# Chapter 1: The Ghost of Mountain Seven
The sun was a lazy gold sprawl across seven thousand mountains.
Below, in the great basin at the sect's heart, thirty thousand people had gathered. Disciples, servants, merchants, wandering cultivators—and the six elders of the Seven Thousand Mountains Sect, seated on their thrones like kings watching a gladiator pit.
Each throne was carved from the peak of its owner's mountain.
Thunder Mountain's chair crackled with faint blue lightning. Sword Pavilion's throne hummed with the whisper of drawn steel. Medicine Peak's seat smelled of herbs and old parchment.
And the seventh throne?
It sat at the far left. Dusty. Cobwebbed. A monument to absence.
Elder Bai of Thunder Mountain—a barrel-chested man with a beard like storm clouds—leaned back and laughed.
"Twelve years," he boomed. "You'd think the rats would have eaten that chair by now."
Elder Liu of Sword Pavilion smirked, his sharp eyes never leaving the arena below. "Rats have taste. Even they won't touch a dead man's seat."
A ripple of chuckles from the other elders.
Elder Shen of Medicine Peak said nothing. He rarely did. But his thin lips curled slightly.
Only Elder Zhao of Formation Array—a middle-aged man with tired eyes and calloused fingers—remained silent. He looked at the empty throne. Then at the mountain behind it. Mountain Seven.
Something feels wrong today, he thought. But he didn't say it.
The arena below roared. Two young cultivators circled each other.
"Five silver taels on the boy in blue," Elder Bai boomed.
"The girl in rags will win," Elder Liu countered. "She has hunger in her eyes."
Elder Zhao finally spoke. "Neither will matter. The one who wins will go to whichever elder offers the most resources. That's how this works now."
Silence.
Because he was right. The sect had become a marketplace. Disciples went to the highest bidder. Mountains grew rich or starved based on how many talented children they could buy.
And Mountain Seven had starved for twelve years.
Elder Bai waved a meaty hand. "Ah, let the dead rest. Watch the fight."
---
The two fighters in the arena were mismatched from the start.
The boy in blue—well-fed, well-trained, sword gleaming—attacked like a wildfire. Slash. Thrust. Spinning kick. He had learned from manuals, from sparring partners who pulled their punches.
The girl in rags—barefoot, hair a mess, no weapon—did nothing but dodge.
She didn't block. Didn't counter. Just moved. A step left. A duck. A roll. Her eyes were calm. Not afraid. Watching.
The crowd grew restless.
"Fight back, you coward!" someone shouted.
The girl smiled.
The boy in blue grew frustrated. His attacks became sloppy. His breathing ragged. He overcommitted on a thrust—
And the girl stepped inside his guard.
Her palm hit his wrist. His sword clattered.
Her knee found his stomach. He folded.
She didn't hit him again. Just stood there, breathing evenly, as he gasped on the ground.
The arena fell silent.
Then the announcer: "Winner: Ren, no family name."
Ren. The girl with hatred in her eyes. The one who would later stand before Kal.
The six elders leaned forward.
Elder Bai: "Fast. Dodging is a talent. I'll take her."
Elder Liu: "No offensive skills. She's a waste of resources."
Elder Shen: "Her spiritual root is broken. I sensed it. She'll never reach Core Formation."
Elder Zhao: "Then why did she win?"
No one answered.
Because none of them saw what Elder Zhao saw: She won because she understood something the boy didn't. Real fights have no rules. And she was fighting like her life depended on it.
But that didn't matter. The boy in blue had a rich family. He would be taken by Thunder Mountain. The girl in rags would be sent to the reject section.
That was the way of things.
Until the ground shook.
---
At first, it was a tremor. A cup fell from a servant's hand. A banner swayed.
Then the tremor became a quake.
Then the quake became fear.
Because the mountain itself—Mountain Seven—was moving.
Not crumbling. Not sliding. Breathing.
A shadow fell over the recruitment grounds. A shadow so vast that it swallowed the sun.
People looked up.
And they screamed.
A dragon descended from the peak of Mountain Seven.
But no one had ever seen a dragon like this.
It was bigger than any dragon in recorded history. Its body—pure black, so black that light seemed to flee from it—wrapped around the mountain like a serpent coiled around a tree. Its scales were cracked, scarred, ancient. And across its flanks, like lightning frozen in time, red strike marks pulsed with a dull, angry glow.
Its eyes were white. Glowing. Cold.
And they were looking at the six elders.
Elder Bai's chair stopped crackling. His face went pale.
Elder Liu's hand froze on his sword.
Elder Shen dropped his tea cup.
Elder Zhao whispered: "That's not possible. That's a Death Dragon. They've been extinct for ten thousand years."
The dragon descended lower. Its massive head—larger than a house—passed over the crowd. Disciples fainted. Grown warriors wet themselves.
And then someone saw it.
"There's… there's a person on its back."
A figure lay sprawled on the dragon's neck, between two red-strike scars. Sleeping. One leg dangling. Arms crossed behind his head. Like this was a lazy afternoon nap.
