The cave mouth was little more than a crack in the mountain's black hide.
Wind howled through it in keening shrieks, carrying snow like broken glass.
Wei Lian stood there for a moment, watching the white world outside turn to blue-grey dusk.
His breath fogged thickly, hanging in the still air of the cave before fading.
He clutched the old book under one arm, fingers streaked with half-dried blood.
The wind tugged at his ragged robes, snapping them around his bruised legs.
He stepped in, boots crunching over frozen mud.
The darkness swallowed him.
It was quiet in here.
So quiet it felt like something watching.
He didn't bother lighting a lamp.
The dim glow of frost along the walls gave him enough to see.
The book itself seemed to hold its own sullen light.
He dropped onto the stone floor with a heavy exhale.
Cold crawled up through him immediately.
He didn't move to fight it.
The cave was small, barely wide enough for him to sit cross-legged.
Frost coated the walls in thick scales, glinting like a thousand eyes.
Water dripped slowly from a crack in the ceiling, each drop a tiny death knell.
He rested the book on his knees.
Its cracked leather cover was stiff, protesting as he opened it.
Symbols crawled across the page, but settled as soon as his eyes fixed on them.
Iron-Blood Tempering Sutra.
For the ones who would not stay weak.
For those willing to trade pain for power.
He ran a finger along the words.
They seemed to resist at first.
But they yielded.
He felt the Human Root respond in his core.
It pulsed once, not like a heart but like a gong struck deep underwater.
The Qi there was dense, thick, slow as syrup.
He inhaled carefully.
He could feel every inch of it.
How it moved, reluctant but obedient.
How it clung to blood, bone, tendon.
It wasn't like the elders' or Jin Xiu's flamboyant flashes of power.
It wasn't brilliant or beautiful.
It was heavy.
Real.
It was his.
And it listened.
He flipped to the first level.
Skin-Hardening.
Beat the softness out.
Force it to remember.
Bleed. Clot. Scar.
He exhaled a cloud of mist.
Lowered the book carefully.
Made a fist.
Then he drove it into the stone floor.
Skin split instantly.
Blood gushed, turning frost to a steaming red smear.
He didn't cry out.
Didn't let his hand tremble.
He watched the blood run.
Qi pulsed in his dantian.
Heavy.
Slow.
Then it moved.
It flowed into the wound, not gentle but absolute.
He felt it thicken his blood, clotting instantly.
Flesh pulled together, knotting into a thicker, uglier scar.
He did it again.
Bone shuddered.
Skin tore anew.
Blood sprayed onto the old pages.
The book didn't care.
Symbols flickered, then settled, almost… approving.
He felt seen.
He rotated to his elbows.
Brought them down with sickening thuds.
Cracks spiderwebbed in the rock.
Flesh peeled.
Blood ran freely.
It steamed in the air.
He watched, fascinated, as Qi gathered in the gashes.
It didn't just heal.
It improved.
Tissues re-knit tougher than before.
He was panting now.
But he kept going.
Again.
Again.
Pain blurred the edges of his vision.
He welcomed it.
Embraced it.
It was proof.
He slammed his knees down.
Felt tendons scream.
Qi poured through them like molten iron.
Forced them to realign, thicker.
Stronger.
The Human Root pulsed with every breath.
It didn't speak.
It didn't promise.
It demanded.
He felt every fiber of his being burning.
Muscle twitching, rebuilding.
Skin scabbing over, thick and hard as boiled leather.
He shifted.
Tore.
Let blood run.
Watched it seal.
Felt it change.
He stopped to read the text again, blood dripping onto the page.
The words blurred with tears he refused to shed.
But they burned themselves into his mind.
Strike until it learns.
Clot. Scar.
Armor of flesh.
He slammed his forearm against the cave wall.
Rock split.
His bone screamed.
He forced Qi there.
It seeped into the marrow, boiling.
Pain blinded him for a heartbeat.
Then eased.
Bone healed.
Thicker.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He didn't count the blows.
He measured progress in blood lost and scars earned.
In how the Qi obeyed.
He watched his own arm transform.
Flesh ruined, then restored.
Lines of white and red layering like scales.
He pressed a thumb into a fresh scar.
It didn't give.
It was tough as old hide.
His breath rattled.
The cave was silent but for the drip of water and the slow hiss of his blood steaming on frost.
The Human Root pulsed one final time.
He felt it settle.
Like a judge handing down a verdict.
He lowered his hands.
Fingers split.
Nails cracked.
But they didn't tremble.
He looked at them.
Felt them.
Knew them.
Different.
Stronger.
Not pretty.
Not clean.
But his.
He pressed a palm flat to the cave floor.
Pushed.
The frost cracked in a wide circle.
Stone groaned.
His fingers didn't split this time.
Blood didn't well up.
The skin held.
He realized then:
He had mastered the First Level.
Not partway.
Not a mockery of it.
Completely.
He let his arms drop to his sides.
The book sat on his lap, pages bloodstained.
The symbols were quiet now.
Waiting.
He ran a knuckle—still raw but hard—along the blackened cover.
The lock swung loosely.
The old burn mark glared up at him like a challenge.
He bared his teeth.
Not a smile.
A promise.
"I'll finish you."
"All of you."
He closed the book.
Rested it against his chest.
Closed his eyes.
The wind howled outside, cold enough to kill.
Inside, it was deathly still.
But something new had taken root.
He wasn't a mortal boy anymore.
Not in skin.
Not in will.
He would pay every price.
Bleed every drop.
Until even the Heavens would have to look down and remember his name.