Chương 3: The Immortal Ascension Trial

The Bone-Burying Desert was a graveyard for the living. By the seventh day, Reyn accepted this absolute law. The dunes weren't gold; they were ashen, a pulverized silt of ancient marrow that billowed with every step, choking his lungs with the dust of the dead. During the day, the sun hung like a white-hot iron, searing the sand until his boots hissed and smelled of scorched leather.

By night, the mercury plummeted to twenty below, the wind whipping grit against his face like a thousand dull razors flaying skin from bone. Water was a memory. The skins he'd filled at the oasis had run dry by day three. Now, he survived on the bitter lifeblood of cacti—iron-skinned flora hidden beneath the ash, their needles long enough to skewer a palm. He used a short blade to pry open the rinds, squeezing acrid, viscous slime into his throat. His stomach cramped in protest, but he forced his legs to move.

Forward was the only direction that didn't lead to a grave. On the twentieth day, he found the first failure. A middle-aged man in caravan silks lay sprawled in a sand pit, lips cracked like a sun-baked riverbed, eye sockets overflowing with white silt. Reyn stripped the body. He found a map, half a strip of jerky, and a bronze token engraved with the character 'Xuan'. A Xuanxiao Sect Outer Disciple Token.

Reyn sat beside the corpse for a long time as the wind began to swallow the remains, the earth reclaiming its carrion. He tucked the token into his tunic and divided the meat—one portion for now, two for the road ahead.

"You didn't make it," he rasped at the vanishing face.

"I'll finish the walk for you." Day thirty-five saw him cresting the seventh nameless peak. The summit was a gauntlet of permafrost and astral winds that sliced at his exposed flesh. He traded his last spirit stone at a mid-mountain cave for one night of shelter and a handful of moldy grain. The host was a one-armed rogue, a man of pathetic cultivation whose eyes gleamed with a sickly blue light as he fingered the stone.

"The Xuanxiao Sect's triennial Ascension Trial," the rogue muttered, his single hand trembling.

"Next month, the seventh day, in Yunxiao City. You come from the north, boy?" Reyn didn't answer. He curled into the shadows, buried under dry straw like a hibernating predator.

"The north is a slaughterhouse lately," the rogue continued, unbothered.

"Word is the Lei Clan fell. A new Patriarch, a bloodbath among the collateral branches. You carry a scent..." Reyn's breath hitched, his hand tightening on his blade.

"... The scent of blood," the rogue grinned, baring blackened teeth.

"Those who kill and those about to be killed smell the same. I've breathed this air for thirty years. I don't miss." Reyn's eyes snapped open, his right hand already seeking the serrated blade hidden beneath his pillow.

"Easy," the one-armed rogue muttered, a dismissive wave of his hand cutting through the cave's gloom.

"If I intended to harvest your life, I'd have done it the moment you crawled into this hole. I'm merely intrigued. A whelp bearing a Xuanxiao Sect token and a soul drenched in vengeance... what do you seek at the Immortal Ascension Trial?"

"Cultivation," Reyn said, his voice as cold as the steel he gripped.

"And for what purpose?"

"To kill." The rogue froze, then erupted into a jagged laughter that sounded like a dying owl. He doubled over, his lone hand slapping his thigh in a rhythmic, fleshy thud until tears pricked his weathered eye.

"Excellent! A killer's honesty!" He wiped his face with a grime-streaked sleeve.

"I've rotted in this cave for fifteen years, watching a parade of fools march toward the Ascension Path. Some crave longevity; others seek jade or the hollow pride of their clans. You're the first to admit you only want to leave a trail of corpses." The mirth vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory glint.

"The trial is no game. Xuanxiao Sect recruits a thousand, yet barely a tenth survive the first three years. If you want to kill, boy, you must first master the art of not being killed." He flicked a jade slip through the air. Reyn caught it, the stone's chill biting into his palm.

"A Breath-concealing technique. It's a gutter-tier manual, but it serves a purpose. It will mask the scent of blood clinging to you and veil your depths from those two realms higher."

