The forest spat him out into a clearing drenched in the scent of smoke and steel. A crimson pavilion loomed ahead, its banners flapping like torn skin in the evening wind. Men in lacquered armor moved in formation, their spears sharp, their faces masked. The place was neither temple nor fortress—it was both.
Ashen's steps slowed. His body remembered a rhythm, a discipline, though his mind wavered. The pavilion was the sect's testing ground—the crucible where boys became blades, or ashes scattered to the wind.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the pavilion. His robe was simple, but the way he walked carved silence into the air. His hair, bound in a long black cord, trailed like a whip. His eyes gleamed with the hunger of a man who had long ago thrown mercy into the fire.
"Another stray," the man said, voice low, gravel mixed with smoke. "Do you know where you stand, boy?"
Ashen clenched his fists. His throat ached to speak, but only silence came.
"You stand at the threshold of the Dao," the man continued. "But not the Dao of harmony. This is the Ashen Dao. To walk it is to burn."
Behind him, boys of every size and age stood in ragged lines. Some had fresh bruises. Some had eyes hollow as graves. Ashen understood—this was not training. It was culling.
The man's voice snapped like a blade:
"Step forward if you wish to live. Step back, and you will feed the soil."
Ashen's feet moved before his fear could speak. He stepped into the crimson light, his shadow stretching thin against the pavilion floor.
The man's smile was cruel, approving.
"Good. Then let us begin."
The drums thundered.
And the blood rite started