The pain in Lin Yi's right ribs felt like a red-hot iron nail, and every breath drove it deeper. He stepped onto the first black stone step, and the cold of the Tempering Bone Platform immediately drilled up through the soles of his feet, numbing his bones to the marrow. He looked up. The platform hung suspended in the sea of clouds, its edges sharpened by the mountain wind to a blade's keenness. "Group Ding-Wei, just you?" The overseer disciple at the entrance swept his gaze over him, pausing for half a second on the bloodstained front of his robes. There was nothing in that look—as if he were looking at a stone. Lin Yi didn't answer. He merely nodded. He mounted the second step, and the wound beneath his ribs spasmed violently, cold sweat instantly soaking his inner garments. He clamped his molars together and forced the metallic taste surging up his throat back down. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, those gazes would circle him like hyenas. The platform finally lay beneath his feet. The black stone surface was covered in fine chisel marks, rough as sandpaper. Dozens of gazes shot toward him in unison—curious, mocking, gloating. Lin Yi could smell the mingled sweat on their bodies, the bitter fragrance of medicinal pills, and the faint oppressive pressure of spiritual energy fluctuations. His stomach twisted into knots. "Draw lots for your opponent. One battle decides who stays and who goes." The overseer disciple walked to the stone chest at the center of the platform, his voice as flat as if he were reading a public notice. "Begin." The crowd stirred. Lin Yi remained where he stood, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the outer side of his thigh. Once. Twice. Thrice. The rhythm held his heartbeat in check. He saw Xiao Han. The man stood in the deepest shadow beneath the platform, his moon-white robe immaculate, the jade thumb ring on his left hand turning slowly. He lifted his eyes, meeting Lin Yi's gaze, and the corner of his mouth curved into a perfectly measured arc. Then his lips moved. His voice pierced Lin Yi's ear like a slender needle: "Enjoy yourself. This may be the last time you stand in the sunlight." Lin Yi's breath hitched. Deep in his dantian, the rune that had remained silent the entire journey suddenly stirred. Not the faint ache from before, but a scorching, near-ravenous restlessness. Like a beast that had caught the scent of blood. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm, using pain to suppress the tremor. He couldn't lose control. Losing control meant death. "Group Ding-Wei, Lin Yi." The overseer disciple called his name. Lin Yi stepped forward. The stone chest gaped open, piled with dozens of warm jade tokens. He reached inside. The jade his fingertips touched was ice-cold to the bone. He grabbed one at random and drew it out. Two characters were carved on the token: Jia-San. Below them, a smaller character: Shi Yong. "Jia-San, Shi Yong!" the overseer disciple announced in a loud voice. A low rustle rippled through the crowd. Lin Yi raised his head and saw a tower-like brute shove his way out from among them. Every step the man took made the platform tremble slightly. He grinned, baring white teeth, and twisted his neck left and right, joints cracking with crisp pops. Earth-yellow spiritual energy spread from his body, thick as if he'd just crawled out of the mud. That spiritual pressure—at least the fifth layer of Qi Refinement. Lin Yi gripped the token until his knuckles turned white. The token's chill seeped into his bones. "Group Ding-Wei?" Shi Yong walked to the opposite side of the arena, his voice as rough as sandpaper scraping iron. "Tough luck." Someone in the crowd below shouted, "Senior Brother Shi, go easy! Don't kill him, it's bad luck!" Peals of laughter erupted. Lin Yi placed the token back onto the tray in the overseer disciple's hands. He turned to face Shi Yong. The pain in his right ribs was now sharp enough to split him open. He drew a deep breath, mountain wind flooding his lungs, cold enough to make him shiver. "Please enlighten me," he said. His voice was steadier than he'd expected. Shi Yong's grin widened. He flexed his wrists, and the earth-yellow spiritual energy condensed around his fists, forming a coarse membrane of light. That spiritual energy carried a heavy scent of soil, pressing down until it was hard to breathe. Xiao Han still stood in the shadows beneath the platform. Lin Yi caught him in his peripheral vision The second punch came faster. Lin Yi didn't dodge this time. He raised his left arm to block. Bone met spirit-qi-wrapped fist with