"Your motive?" Reyn demanded.

"Spiteful curiosity," the rogue grunted, turning his back to settle into the straw.

"I want to see how far a boy fueled by slaughter can climb. Don't die too soon; I'd hate for my investment to go to waste." Reyn pressed the slip to his forehead. A torrent of esoteric information flooded his consciousness. He sat cross-legged, forcing his meager spiritual energy into the new, jagged pathways dictated by the manual. His aura began to wither, receding until he was indistinguishable from the damp stone and rotting hay. The rogue bolted upright, his solitary eye wide with shock.

"One incense stick?" Reyn opened his eyes. Deep within his pupils, a flicker of mourning was instantly suffocated by a cold, lethal resolve. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Yunxiao City was a titan, ten times the size of Thunder Abyss City. As Reyn approached the southern gate, the sheer scale of the fortifications stole his breath.

It was a monolith—a thirty-zhang wall of obsidian, its surface etched with intricate defensive arrays that pulsed with a rhythmic, golden light under the sun. The air hummed with the latent power of the ancient formations. A line of aspirants stretched for miles, a tapestry of ambition. There were scions of nobility in shimmering silks atop spirit-beasts and desperate commoners in hemp. Before the gate, hierarchy faltered; every soul was forced to dismount and face the cold, mechanical scrutiny of the city guards.

Reyn lingered at the tail of the queue, a shadow in the vibrant crowd. His fingers brushed the hilt of the blade concealed in his boot as he funneled focus into the Breath-Concealing Technique, weaving a shroud of stillness around his dantian to suppress his true power. To the world, he was a wretched beggar—matted hair, a face masked by dried mud, and a tunic reduced to ribbons by thorns, revealing a map of jagged, half-healed scars across his lean frame.

"Name? Origin? Cultivation?" The guard, a brute with a face of scarred meat, slammed the butt of his spear into the cobblestones, sending a tremor through the ground and a plume of grit into the air. Reyn hunched his shoulders, his voice a pathetic, gravelly rasp.

"Lei... Lei Niuniu. From Blackwater River Village. No cultivation, master." The guard's narrow eyes raked over him for a long, agonizing moment. Finally, he snorted and jerked a thumb toward the city interior.

"The trial registration is at the Eastern Plaza. Deadline is tomorrow. Scram." Reyn offered a subservient bow and melted into the throng like a drop of rain in a turbulent sea. He navigated the labyrinthine streets with a predator's instinct, cataloging teahouses, taverns, and the dark alleys where black markets breathed. He settled at a rickety stall, trading a copper coin for a bowl of tea so murky it looked like pond water.

He sipped slowly, his ears filtering the city's cacophony to catch the whispers that mattered.

"... The stakes are higher than ever," a merchant whispered.

"The Xuanxiao Sect dispatched three Golden Core Elders to oversee the selection." Another voice chimed in.

"The great clans are out in force. The Ji, Sun, and Mei have all sent their favored sons. It's a bloodbath of talent." Then, a sentence hit Reyn like a physical blow.

"Even the Lei Clan has a horse in the race. The Patriarch's only son is here, backed by a mountain of spirit stones to grease the wheels." Reyn's grip tightened, the ceramic bowl groaning under the sudden pressure. The Lei Clan. Lei Tianqi. The pampered heir of the man who had orchestrated his ruin. He lowered the bowl, his eyes locking onto a tavern across the thoroughfare. On the second floor, a window framed a youth in azure silks. His hair was gathered in a jade crown, a gilded saber at his waist.

He leaned against the sill, laughing with an attendant, his expression one of effortless arrogance. The curve of his jaw was a mirror image of Lei Wanjun. Reyn looked away, draining the last dregs of the bitter liquid. It burned his throat, the aftertaste metallic and sharp. It didn't taste like tea; it tasted like the copper tang of fresh blood. The Eastern Plaza was a churning cauldron of humanity. At its heart stood a massive dais draped in Xuanxiao Sect banners.