The dragon landed in the center of the arena. The ground cracked under its weight. Dust and spiritual energy exploded outward.
The figure sat up. Yawned. Stretched.
And hopped down.
He was tall. Gaunt. His robes were dusty, torn in places. His hair was long and unkempt. His face was hollow—twelve years of seclusion had not been kind.
But his eyes.
Those eyes were not the eyes of a man who had been asleep for twelve years.
Those eyes were the eyes of a predator who had been watching.
He walked toward the elders' platform. The dragon did not follow—but its white eyes followed him. And every elder knew about him and his attitude that If you make him look down, you die.
He climbed the steps. Walked past Elder Liu without a glance. Stopped in front of the seventh throne—the dusty, cobwebbed, forgotten throne.
He looked at it.
Then he placed his hand on the armrest.
A faint red glow rippled across the wood. Dust evaporated. Cobwebs turned to ash. The throne gleamed like new, as if twelve years of neglect had never happened.
He sat down.
And finally, he spoke.
"I'm back."
---
For a long moment, no one breathed.
Then Elder Bai forced a laugh. "K-Kal. You're… alive."
"Clearly," Kal said. He leaned back. Looked at each elder. One by one. Letting the silence do the work.
Elder Liu found his voice. "Twelve years. No word. No message. And you return… like this?" He gestured at the dragon, which was now lazily licking its paw—a paw larger than a carriage.
"I had things to take care of," Kal said. Flat. "What did I miss?"
Elder Shen spoke quietly. "The sect has changed. Resources are distributed by disciple achievements now. Your mountain… hasn't had any."
"I noticed," Kal said. "My food supplies were down to rice and water. Someone's been skimming."
Elder Liu shifted. "The resources were reallocated. For the good of the sect."
"For the good of your mountain," Kal said. Not angry. Just stating facts. "We'll discuss repayment later."
Elder Zhao intervened, his voice calm. "Kal, that dragon… what is it? Where did it come from?"
Kal glanced at Moros. The dragon blinked slowly.
"His name is Moros. He's mine. That's all you need to know."
"But such a creature—the sect leader will want to—"
"The sect leader can visit my mountain if he has questions," Kal interrupted. "I'm not going to him."
The arrogance. The absolute certainty. It made the other elders' teeth grind—but none of them moved.
Because Moros had stopped licking his paw. His white eyes were fixed on Elder Zhao.
Waiting.
Zhao fell silent.
Kal turned his attention to the arena. "The selection. Continue."
---
The fights resumed, but the atmosphere had changed.
Every disciple—whether fighting or watching—kept glancing at the seventh throne. At the man sitting there. At the dragon that could swallow them whole.
And something strange happened.
Disciples who had been planning to join Thunder Mountain or Sword Pavilion started whispering.
"Maybe Mountain Seven isn't dead after all."
"Did you see that dragon? Imagine training under someone who commands that."
"He didn't even flinch when Elder Liu spoke."
By the end of the selection, nine hundred disciples out of seventeen hundred had passed the standard test.
The other six elders quickly claimed the best—the ones with high spiritual roots, wealthy families, polished techniques.
Kal took no one.
Elder Bai smirked. "What's wrong, Kal? No one good enough for your mountain?"
Kal didn't answer.
He was watching the rejects. The ones no one wanted. The broken ones. The angry ones. The girl named Ren, who had won her fight but been sent to the reject section because she had "no potential."
He stood up.
The chatter died.
He walked to the selection platform. Moros lifted his head, curious.
Kal looked at the nine hundred successful disciples—and at the eight hundred rejects still lingering at the edges.
"Everyone listen."
His voice was low. But somehow it carried—not with spiritual pressure, but with the weight of absolute certainty.
"The six elders will take the best of you. The ones with talent. The ones with money. The ones who will make their mountains rich."
He paused.
"I don't want those."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Kal continued. "I want the ones who know that real fights have no rules. I want the ones who have been told they're worthless. I want the ones who have nothing left to lose."
He raised a hand.
"Here is my test. Anyone who wants to join Mountain Seven will fight. One versus one. No rules. Use tricks. Use dirt. Use your teeth. Win by any means. The winner joins my mountain as a disciple."
Gasps erupted across the basin.
"And for those who want to be my direct disciple—my personal student—you will fight every single person who joins my mountain. One after another. No breaks. No rules. Win them all, and you stand beside me."
The crowd exploded.
Some in horror—No rules? That's barbaric.
Some in excitement—Finally. A test that doesn't favor the rich.
Some in terror—Fight everyone? That's suicide.
But the rejects—the eight hundred forgotten ones—their eyes lit up.
Because for the first time in their lives, someone was offering them a fair fight. Not a fight rigged by resources and family names.
A real fight.
And started his own recruitment With just a bold statement - ( " HAPPY HUNTING " )
---
The no-rules tournament lasted six hours.
It was brutal. It was bloody. It was everything the standard test was not.
A girl with a broken arm used her cast as a club.
A boy who couldn't use spiritual energy won by biting his opponent's ankle.
An old soldier—too old for cultivation—used grappling techniques no one had seen.
