Morning arrived without ceremony.
A dull bell echoed through the outer court, its sound scraping against stone and bone alike. The mist had not yet lifted. The pine shadows stretched long and thin, like claws reaching across the narrow paths.
Azazel opened his door before the bell finished ringing.
Others emerged more slowly—new disciples rubbing sleep from their eyes, nerves hidden behind forced calm. Some whispered. Some stretched stiff limbs. A few glanced around as if expecting punishment to descend from the clouds.
It did not.
Instead, a man stood waiting at the fork in the path.
He wore the same outer disciple robes as the rest of them, but the fabric clung to him differently—cleaner, tighter, as though shaped by discipline rather than issue. His presence was quiet, yet the air around him felt… compressed.
Azazel's gaze lingered.
This man had cultivated.
Not deeply.But enough.
"New disciples," the man said flatly. "Follow."
No name was given. None was needed.
They walked.
The path curved inward, away from the dilapidated huts and into the inner folds of the mountain. Stone steps replaced dirt. Wooden railings bore faint carvings—old, worn smooth by countless hands.
The air changed.
It grew heavier, thicker, carrying a subtle pressure that pressed against the skin. Some of the children frowned. One rubbed his arms, confused.
Qi residue.
Thin. Scattered. But real.
Azazel noted it without reaction.
They passed several figures along the way—outer disciples moving alone or in small groups. Their steps were steady. Their eyes sharp. Some carried weapons. Others bore sacks stained with dark patches that were not mud.
One woman paused as they passed.
Her gaze brushed over the group, dismissive—until it stopped on Azazel.
For the briefest moment, her brow furrowed.
Then she looked away.
Azazel continued walking.
So they can sense it, he thought.Not clearly. But enough to be uneasy.
The building they arrived at was squat and unadorned.
Stone walls. A single entrance. No banners. No guards.
Yet the pressure here was unmistakable.
"This is the Technique Pavilion," the guide said."Outer disciples are allowed one selection upon entry into the sect."
A ripple ran through the group.
One.
Only one.
The guide's eyes were indifferent.
"Do not waste it. Most of you will never be allowed inside again."
He stepped aside and pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was cold.
Rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, each holding jade slips—some dull, some faintly glowing, others cracked or incomplete. No grandeur. No radiance from heaven.
Just remnants.
Inheritance scraps left behind by those who failed, died, or moved on.
Azazel stepped inside and felt it immediately.
The black-red lotus in his dantian stirred.
Not hunger.
Recognition.
His gaze moved across the shelves.
Most slips radiated familiar patterns—bone refinement methods, crude qi circulation paths, techniques meant to strengthen flesh or sharpen strikes.
Useful.
Predictable.
And limited.
Other disciples rushed forward, hands trembling as they reached for slips that glowed a little brighter than the rest. Whispers broke out. Breathing quickened.
Azazel did not move.
He watched.
A boy near the front recoiled suddenly, dropping a slip with a hiss. His palm smoked faintly.
"Fool," a nearby disciple muttered. "You tried to read it directly."
The guide's voice cut through the noise.
"Choose carefully. Once taken, it binds to you. If you cannot cultivate it—then that failure is yours alone."
Azazel stepped forward.
Slowly.
His fingers brushed past several slips.
The lotus pulsed once.
Then again.
He stopped.
Before him lay a jade slip darker than the rest—not black, not green, but the color of old ash. Its surface was rough, unpolished. Cracks ran along its edge.
No glow.
No presence.
Dead.
Or so it seemed.
Azazel picked it up.
The moment his skin touched the jade, the lotus twisted.
Not violently.
Cautiously.
As if testing a wound.
Information seeped into his mind—not words, not diagrams. Just impressions.
Fragmented. Incomplete. Dangerous.
A circulation method that did not follow the meridians.
Azazel's eyes narrowed slightly.
So that is why it was abandoned.
The guide noticed.
His gaze sharpened.
"That one is broken," he said. "No one has cultivated it successfully."
Azazel closed his fingers around the slip.
"Then it won't be missed."
The guide studied him for a long moment.
Then shrugged.
"Your choice."
As the disciples filed out, techniques clutched to their chests like lifelines, Azazel felt eyes on him again.
The same woman from earlier stood near the exit now.
Up close, her presence was heavier. Her qi—though still crude—was dense, compressed through years of repetition.
Bone Refining.
Late stage.
Her gaze flicked to the slip in his hand.
Then to his face.
"Careful, junior," she said quietly."Some paths consume those who walk them."
Azazel met her eyes.
There was no defiance in his gaze.
No fear.
Only stillness.
"All paths do," he replied.
For the first time, her expression changed.
Not anger.
Interest.
That night, Azazel returned to his hut.
He sat cross-legged, the cracked jade slip resting on his palm.
Outside, the sect breathed—footsteps, distant shouts, the clang of metal against stone.
A living machine.
He closed his eyes.
Let us see, he thought,whether this world breaks first…or I do.
The lotus bloomed.
And the hut grew cold.
End of Chapter 5