a dull thud. The impact sent him sliding backward half a step, the soles of his shoes scraping against the coarse black stone with a grating sound. His left arm went numb, and the pain in his ribs felt like a needle twisting inside. Whistles rose from below the platform. "Senior Brother Shi! Stop playing around!" someone shouted. Shi Yong ignored them. He stepped forward, his third punch aimed straight at Lin Yi's face. This one carried even more force, the earthy-yellow spirit qi coalescing into a rough, pointed cone at his knuckles. Lin Yi leaned back, the fist grazing the tip of his nose. He could smell the earthy stench mixed with sour sweat. Another step back, and he was already near the edge of the arena. Mountain wind surged up from behind, chilling his back. Shi Yong gave him no chance to breathe. The fourth punch, the fifth—each one more brutal than the last, all targeting vital points: the temple, the throat, the heart. Lin Yi could only evade, struggling left and right. Every dodge pulled at his rib injury; every block left his arm more numb. His spirit qi was depleting rapidly. The burning sensation in his dantian grew clearer. The contract runes stirred restlessly, like a beast that had caught the scent of blood. They began extracting something—not spirit qi, but something deeper. Life force? Vitality? Lin Yi couldn't say. He only felt a wave of weak dizziness wash over him. He clenched his jaw and forced the dizziness down. Shi Yong's fist came again. This time Lin Yi didn't dodge completely. The heavy blow grazed his left shoulder, the bone groaning under the strain. He staggered backward, one foot stepping into empty air— Exclamations erupted from below. Lin Yi twisted sharply, his left hand seizing the protruding black stone at the arena's edge. His fingertips dug into the crack, nails splitting. He hung suspended outside the platform, with churning clouds and a bottomless abyss beneath his feet. The mountain wind howled upward, whipping his robes. The pain in his right ribs now sharpened until darkness swam before his eyes. He pulled, hauling himself back onto the platform. His movements were as clumsy as a fish out of water. His knees struck the cold stone surface, and he knelt there, gasping for breath. The taste of blood rose in his mouth and nose; he swallowed it down, his throat burning. Shi Yong hadn't pursued him. The burly man stood several paces away, arms crossed, wearing that cat-playing-with-mouse smile. Earthy-yellow spirit qi flowed slowly around him, so dense it nearly solidified. "Worthless," Shi Yong said, his voice rough. "Jump down yourself. Suffer less." The crowd below fell silent for an instant, then burst into louder jeering and urging. "Jump!" "Don't waste Senior Brother Shi's time!" "Does trash from the Ding-Wei group even deserve the Tempering Bone Platform?" The noise was chaotic, mixed with the howling wind, pouring into his ears. Lin Yi knelt there, his vision blurring. He could see those twisted faces below, could see Xiao Han's figure in the shadows with arms crossed—the curve of that man's smile had grown more pronounced, the jade thumb ring turning slowly as if counting. He could also see Shi Yong's eyes. There was none of the competitive drive a trial participant should have, no anger, not even contempt. Only a cold, task-oriented focus. Like those supervisors in the mines who followed orders to clear "obstacles," looking at people as if they were stones that needed moving. Killing intent. Naked, undisguised killing intent. Lin Yi braced himself against his knee and slowly stood. His right arm hung at his side, nearly without sensation. His left arm trembled, fingertips still bleeding. He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and stared at Shi Yong. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Shi Yong froze for a moment, then grinned. "Talking nonsense." "What did Xiao Han give you?" Lin Yi continued, speaking slowly, each word seeming squeezed through his teeth. "Spirit stones? Pills? Or the position of outer sect steward?" The crowd below fell instantly silent. All eyes turned toward Xiao Han in the shadows. The man's smile stiffened for a moment, but quickly returned to normal. He shook his head slightly, the movement as elegant as brushing dust from his sleeve. "Junior Brother Lin Yi." Xiao Han spoke, his voice clear and penetrating through the mountain wind. "If you lose, you lose. Why speak such nonsense?" Shi The contract rune was screaming. It hungered—for release, for consumption. Lin Yi could feel it draining what remained of his life force, that weakness surging over him like a tide, drowning his limbs and bones. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, and a ringing filled his ears. Shi Yong's fist moved. It came with the sound of tearing air, with a heavy earth-yellow spiritual energy condensed into a solid spike, driving straight toward his heart. Not fast, but with enough force to shatter his entire body, blast him off the platform, hurl him into the abyss. Time grew slow. Lin Yi could see the fist inching closer, could see the cold indifference on Shi Yong's face—the look of a man completing a task. He could see the gaping mouths and wide eyes below the platform, could see Xiao Han's narrowed gaze and the turning of his jade thumb ring. He could see his own death, clear as a mirror. Then he closed his eyes. Not surrender—descent. Down into the darkness of his dantian, toward that seething, screaming flame that madly devoured his vitality. The moment his consciousness touched the rune, agony exploded. Not pain of the flesh, but of the soul being torn apart. Cold, savage, destruction-laden power surged through his meridians, and everywhere it passed, they felt ground by ice picks, scorched by flame. His right arm lost sensation first. Not numbness, but complete *absence*. As if that limb no longer belonged to him, had become merely a channel for some other force. Beneath the skin, something writhed—black, twisted, alive. His sleeve began to tear apart in silence, fragments drifting down. He opened his eyes. Shi Yong's fist had reached his chest, the earth-yellow spiritual spike nearly piercing his clothes. Lin Yi raised his right arm. Slowly, slowly, as if lifting a mountain. Beneath the skin of that arm, the black patterns finally broke free, emerging—twisted, ferocious, like some ancient curse-script. They flickered with ominous light, and where they passed, even the air began to warp. Fist met fist. No thunderous crash. Only a dull, wet sound, like flesh and bone being ground to pulp. The cold indifference on Shi Yong's face froze solid. His eyes widened, staring at his own fist—the earth-yellow spiritual spike dissipating like foam, the finger bones, wrist bones, arm bones twisting and snapping at grotesque angles one by one. Skin burst, flesh mangled. No pain, only unbelievable cold. That cold crept up his arm, and where it passed, spiritual energy froze, blood congealed. Shi Yong opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled rasp emerged from his throat. His entire body flew backward, as if struck by an invisible hammer, tracing an arc through the air before crashing heavily below the platform. *Thud.* Dust rose. He lay there, right arm twisted like a hemp rope, eyes still open but devoid of light. Unconscious, or dead—no one knew. Silence swallowed the platform. Only the mountain wind still howled, blowing past Lin Yi's standing figure. He remained where he was, his right sleeve completely destroyed, those black patterns still writhing across his exposed skin, flickering with ominous light. Then they slowly faded, receding beneath his skin like a tide. What remained was skin pale as paper, and cold that reached to the marrow. Lin Yi swayed. He bent sharply, vomiting a mouthful of dark red blood. It splashed onto the black stone ground, steaming. He dropped to one knee, right hand braced against the stone, fingers digging into the cracks. His right arm had lost all feeling, ice-cold and piercing, as if that limb were already dead. His life force was still being slowly drained, that weakness like a bottomless pit threatening to suck him dry. He raised his head. His vision blurred, but he could see those gaping mouths below, those terrified eyes, could see the smile vanish from Xiao Han's face and the gloom that replaced it. He could also see the monitoring disciple—that man's brows tightly furrowed, gaze sharp as knives, fixed upon him. Fixed upon his right arm, just raised, skin deathly pale. The entire field fell silent. Even the mountain wind seemed to stop. Shi Yong's fist came crashing down with the sound of tearing air. A flash of ruthless resolve crossed Lin Yi's eyes. He stopped suppressing his dantian, instead sinking his consciousness into that seething rune. His stomach twisted into knots. Deep in his dantian, ice picks churned. A cold, savage, destruction-laden force instantly surged through his meridians. His right arm burned with agony There was no loud crash. Only a dull, muffled sound—the kind that comes when flesh and bone are ground to pulp. The earthen-yellow spiritual power shrouding Shi Yong's fist disintegrated instantly. His entire arm twisted at a