The sky that morning was gray, not from clouds, but from something heavier.
An unspoken dread hung over the sect like the shroud over a corpse. No wind stirred. No birds sang. Even the leaves, usually rustling against the tiled rooftops, hung limp in the breathless air.
Wei Lian walked through it like a blade slipping into water—silent, cutting, inevitable.
The Black Cloud Sect's western grounds had been cleared.
Over one hundred outer sect disciples had gathered before a jagged pit of stone, ringed with cracked obelisks and rusted spiritual chains. Each link, etched in runes long since broken, still pulsed with the remnants of something ancient—something not quite dead.
The entrance to the Whispering Hollow.
It was no gate. It was a wound.
Wei Lian stepped closer and felt it: the pull of something inside. A subtle gravity that clawed at the base of his spine, as if daring him to enter. Around him, disciples whispered prayers. Some clenched fists. Some pretended to be calm.
Only a few met his eyes.
None held them.
Above the pit, a wooden platform had been erected.
Three inner sect elders stood there, draped in black and silver, their gazes like whetted knives. One held a staff carved from bloodwood. Another carried a scroll sealed with four talismans. The third, robed in bone-white, simply stared at the pit like he could see through stone and time.
They didn't speak right away.
Letting the silence grow.
Letting the fear bloom.
Then the one with the scroll raised his voice:
"This is the Whispering Hollow."
"It was once a vault for failed formations, cursed artifacts, and sealed echoes of ancient wrongs."
"Now, it will judge you."
No dramatic speech.
No encouragement.
Just truth, as cold as iron.
"Ten will pass," he continued.
"Only ten."
"There will be no intervention. No rescue. No boundaries."
"You will enter in groups. You may leave only by reaching the center ring. That is where judgment ends."
A flick of his hand, and the scroll unfurled.
"Group One. Report."
Names were called.
Six disciples stepped forward, pale and trembling. The runed platform creaked to life, chains groaning as they descended into the Hollow's mouth.
Group Two followed.
Then Three.
Wei Lian waited, arms folded, breath calm.
He didn't need to feign stoicism.
He was ready.
When the steward called his name, he stepped forward.
"Group Four. Wei Lian."
He stood alone.
The steward hesitated only for a second, then nodded to the elders. "Solo group. Approved."
Murmurs rippled.
He didn't care.
The platform shifted beneath his feet.
Wei Lian did not look back.
The descent was slow, the chains groaning like something dying. Cold mist coiled up from the black pit, brushing against his skin with phantom fingers. The deeper he went, the more distant the sect above became—until it was just a pinprick of light far above.
The Hollow whispered.
He heard them—not voices exactly, but echoes. Memories not his own. They pressed against his thoughts like moth wings against glass.
"…please… no…"
"…she's not breathing…"
"…I left them to die…"
He exhaled and centered his mind.
The illusions tested emotion first.
Only those who clung to pain could be dragged down.
Wei Lian had none left to offer.
The platform settled into place with a deep clang.
The gate behind him sealed.
Before him stretched a tunnel choked with mist. The air was cold. Wet. Electric. The walls pulsed faintly, lined with veins of blue light—like breath caught in stone. He could feel Qi here. Warped. Twisted. Hungry.
His first step echoed too loudly.
He stilled himself.
Then moved like a shadow.
The path forked three times in the first hundred meters.
Left—wider, etched with broken symbols. Center—narrow, flooded ankle-deep with stale water. Right—steep stairs that descended into blackness.
A clear illusion.
All three paths led somewhere.
But only one would lead to the core.
He crouched beside the middle path, touched the water, then dipped his finger into his mouth.
Bitter.
Drugged.
He turned toward the stairs.
Ten minutes later, he emerged into a wide chamber carved like a dome, the stone walls etched with a thousand claw marks. Chains hung from the ceiling, some broken, some still bearing bones. At the far end, an old sect symbol pulsed with blue flame—signaling a boundary ward.
He wasn't alone.
Voices echoed from a tunnel opposite his.
"…idiot. You triggered it!"
"I didn't see the glyph!"
A crash. A scream.
Wei Lian crouched behind a fallen pillar and watched.
Three disciples.
Tiger Fang robes. One dual-wielded short blades. One carried a talisman fan. The third…
Bleeding. Coughing.
The talisman fan-user waved his hand and sent a paper ward into the darkness. It lit with green fire—but then vanished.
He didn't see the shadow behind him.
Wei Lian did.
An illusion—clever. Formless, unless noticed.
The moment the fan turned, it pounced.
Wei Lian didn't interfere.
The illusion tore through the disciple's mind.
He screamed.
Collapsed.
Dead before he hit the floor.
The others fled.
Wei Lian waited.
Then moved to the corpse.
He took the fan. Pocketed three spirit coins. Ignored the dying breath.
And walked on.
Further in, the mist grew thicker.
Hallucinations began to manifest—more than whispers.
Shapes. Flickers.
Once, he passed a mirror carved into the wall. His reflection stood still as he walked.
Then it smiled.
He didn't stop.
Another chamber appeared to shift sideways, folding in on itself. He closed his eyes and walked straight through it.
His mind did not bend.
Because he was already broken.
Then, finally…
A voice.
A real one.
"We should rest."
"No. If we stop now, we lose momentum."
Wei Lian's ears twitched.
He crept forward until he reached the edge of a chamber—this one built like a collapsed hall, with crumbled statues and cracked symbols on the floor.
Six disciples inside.
One wore a familiar robe.
Lin Yu.
He stood near the edge of the group, face pale, holding a dagger too tightly.
The others were speaking over him. Planning. Gesturing. Tired. Distracted.
Wei Lian watched.
And smiled.
He retreated into the mist, silent as the grave.
He would not strike now.
He would follow.
Herd them.
Break them one by one.
Until Lin Yu had no one left to hide behind.