The stolen manuals lay on a flat stone in the catacomb, illuminated by the cold phosphorescent glow from Lin Feng's palm. They were unremarkable to look at—simple leather bindings, the pages thin and tough. But they were more valuable than gold.
His skeletal vanguard and the shadow-panther had returned before dawn, their mission a silent success. No alarms had been raised. The clan guards looked for living thieves, not for death that walked.
Lin Feng opened the first manual: Verdant Dragon Breathing Technique. It was the absolute foundational text for any clan disciple, teaching how to draw in spiritual Qi from the world, cycle it through the meridians, and nourish the core. It was child's play. Or it should have been.
He read it, and his System whirred to life.
[Analyzing 'Verdant Dragon Breathing Technique'…]
[Principle: Active Draw of Ambient Energy.]
[Adaptation to Death-Aspected Cultivation: Viable.]
[Synthesizing…]
[New Passive Skill Generated: Grave Cycling Art. Automatically draws ambient Death Qi into host at 50% efficiency of active cultivation.]
A subtle shift occurred in his breathing. With every inhalation, a faint trickle of the catacomb's cold energy seeped into him, supplementing his active cultivation. It was slow, but constant. A foundation.
The second manual: Meridian Unblocking Method. This was more advanced, detailing the complex pathways of energy channels and the various seals, congenital or inflicted, that could block them. He studied the diagrams, the descriptions of symptoms—lethargy, inability to retain Qi, physical weakness.
His own body's history flashed before him. The pitying looks. The name 'trash.' The endless, fruitless attempts by his mother with her remedies.
The System cross-referenced the data with its own deep scan of Lin Feng's original body, still preserved in his flesh and bone memory.
[Diagnostic Re-run Complete.]
[Original Meridian Blockage of 'Lin Feng' vessel re-analyzed.]
[Conclusion: Not congenital. Not accidental.]
[Pattern Identified: Five-Element Seal. A sophisticated, artificial locking mechanism applied during early childhood. Requires expert knowledge of meridian theory and high cultivation base to enact.]
The words hung in the air, colder than the tomb's chill.
It wasn't bad luck. It wasn't a frail constitution.
It was sabotage. A deliberate crippling.
The poisoning wasn't Lin Tao's first attempt on his life. It was the final, clumsy cleanup of a job started years ago. Someone had made him 'trash.' Someone had waited for him to die of shame and weakness. When he hadn't, they'd helped his cousin finish the job.
A deep, quiet rage began to burn, colder than any before.
His meeting with Han Wei that afternoon was brief, in a hollow at the edge of the training grounds. The branch disciple's face was grim as he delivered his report.
"Elder Hong," Han Wei whispered, pretending to adjust a training stake. "Before he retired to politics, he was the clan's foremost authority on meridian theory and restorative seals. He wrote half the manuals in the restricted section. They say he… disagreed with your father's lenient policies from the start."
The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap. The expert knowledge. The political motive. Elder Hong hadn't just backed Lin Tao's play. He had likely designed the opening move, over a decade ago.
Lin Feng thanked him and slipped away, his mind racing.
The third manual was Spirit Sense Basics. It taught disciples to extend their awareness beyond their bodies, to feel the flow of Qi in the world, to detect the presence of others. He practiced it now, not with spiritual Qi, but with Death Qi.
He sat in the catacomb and pushed his consciousness outward. The world painted itself in shades of ending. The skeletons were bright beacons of obedient cold. The ancient bones around him were dim, guttering embers. The stone held traces of ancient blood.
And he could feel through the stone.
The Death Qi in his body resonated with the traces in the environment, acting as a conduit. He focused on the direction of Lin Tao's courtyard, far across the clan compound. He pushed.
His perception flowed like spilled ink through the walls, through the ground, a silent, invisible tide. It was blurry, imprecise, but he could feel shapes of living Qi. A bright, arrogant knot—Lin Tao. A smaller, servile flicker—a servant. And a new shape, a dense, coiled mass of energy that felt like polished oak and dried herbs—powerful, but deliberately restrained.
A hooded figure.
Lin Feng held his breath, his entire being focused on that distant room. The Death Qi resonance carried whispers, not of sound, but of intent, which his System interpreted.
Lin Tao's voice, impatient: "—need the key. The prison is useless without it."
Hooded Figure, calm: "The Clan Head does not part with it. It is part of the ancestral regalia. Pushing too soon risks everything."
Lin Tao: "My 'uncle' is distracted by grief. Now is the time. What good are chained legends if they sleep forever?"
Hooded Figure: "Patience. The door requires more than a key. It requires a… specific resonance. We are close. Continue securing your position. The tournament is your stage."
The resonance faded. Lin Feng's Spirit Sense snapped back to his body, leaving him dizzy. He sat in the dark, the words churning in his mind.
Hidden prison. Chained legends. A key.
It could only be one thing. The sealed door in his catacomb. The thing that made his System recoil. They knew about it. They wanted in. And his father held the key.
This was no longer just about inheritance or even a clan head position. This was about whatever was locked behind that silver-iron seal. Something so valuable it warranted crippling a child and murdering a young master to politically clear the path.
He had to know. He had to see what they wanted so badly.
He walked to the back of the catacomb, to the oppressive sealed door. The silver-iron chains glowed with their faint, holy light, repelling the Death Qi. He ignored the System's warning. He wasn't going to touch it. He was going to listen.
He placed his hands on the cold stone floor a few feet from the door. He emptied his mind of everything but the Spirit Sense, now finely tuned to the unique, crushing weight of the Death Qi that leaked from the other side. He listened past the hum of the seal. He listened for what lay beneath.
He heard it.
Thump.
A deep, slow, rhythmic vibration, transmitted through the stone.
Thump.
It was muffled, vast, and impossibly slow.
Thump.
A heartbeat.
Something was alive in there. Something had been alive, chained in total darkness, for centuries. Waiting.
Lin Feng staggered back from the door, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. Not a treasure. Not a weapon.
A prisoner.
And Lin Tao and Elder Hong wanted to let it out.
The race was no longer for revenge alone. It was a race against a door. Would he open it first, to claim whatever nightmare was inside for his own? Or would he have to face it when his enemies unleashed it upon the clan—upon his family?
He looked at his skeletal soldiers. He felt the new, slow trickle of the Grave Cycling Art. He thought of the Five-Element Seal etched into his childhood flesh.
The game had just become a siege. And he was trapped between the army outside and the heart beating in the dark.