The sun hangs over the Temple of Zhi like a pale, unblinking eye. In the Scarlet Silk Pavilion, the morning is always the same. The air tastes of old incense and damp paper.
Thousands of disciples wake up to the sound of the bronze bell. They rush to the courtyards to swallow the morning mist. They hope to find a spark of immortality in their lungs.
Lian Shen sits at a low wooden table in the archives. His long black hair is tied back with a simple silk cord. Even on this, his seventeenth birthday, his face remains a blank slate that the world refuses to memorize.
He has lived in the Temple of Zhi for four years, yet he remains a ghost in the records he keeps.
In the Desolate Wastelands, power is measured by the 7 Burials. Most disciples spend decades trapped in the Burial of Flesh or the Burial of Breath. They polish their skin and count their breaths like greedy merchants.
Lian Shen is currently at the Burial of Mind, 1st Stage.
To the rest of the Scarlet Silk Pavilion, he is a fool and an antisocial shadow. He possesses no martial techniques and no glowing Qi.
He reached the Burial of Mind through sheer clarity of thought, but that clarity soon turned into a rot. His mind began to eat its own humanity to make room for a curiosity that has no bottom.
Three days ago, Lian Shen reached the end of that curiosity. He grew tired of the heat in his chest. He was tired of the inner demon's whispers making his pulse race. He decided that if he was to be a spectator in his own life, he would at least be a cold one.
He spent months studying the forbidden scrolls beneath the archives. He found the Art of the Unified Burial.
While other cultivators spend centuries trying to suppress their inner demons, Lian Shen simply opened the door. He invited the shadow to become his spine.
He let the darkness wear his skin like a crown.
The demon asked for a price that would shatter a normal man. Lian Shen gave it the only thing that kept him human, something that no one would dare to.
The process was not beautiful. He used a jagged stone blade because steel is too clean. He opened his own chest while the moon was high. He felt every nerve scream. He felt the hot blood soak his robes, turning the floor into a mirror of red.
When his fingers wrapped around his own heart, he felt a strange sense of relief. It was a heavy, thumping burden. He pulled it out and watched the rhythm die in the palm of his hand.
He should be dead. Instead, the inner demon smiled. It curled with him, becoming a single thread with amusement.
Now, Lian Shen is a walking corpse with no sense of life or death. By sacrificing his heart, he bypassed the physical requirements of the lower burials. He has no heart to distract his logic and no pulse to disturb his focus.
Lian Shen picks up a brush and dips it into black ink. He logs the names of the disciples who reached new stages today.
Li Chen. Burial of Breath, 9th Stage.
Wang Bo. Burial of Flesh, 7th Stage.
He writes with perfect calligraphy. His hand does not shake. He has no heartbeat to ruin the lines. A voice falls over his desk.
"Lian Shen, the Pavilion Master is calling for the record of the blood-tithe."
Lian Shen looks up. He does not see a face. To him, the world is a blur of textures and sounds. He suffers from face blindness, a condition that turned into a weapon once he reached the Burial of Mind.
He does not see Li Chen's handsome features. He hears the arrogant pitch of the boy's voice. He sees the golden aura of pride vibrating around Li Chen's body.
Li Chen is a prodigy of the Temple. He believes in hard work. He believes in justice. He is at the peak of the Burial of Breath, only a step away from the Burial of Mind. He observes Lian Shen with a growing uneasiness. He can feel the icy silence coming from the record keeper.
"The records are ready," Lian Shen says.
His voice is flat. It has no resonance. It sounds like a dry leaf scraping against a gravestone.
Li Chen narrows his eyes. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Lian Shen does not blink. Through his Spirit Gaze, he sees the cracks in Li Chen's aura. He sees the hidden fear of failure. He sees how Li Chen's judgment is tied to the praise of the elders and fellow disciples. To Lian Shen, this prodigy is not a man. He is a glass tower built on sand.
"I am just noticing the scent," Lian Shen says.
"What scent?" Li Chen asks. He reaches for his sword. He is quick-witted, but his pride makes him slow.
"The scent of someone who is about to realize he is made of glass," Lian Shen whispers.
Li Chen snaps his fingers, and a spark of Qi ignites between them. "Watch your tongue, record keeper. Even if you are in the Burial of Mind, you have no techniques. You can barely lift a sword. I could easily crush your spirit with a single breath."
Lian Shen feels a surge. The empty cavity in his chest begins to pull. This is his new reality. He gains spiritual power when he clouds the judgment of others. He gains strength when a heart shatters because of him.
He focuses his Spirit Gaze. He doesn't look at Li Chen's eyes; he looks at the center of his thoughts. He begins to amplify Li Chen's doubt.
A small, wicked smile curls on Lian Shen's face. He wants Li Chen to be angry. He wants the hero to lose his cool. The more Li Chen's mind clouds with rage, the more Lian Shen's True Spirit expands.
"Go ahead, little one," Lian Shen says.
Li Chen lunges. He grabs Lian Shen by the silk collar. He expects to see fear. He expects to see the record keeper tremble and beg.
Instead, he sees nothing. Lian Shen's jade eyes are like two dens with devils curled in the lashes. There is no reflection of even life or death.
Li Chen's heart skips a beat. His judgment wavers. His intelligence tells him something is wrong, but his pride keeps him there. He feels a cold, oily dread crawling up his spine.
Lian Shen inhales deeply. He tastes the first crack in the so-called prodigy's soul. As Li Chen's mind clouds with fear and uneasiness, Lian Shen feels his True Spirit amplify, glowing with a dark, stolen light.
The air in the archive turns to frost.
The hunt has officially begun.