Night was the true master of Xuandao Sect.
It ruled the mountain long after the bell fell silent, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, listening for whimpers.
Cold didn't simply bite anymore.
It burrowed.
Settled deep in the bones.
Frost glazed every tile, turned cracked stone into knives.
Banners hung limp and frozen on splintered poles.
The dorm was worse.
A low, sagging building that stank of wet straw and mold.
Inside, the air was sour with unwashed bodies, rank fear, and blood drying on old rags.
Disciples lay in uneven rows.
Some snored hoarsely.
Others coughed themselves raw, clutching dirty blankets.
A few lay with eyes open, blank, staring at the rafters where frost gathered like white cobwebs.
And some whispered.
Desperate.
Plotting.
"If we team up in the trial—"
"He'll kill you first."
"Shut up. Just shut up."
"Three stones a month…"
"My father couldn't save that in ten years."
"I'm not going back to the fields. I'll kill them all if I have to."
Their fear was thick enough to taste.
Metallic.
Bitter.
Wei Lian wasn't there to smell it.
He had no use for their warmth.
Or their fear.
He was outside.
At the edge of the black creek that cut through the sect like a wound.
Mist rose from it in long, spectral ribbons, curling around frozen rocks.
The wind sliced through his soaked robe, plastering it to his thin body.
Blood from split knuckles darkened the sleeves.
He sat in the mud, heels digging deep.
Back straight.
Eyes half-lidded.
Breathing.
Slow.
Measured.
The cold pressed against him like a wall.
Stole the heat from his blood.
Settled in every cut, every old bruise.
He let it in.
Because pain was honest.
Pain didn't lie.
Didn't flatter.
He watched the mist drift over black water.
It seemed alive.
Hungry.
He didn't fear it.
He understood it.
He remembered Elder Mu's words that morning, rasped through the cold:
"This isn't a reward. It's bait. Only fools think bait isn't hooked."
Good.
Let it be bait.
Let the hook dig deep.
He wasn't afraid of being caught.
Because he would tear the hook out of his own flesh.
And use it to cut the throats of those who cast it.
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath drift away.
Inside, the ember in his dantian burned.
2nd layer.
Hot.
Stubborn.
Alive.
But it wasn't enough.
He let himself feel the Qi.
Ugly.
Coiling.
Fighting him.
Anchor.
He forced it down.
Muscles locked.
Bones creaked.
Sink.
It bucked.
Twisted.
His spine felt like it would snap.
Channel.
It clawed at his veins.
Made them burn.
He ground his teeth until blood welled in his mouth.
Infuse.
He shoved it into his arm.
He punched.
Air cracked like splitting stone.
Black water sprayed in frozen arcs.
Blood from his fist painted the rocks.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't wipe it.
Again.
He drew the Qi.
Forced it.
Let it burn him from the inside out.
His shoulder trembled violently.
His wrist felt like it was fracturing.
He punched.
Again.
Sound echoed off dead walls, lost in wind.
He gasped.
Mud sucked at his knees.
He spat blood into the creek.
Watched it swirl away into the black.
He thought of the other disciples, huddled together in the dorm.
Crying.
Praying.
Plotting.
Fools.
None of that mattered.
Only this.
He pressed his hand into the freezing mud.
Fingers cracking open.
Inside, the ember pulsed.
Hotter.
Faster.
And beneath it—
The crack.
It throbbed like an old wound.
Threatening to split.
He focused on it.
Nothing else existed.
Not the cold.
Not the wind.
Not the pain.
Only the crack.
He forced his Qi into it.
Every drop.
Every hateful, stubborn thread.
It resisted.
He snarled, silent, lips pulled back in a grimace.
It fought.
Twisted.
He pushed harder.
Harder.
Until it tore.
The pain was blinding.
White-hot.
Like a sword through his guts.
He choked on a scream.
Biting his tongue until blood filled his mouth.
His back arched.
Muscles seized.
Hands clawed trenches into frozen mud.
The crack split.
Qi howled through it.
Settled.
3rd layer.
For a moment, the world went silent.
Even the wind seemed to hush.
He collapsed forward.
Chest slamming into the mud.
Face half-submerged in freezing water.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He let the cold claim him.
Inside, the ember in his dantian burned brighter than ever.
Stable.
Solid.
Alive.
The crack sealed itself.
Not healed.
Never healed.
But deeper.
Stronger.
He lay there, breath ragged, blood in his mouth.
Eyes open, watching the black water rush by, uncaring.
He flexed his fingers.
Pain screamed.
Skin split again.
But Qi answered.
Ready.
Eager.
He felt it.
The shift.
The power.
He pushed himself up with shaking arms.
Blood dripped onto the rock.
His robe was soaked, heavy, clinging.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Smearing blood across his cheek.
He remembered Elder Mu's scorn.
The promise of stones.
Rooms.
Tools.
Techniques.
He didn't want comfort.
He didn't want safety.
He wanted weapons.
Because no one would save him.
He would carve his own path.
Even if it was through a mountain of corpses.
He stood slowly.
Legs trembling.
Bones creaking.
But he stood.
He turned toward the distant dorm.
Lantern light flickered.
Voices carried in the wind.
Crying.
Cursing.
Praying.
He didn't pity them.
He didn't even hate them.
They were just in the way.
He started walking.
Bare feet silent in mud.
Because tomorrow wasn't for rest.
It was for ripping another piece of power from a world that wanted him dead.