The sun died behind the Dragon Peaks, casting long, jagged shadows across the valley. Iron Lotus City sprawled at the mountain's base, a chaotic hive of stone towers and steam vents. It didn't look like a sanctuary. It looked like a furnace waiting for fuel.
Yang Yi pulled his cloak tight. The wind biting at his exposed neck carried the scent of sulfur and unwashed bodies. Thousands had gathered for the selection. Peasants dreaming of godhood, scions of minor clans looking for glory, and desperate thugs running from a death sentence.
He blended into the stream of travelers entering the massive iron gates.
Guards in red-lacquered armor scanned the crowd. They didn't ask for tolls here; they looked for weakness. The Dragon Transformation Palace didn't accept trash.
A young man ahead of Yang Yi stumbled. He looked exhausted, his sandals worn through to the skin.
A guard stepped out. He didn't speak. He just shoved the boy with the butt of his spear. The boy fell hard into the dust.
"Get up or get out."
The boy scrambled, panic widening his eyes. He crawled toward the gutter, terrified.
Yang Yi stepped past him. He kept his gaze forward, his breathing shallow and controlled. Sympathy was a luxury for the strong. Right now, he was a ghost.
He reached the registration plaza. A massive slab of obsidian stood in the center, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light. The Bloodstone.
A queue snaked toward it.
"Next!"
A burly man in furs stepped up. He slashed his palm and pressed it against the stone.
The obsidian flared a dull orange.
"Tier 2. Low grade. Pass."
The man cheered, clutching his bleeding hand as he hurried toward the inner sanctum.
Yang Yi watched. The stone measured raw essence density. It couldn't measure technique, experience, or the killer instinct honed over three decades of bloodshed. That was his edge.
He stepped up when his turn came. The registrar, a bored disciple with heavy bags under his eyes, didn't look up from his scroll.
"Name. Origin."
"Yang Yi. No clan."
The disciple snorted. "Another stray dog. Cut and press. Don't bleed on the floor."
Yang Yi drew the stolen short sword. He made a precise incision on his thumb. A single drop of crimson welled up.
He pressed his thumb to the cold stone.
He focused inward. He didn't want the stone to read the volatile Refined Beast Blood coursing through him. He clamped down on his dantian, suppressing the flow, allowing only a trickle of his own essence to surface.
The stone flickered. A weak, sputtering white light.
The crowd behind him murmured. White was the bare minimum. Tier 1.
The disciple frowned. "Barely a spark. You're lucky the standards are loose this year. Pass." He tossed a wooden badge onto the table. "Don't expect to survive the first round, stray."
Yang Yi took the badge. "I don't rely on luck."
He turned to leave.
As he walked away, the Dragon Transformation Token in his pocket heated up. It vibrated against his hip, a low hum that resonated with his bones.
Yang Yi paused. He glanced back at the Bloodstone.
The obsidian slab wasn't just measuring essence. It was pulling it. Feeding on it. And for a split second, he saw what the others missed. Beneath the black surface, deep within the rock, a network of red veins pulsed in time with the heartbeat of the mountain.
An array.
Someone wasn't just recruiting disciples. They were harvesting them.
"Interesting."
He slipped into the crowded streets of the inner city. Neon lanterns flickered to life above the noodle stalls and weapon shops, casting the wet cobblestones in garish hues of pink and blue.
He needed a place to rest and refine the remaining beast blood before the trials began.
He found a dilapidated inn near the slaughterhouse district. The sign hung by a single chain: The Cracked Flagon.
Yang Yi pushed open the door. The noise inside died instantly.
Dozen of eyes turned to him. The air smelled of cheap rice wine and aggression. A group of cultivators sat at a central table, wearing matching white robes embroidered with a golden hawk. The Hawk Clan. Local bullies.
The leader, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, kicked a chair out. It skidded across the floor and slammed into Yang Yi's shin.
Yang Yi didn't flinch. He stopped, the chair legs resting against his boot.
"Lost, little white-badge?" The leader grinned. His tablemates chuckled, fingers drifting toward the weapons on their belts.
Yang Yi looked at the chair, then at the man.
"I'm looking for a room. Not conversation."
The leader stood up. He was tall, his aura flaring. Tier 2 Peak. "All rooms are taken. By us. The floor is available. For a fee."
Yang Yi sighed. He really wanted to save his energy for the trials.
He hooked his toe under the chair. With a sharp flick of his ankle, he launched it.
The chair flew through the air.
The leader's eyes widened. He raised his arms to block.
Wood shattered against bone. The man stumbled back, cursing.
Yang Yi was already moving. He closed the distance before the splinters hit the ground. He didn't draw his sword. He drove a fist into the man's throat.
The leader gagged, his aura collapsing instantly. He crumpled, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The other clan members jumped up, weapons half-drawn.
Yang Yi stood over their leader, his face impassive. He swept his gaze across the room. His eyes were cold, devoid of fear or hesitation. The look of a man who had walked through hell and found it comfortable.
"Anyone else want to negotiate for the floor?"
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
One by one, the Hawk Clan members sat back down.
Yang Yi stepped over the gasping man and walked to the terrified innkeeper. He slapped a copper coin on the counter.
"One room. And hot water."