Three deacons in profound-black robes sat like statues, each presiding over a Spirit-Testing Stone that hummed with ethereal light. Surrounding the platform, Outer Sect disciples stood guard, their hands on the hilts of enchanted blades that caught the sun in lethal flashes. Reyn took his place in the winding line, sandwiched between a barrel-chested youth and a girl in fine silks. The roar of the crowd was a constant thrum, but Reyn retreated into the fortress of his mind.

He maintained the Breath-Concealing Technique with precision, ensuring his spiritual roots remained dormant. He couldn't afford a premature revelation, nor could he risk being identified by the Lei Clan's hidden sentries.

"Next!" The command was sharp, cutting through the noise. The youth ahead of Reyn stepped onto the dais, his hands trembling as he pressed them against the Spirit-Testing Stone. The crystal flickered with a dull, muddy yellow glow. The official didn't even look up.

"Earth-attribute mixed spirit root. Low grade. Go to the left for registration." Then, the voice rang out again, cold and indifferent.

"Next!" A young girl in silk stepped forward, her fingers like scallion whites trembling against the jagged surface of the Spirit-Testing Stone. A pathetic spark of emerald flickered briefly before being swallowed by the void.

"Pseudo-Wood Root. Disqualified. Next!" The queue surged forward, a relentless tide of shattered dreams and fleeting hope. Reyn's gaze cut through the throng, locking onto a tea stall at the plaza's edge. Three men sat there, draped in the distinctive livery of the Lei Clan's Hall of Punishment. Their cross-hilted sabers rested against the table, but it was their eyes—predatory, hound-like, and etched into his nightmares—that chilled his blood.

They scanned the crowd like brushes sweeping for dust, searching for a ghost. Reyn tucked his chin, letting his matted hair curtain his features. He pushed his Breath-concealing technique to its absolute limit, withdrawing every spark of vitality until he was nothing more than a weathered stone—cold, inert, and invisible to any spiritual sense.

"Next!" Reyn ascended the high platform, his gait intentionally unsteady and his frame gaunt, the perfect image of a starving peasant boy. He raised his right hand and pressed his palm against the stone. The contact was bone-chilling, a frozen bite that seeped into his marrow. One second. Two. Three. Total silence. The manager's brow furrowed in annoyance as he waved a dismissive hand.

"No spirit root. Disqualified. Ne—" A dull, muffled thrum suddenly echoed from the stone's depths. Against his chest, the hidden jade pendant vibrated with a sharp urgency, channeling a sluggish, turbid stream of Qi through his meridians. It acted as a veil, masking his true nature and conjuring a deceptive, sickly gray light that barely clung to his palm. It was dim, sparse, and pathetic, unable to even coat half the stone's surface.

The three deacons leaned forward, their expressions shifting from boredom to mild disdain.

"Barely a low-grade root," one muttered.

"Trash-tier talent. Just enough to sweep floors as a handyman." The crowd barely noticed; there were no gasps of wonder, only the hum of indifference. Reyn stood in that weak light, his face a mask of stoic calm. He had survived the first hurdle, his resolve as hard as the iron he once forged. But at the plaza's edge, the hounds had caught the scent. One spy pulled a crimson talisman from his robes, his fingers trembling with malice as he scrawled a few characters before crushing the paper.

The talisman erupted into a streak of bloody light, screaming toward the northern clouds.

"Found him," the one-eyed brute rasped, his voice thick with murderous glee.

"The one the Patriarch wants dead." Reyn snapped his head up. His gaze pierced through the shimmering spiritual auras and the shifting crowd, colliding directly with those three pairs of icy eyes. The one-eyed man grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and drew a thumb across his throat in a slow, jagged motion. Reyn's pupils contracted into needle-points.

"Your name?" a deacon barked, his patience fraying.

"Where are you from? Do you wish to join the Xuanxiao Sect?" Reyn offered no immediate answer. He looked past them, toward the north—toward Thunder Abyss City, where his enemies waited in their high towers, unaware that the prey had finally found its teeth.