The Black Mist Forest was not a place meant for human life.
It was the Yan Clan's garbage dump.
A place where medicinal dregs were discarded, where the corpses of failed disciples were buried without tombstones, and where the world's energy had fallen into utter chaos.
The sky here was never blue. It was perpetually shrouded in heavy gray clouds, as though even the heavens were unwilling to witness what lay below.
Yan Kesh stepped inside.
His thin cloth shoes sank into black, foul-smelling mud. On his back was only a single worn cloth bundle containing two sets of spare clothes and a small amount of dried rations—the last allowance granted to him as a human still acknowledged by the clan.
Every step felt heavy.
Not because of exhaustion, but because the very pressure of the air here was different.
To a cultivator, air was a source of power. Pure natural Qi was nourishment for the soul. But here, the Qi of heaven and earth was mixed with poison, death aura, and lingering resentment. Breathing this air was no different from drinking water filled with sand. Lungs would be damaged. Meridians would clog.
But Yan Kesh no longer possessed intact meridians.
"Ironic," he murmured softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the forest wind.
"Because I'm now trash without cultivation, the poison in this air has no path to destroy me from within. I'm too weak to be harmed by chaotic energy."
He continued forward until he found a wooden hut on the slope of a rocky hill. It was on the verge of collapse. The roof was riddled with holes, and the walls were coated in slimy moss. This was an abandoned gravekeeper's post, deserted for decades.
Yan Kesh placed his cloth bundle on the dusty wooden floor.
He did not clean the place.
He did not waste time on meaningless comfort.
The first thing he did was sit cross-legged, close his eyes, and examine the condition of his own body.
He needed to confirm one thing—
How broken am I?
He tried to breathe using the Yan Clan's Flowing Cloud Breathing Technique. After years of cultivation, the body's habits were difficult to erase.
Srrrtt.
A trace of energy from the air—dirty and coarse—was drawn in through his nose. It attempted to flow toward his lower abdomen, toward the place where his Ash-White Soul Root once resided.
Jleb!
A sharp pain exploded in his chest.
"Kh—!"
Yan Kesh coughed violently. Fresh blood sprayed from his mouth, staining the filthy wooden floor. His face turned pale instantly. His body convulsed, forcefully rejecting the energy. The meridian pathways severed by the Grand Elder were now like cracked, dried riverbeds—when flooded, their banks collapsed.
He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, staring at the crimson stain with an empty gaze.
"Confirmed," he thought calmly.
"The orthodox cultivation path is completely sealed. Forcing it will only accelerate my death."
He did not feel sadness.
He did not feel despair.
He simply crossed out one option from his list of possibilities.
Plan A: Restore cultivation through conventional means — Failed.
The sun began to set, replaced by deep darkness filled with horrifying sounds. The howls of wind wolves, the hissing of two-tailed serpents, and the creaking of tree branches that sounded like the laughter of an old witch.
In the Black Mist Forest, night was hunting time.
Yan Kesh understood his position clearly.
Within the clan, he was trash.
In this forest, he was prey.
A crippled rabbit thrown into a wolf's den.
He stood up and picked up a sharpened wooden stick he had found earlier along the way. The weapon was pitiful—perhaps only sufficient to kill a burrowing rat—but it was all he had.
He did not light a fire. Firelight would only attract curious beasts. Instead, he sat in the darkest corner of the hut, blending into the shadows, suppressing his breathing until it was barely audible.
That night, Yan Kesh did not sleep.
His eyes remained open, watching the gaps in the broken wooden walls. His ears captured every movement of dry leaves outside.
He observed how a three-eyed owl snatched a rat from the bushes—fast, silent, efficient.
He watched how a serpent coiled around its prey not with brute force, but with patience, waiting for the exact moment its victim let down its guard.
This world is an honest teacher, Yan Kesh thought as dawn slowly arrived and the dangers of night receded.
Within the clan, they spoke of morality, rules, and ancestral honor. All of it was hypocritical nonsense. Here, in this forest of death, the rules were simple:
The strong eat.
The weak die.
And the cunning survive.
Yan Kesh looked at the dim morning sun piercing through the mist.
He was still alive.
He had survived his first night.
But he knew his rations would last no more than three days. If he did not find something—food, or a way to become stronger—he would starve to death before any beast could claim him.
He stepped out of the hut.
His gaze locked onto the deeper part of the forest, an area even the mist seemed reluctant to touch. There stood a strange natural rock formation. Silent. Too silent.
His instincts as a weak creature screamed danger.
But his cold logic whispered otherwise:
In the most dangerous places, the greatest opportunities are often found.
Yan Kesh tightened his grip on the wooden staff and began walking toward that silence.
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