grotesque angle, bone spurs piercing through skin, ghastly white and exposed. The savage grin on his face froze, transforming into disbelieving terror. His body flew backward. Like a sack of rags, he slammed heavily against the black stones at the edge of the platform. Bounced. Rolled off the elevated stage. Crashed into the dust at the crowd's feet. Motionless. Unconscious. Lin Yi stood in place. The sleeve of his right arm exploded, cloth fragments scattering. Beneath his skin, several twisted black patterns writhed like living things for an instant before slowly fading from view. He abruptly doubled over, spitting out a mouthful of dark red blood. The bloody foam splattered across the black platform, glaring and vivid. He dropped to one knee. His right arm was completely numb. Cold to the bone, as if it belonged to someone else. Vitality continued to drain away slowly, bringing intense weakness and vertigo. The edges of his vision began to darken. The platform stood empty. Mountain winds howled. Below, utter silence. All the trial participants stood frozen in place, the mockery and schadenfreude on their faces not yet fading before being overwritten by shock and fear. Someone's mouth hung open, no sound emerging from their throat. Space collapsed at his side. Xiao Han stood in the shadows, arms folded. The curve of his lips had vanished. He slowly rotated the jade thumb ring on his left hand, the movement light, unhurried. His gaze was as gloomy as ice quenched in poison. The supervising disciple stood at one side of the elevated platform, brows tightly furrowed. He stared at Lin Yi, his gaze sharp as a blade. Then swept a glance at the unconscious Shi Yong below, then toward the drawing box. After several breaths of silence, he strode onto the platform. Footsteps were exceptionally clear in the dead stillness. Lin Yi propped himself up with his left hand, trying to rise. The sharp pain in his ribs made him falter, and he coughed up another mouthful of blood. The taste of blood filled his mouth, salty and fishy, carrying the flavor of rust. The supervising disciple stopped three paces before him. "Ding-Wei Group, Lin Yi." The voice was cold, devoid of emotion. "Victory." A wave of suppressed gasps rose from below. Lin Yi lifted his head, his vision blurred. He could see the collar of the supervising disciple's dao robe, meticulous and proper, without a single wrinkle. He could also feel the other's gaze, like a probe, piercing beneath his skin, searching for those black patterns that had just faded from view. "The power you employed." The supervising disciple paused. "Is not orthodox to this sect." These words struck like a stone thrown into water. Below, the crowd exploded. Whispered discussions merged into a noisy wave. "What the hell was that thing?" "Looked demonic as hell..." "No wonder he could beat Shi Yong—turns out he used heretical arts!" "Supervising Senior Brother, isn't this against the rules?" Lin Yi said nothing. He slowly stood, his right arm hanging at his side like a frozen log. His left hand wiped away the blood at the corner of his mouth, the movement steady. Steady for someone who had just fought a life-or-death battle and vomited blood. The supervising disciple watched him, his gaze deepening. "Come with me to the Discipline Hall," he said. "To undergo interrogation." As the words fell, two disciples in jet-black fitted clothes, iron rulers at their waists, emerged from the shadows of the platform. Their auras were cold and severe, their footsteps silent. One on each side, they surrounded the swaying Lin Yi. Discipline Hall disciples. One of them extended a hand, making a "please" gesture. The movement was standard, without any superfluous expression. Lin Yi looked at him. Then looked toward Xiao Han below the platform. Xiao Han was also looking at him. Their gazes collided in midair. The corner of Xiao Han's mouth curved upward again, faint and cold. Deep in those eyes lurked a glint of a scheme successfully executed. A fish seeing the net draw closed. Lin Yi withdrew his gaze and stepped forward. His right leg went weak, nearly making him stumble. The Discipline Hall disciple on his left reached out to steady him, palm cold, its chill palpable even through clothing. Lin Yi steadied himself and pushed away his hand. "I'll walk myself." His voice was hoarse but clear. He descended the platform step The numbness in his right arm began spreading toward his shoulder. The weakness brought on by the loss of vitality crashed against his consciousness in waves, like the tide. Lin Yi clenched his jaw, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, using