By the end, one hundred and forty disciples stood on Kal's side of the arena.
Battered. Bruised. Bleeding.
But smiling.
Ren was among them. So was the boy with the missing arm. So was the old soldier.
None of them had won every fight—so no one became Kal's direct disciple yet. But Kal didn't seem disappointed.
"You'll have another chance," he said. "Prove yourselves. Grow stronger. Then challenge again."
He looked at the other elders. Their faces were sour. Jealous. But Moros's gaze kept them silent.
Kal turned to his one hundred and forty new disciples.
"Follow me. We have a mountain to rebuild."
He walked toward Mountain Seven. The one hundred and forty followed.
Behind him, the six elders watched in disbelief.
Elder Liu finally spoke, his voice bitter: "He took the garbage. The cripples. The rejects."
Elder Zhao shook his head. "No. He took the ones who know how to survive. That's more dangerous than any talent."
Moros unfurled his massive body and slithered after Kal. His red strike marks pulsed once—a warning.
Touch him, and I will end you.
---
Twelve hours earlier.
Kal opened his eyes in a dark, suffocating cave.
The body he now inhabited was broken—meridians cracked, spiritual core fractured, muscles atrophied from twelve years of sitting in seclusion.
He was amazed and perplexed at the same time because he remembered that he was sent to death by the court for running illegal business and killing and threatening enemies and allies too if he found anyone suspicious
But when he looked at the hole filled with water the reflection showed that now he is in a whole different body and something was missing as his body was not fully developed or something like it which he had never experienced in his previous life and suddenly a voice message came out of nowhere.
Binding system .... Binding completed
A floting screen appeared infront of his eyes showing his panel
Name : kal
Age : 24 yrs
Gender : male
Cultivation level : Yama level
Spritual root : crippled
And all other information about the previous owner suddenly entered in his mind and then he clearly understood that he has transmigrated to this world and this is his golden finger the system ( or ( The Hell System ))
Then the system asked kal about his choice
```
[HELL SYSTEM]
User: Kal. Status: Soul-bound.
User ability : Invincible Domain Around his mountain
Newbie Pack available. Choose: Mystery Box or Draw System.
```
He chose Draw without hesitation. He never gambled on mystery.
The screen flickered.
```
[DEATH DRAGON — MOROS]
Origin: Before the universe. Power: Absolute. Loyalty: Absolute.
Awakening from beneath Mountain Seven.
```
The ground cracked. The mountain trembled.
And from the darkness below, something rose.
Not from a cave entrance—from cracks in reality, from spaces between breaths, from the darkness that existed before light was invented.
The dragon's head emerged first, larger than any building Kal had ever seen. Then the body—pure black, scarred with red strike marks that pulsed like ancient wounds.
The dragon looked at Kal.
Kal looked at the dragon.
And instead of fear, he felt something unexpected. He was amazed and excited as now he can do whatever he wants This world surpassed all the laws of earth and is on a whole different level and then looking at the dragon.
He remembered his dog.
The mangy stray he had picked off the streets as a young gangster. The only living thing that had never betrayed him. The dog that had waited outside the prison gates every visiting day, until the day it died.
Kal walked forward. Placed his hand on the dragon's snout.
"You won't betray me, will you?"
The dragon's white eyes softened. It nuzzled his hand.
And Kal—the mafia boss who trusted no human, who believed loyalty was a lie and leverage was the only truth—smiled.
"Good boy."
But then kal called the system and asked about his spritual roots and if it can be fixed since with such crippled roots he his just a mere common person and the system then indicate that you have 400 hell point as for the initial task and they could be used for various purposes
When kal further examined it he found that he can exchange the hell points for high grade spritual roots and even he could choose whatever roots he liked and found many roots
ancient, mediaeval, transcendent, mythic ...etc but they all were a lot expensive and for now he can buy only uncommon level spritual root
Since the kal do not know about it he decided not to exchange anything for now and then
The system gave him a task.
```
[TASK: RECRUIT DISCIPLES FOR MOUNTAIN SEVEN]
Objective: Build a force loyal to you.
Reward: 60 Hell Points, System features.
```
Kal looked at the dragon. The dragon looked at him.
"Let's go make an entrance," Kal said.
And that was how he ended up sleeping on a Death Dragon's back, descending into a recruitment ceremony, and changing everything.
---
Now, as he walked up the overgrown path to his crumbling mountain with one hundred and forty battered rejects behind him and a dragon the size of a mountain range slithering in the shadows, Kal allowed himself a single thought.
The previous owner of this body believed in rage. In revenge. In becoming strong enough to kill anyone who threatened him.
Fool.
Killing is just a tool. The real power is making your enemy thank you while you slit his throat.
He glanced back at his new disciples—the broken ones, the angry ones, the ones with nothing left to lose.
They were not loyal to him. Not yet. Probably never.
But they were useful.
And for now, that was enough.
Moros let out a low rumble, and the mountain seemed to shiver.
Kal reached the peak, turned to face his new family of misfits, and said the only words that mattered.
"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we begin."
End of Chapter 1