Cairn was waiting.
To the Elders watching, Mo Jue looked like he was being consumed. His body began to tremble, and a trickle of black blood ran from his mouth.
"He's failing! Pull it back!" Elder Mo Yan shouted, his hands glowing with power.
"No," the Clan Head whispered, his eyes wide. "Look at his face."
Mo Jue wasn't screaming. He wasn't even grimacing. His expression was one of intense concentration.
Inside his mind, Mo Jue was performing a Compression-Graft. As the Howling Shadow flooded his Reliquary, seeking to expand and shatter the walls, Mo Jue did the opposite. He used the Soul-Jade residue from the night before to shrink the void.
He didn't fight the Shadow's strength; he used its own momentum to trap it. He collapsed the false floor of the 74% capacity, creating a crushing, high-pressure environment.
The Howling Shadow's shriek changed. It was no longer a sound of hunger, but one of shock. It found itself not in a spacious hall, but in a tightening vice. Every time it tried to lash out, Mo Jue's 2000-year-old will slammed into it like a sledgehammer, grinding its ego into dust.
Surrender or be erased, Mo Jue's consciousness thundered within the void. I have refined seeds of the Aeon; you are but a flickering candle in the gale.
Ten minutes passed. To the observers, it felt like hours.
The black mass surrounding Mo Jue began to shrink, being sucked into the center of his chest. The purple veins on his skin retreated, leaving behind a faint, gossamer-thin tattoo of a jagged shadow swirling around his heart.
Mo Jue exhaled. A puff of gray mist escaped his lips.
He stood alone on the platform. The Howling Shadow was gone—contained.
The golden beams from the Elders hit the empty air. They lowered their hands, their faces masks of utter disbelief. A first-time Graft of a Slaughter-type, completed in minutes, without the host losing consciousness? It was unheard of.
Mo Jue looked down at his hand. He flexed his fingers. He could feel the Phantom pulsing in his Dantian, a trapped, violent energy that was now his to command.
Integration complete. Efficiency: 92%.
Output: Rank 1 Initial-Stage.
He turned toward the Clan Head and bowed—a perfect and shallow bow.
"Secured," Mo Jue said.
Behind him, Mo Lin was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.