The morning mist clung to the jagged peaks of the Azure Blood Mountains, curling between the cliffs like serpents of smoke. From the summit, one could see the sprawling expanse of the Hallowed Sect's territory, temples carved from stone, courtyards polished to a blinding sheen, and disciples scurrying like ants below. Yet in the shadow of this celestial grandeur, the world was cruel, and heaven did not favor the weak.
On the edge of a crumbling cliff sat a lone figure, black robes torn, face streaked with blood and grime. His eyes, sharp and cold, reflected the pale light of the rising sun. He was no ordinary disciple. He was a man who had once been cherished, groomed, and praised for his potential—now cast aside, labeled a failure, a blemish on the sect's illustrious history.
"Why… why do you punish me, Heaven?" The young man's voice was low, barely more than a whisper, carried away by the wind. His fingers traced the jagged edge of his broken talisman—a gift from the sect master, now useless in his hands.
Betrayal had a taste that lingered, bitter and metallic. The Hallowed Sect's elders had decreed him unworthy, citing his failure in the trial of the First Realm. Yet failure was a luxury, a lie they told themselves to justify their cruelty. The truth? He had been set up. Poisoned during the trial, sabotaged by those who envied his skill, and condemned by a system that valued loyalty over ability.
He drew a deep breath, inhaling the cold mountain air. Pain coursed through his body, but his mind was sharper than ever. He was broken, yes—but not defeated.
In the distance, a hawk circled lazily above the peaks. Its cry pierced the morning silence, and in that sound, he found clarity. Power was not given by Heaven. It was taken. Strength was not bestowed by the Dao. It was seized. And from this moment onward, he would follow no path set by men or gods. He would forge his own.
He had heard the old legends whispered among the elders—the Pathless Immortals, beings who cultivated beyond the confines of sects, beyond the scrutiny of Heaven, beyond morality itself. They were myths, tales told to frighten unruly disciples into obedience. But if such a path existed… perhaps it was his only salvation.
"Pathless… Immortal…" he murmured, tasting the words like a forbidden fruit. His lips curled into a grim smile. If the world would not acknowledge him, then he would rise where the world dared not tread.
The first step would be survival. He could not remain in the sect, not while enemies lurked in every shadow, waiting to finish him off. He needed concealment, preparation, and power beyond imagination.
Descending the cliff was treacherous. Loose stones crumbled beneath his feet, and jagged edges tore at his palms. Yet each cut, each scrape, felt insignificant compared to the wound in his pride, the burning embers of vengeance in his heart. He was no longer a disciple seeking approval. He was a predator, awakening from a long, unjust slumber.
By midday, he reached the forest at the base of the mountains. The ancient trees swayed as if whispering secrets long forgotten. Among these roots and shadows, he found a hidden cave, its entrance masked by a veil of vines. Inside, the air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and decay. This would be his sanctuary, his laboratory, his crucible.
Kneeling before the cave's depths, he placed the broken talisman on the stone floor. He closed his eyes and began to draw in the faint energy lingering in the surroundings. Life force, spirit energy, even the residual traces of the Dao left behind by wandering cultivators—it was weak, chaotic, and unrefined, but it was enough.
The process was excruciating. Every attempt to cultivate tore at his body and mind, demanding more than he had to give. Yet with each pulse of energy, his hatred crystallized into clarity, his despair transmuted into resolve. Pain became his teacher, suffering his guide.
Hours turned into days, and days blurred into nights. Time lost all meaning in the cave. Outside, the world continued, unaware of the singular rebirth occurring in the shadow of its peaks. By the seventh night, his eyes opened, now gleaming with a new light—fierce, calculating, and infinitely patient.
The Pathless Immortal had awakened.
From the cave, he emerged into the moonlit forest. The wind tugged at his tattered robes, and the shadows seemed to bow before him. He no longer sought validation, no longer feared death, and no longer obeyed the rules of men or gods. Every step he would take henceforth would carve his destiny into the world.
As he stepped forward, the first rays of dawn broke across the forest. Birds cried in alarm. A wild fox froze mid-step. And somewhere, far above, the sect banners fluttered in the morning wind, unaware that the man they had discarded would one day return—not as a disciple, not as a pawn, but as a storm that would rend heaven itself.
The Pathless Immortal had taken his first step. And the world would never be the same.