pain to stay awake. The stone path wound downward. On either side stood jagged mountain rocks and withered yellow weeds. Occasionally he could make out the outlines of other trial grounds in the distance, hear faint shouts and cries. But this path was secluded, carrying only the footsteps of the three of them. They walked for the time it takes a stick of incense to burn. Up ahead, a relatively open stone clearing appeared, bordered by a steep cliff. The wind swirled here, kicking up dust and dead leaves from the ground. The young disciplinary hall disciple who had been silently following behind suddenly quickened his pace and walked up to Lin Yi's side. The moment the other disciple turned to look toward the cliff. He swiftly pressed a small, crude cloth bundle into Lin Yi's uninjured left hand. The bundle carried a faint warmth. Lin Yi's fingers tightened. The young disciple did not look at him. His lips moved slightly, speaking in a breath so faint it was barely audible: "Shi Yong is Xiao Han's man. His older brother is an outer sect deacon." Having said this, he nonchalantly retreated half a step, his expression returning to cold indifference. The other disciple turned back: "What is it?" "Nothing," the young disciple said. "Wind's strong." Lin Yi calmly tucked the bundle into his robes. That faint warmth, passing through his thin clothing, held back the bone-chilling cold emanating from his right arm. And held back the increasingly heavy weakness brought on by the draining of his vitality. He continued walking. At the end of the stone clearing, a dark building loomed. Its eaves hung low, doors and windows tightly shut, like a crouching beast in the mountain hollow. Above the doorway hung an iron plaque, engraved with three characters: Disciplinary Hall. The two disciples stopped, one to each side of the door. The disciple on the left reached out and pushed open the heavy ironwood door. The hinges turned, emitting a dry, grating creak. A smell wafted from within—a mixture of mold, dust, and some cold metallic scent. "Enter," the young disciple said. Lin Yi drew a deep breath. The cold air stabbed at his lungs. He stepped across the threshold into the dimness. The door behind him slowly closed. The last thread of daylight was cut off. Darkness descended. Only in the distance, a faint cold blue light flickered at the end of the corridor. Like the eye of a beast. Lin Yi stood in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could hear his own heartbeat, heavy and fast. Could hear the sluggish flow of blood in his right arm, and from deep in his dantian, the slow, continuous hum of the contract runes. In that hum, there was hunger. He raised his left hand and touched the bundle in his robes. Rough cloth, faint warmth. A few blood-stopping pills, a piece of gauze. And that piece of intelligence. Shi Yong is Xiao Han's man. His older brother is an outer sect deacon. Lin Yi lowered his hand and looked toward the depths of the corridor. The cold blue light did not move. He set foot forward, walking toward it. Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, one after another. Like hammers striking bone. The farther he walked, the colder the air grew. Not ordinary cold. The kind that seeped into bone marrow and froze the soul. The Cold Iron Chair of the Disciplinary Hall... Xiao Han's words echoed in his ears. Lin Yi's right hand, his fingers twitched involuntarily. Still no sensation. But beneath the skin, along the paths of those black patterns, came a faint prickling. Like countless needles of ice slowly driving inward. The corridor reached its end. Before him was a spacious stone chamber. The four walls were smooth, devoid of any decoration. In the center of the floor sat a chair. The chair was entirely black, gleaming with a metallic cold light. Its back was high, its armrests wide. It was covered in densely packed runes, and under the cold blue light, those runes flowed slowly like living things. The Cold Iron Chair. Before the chair stood a man. He wore a deep purple dao robe, his hair tied back with meticulous neatness. His face was lean, his eyes sharp as an eagle's. He held a jade scroll in his hands, reading with his head lowered. Hearing the footsteps, he looked up. His gaze fell on Lin Yi. "Lin Yi," he said. "I am Disciplinary Hall Deacon, Xuan Yin The stone chamber held only the faint hum of cold blue light and the sound of his own breathing. Soft, but clear. Xuan Yin Zhenren waited for a few breaths. "If you won't speak, that's fine." He turned and walked to the wall on one side of the chamber. Embedded in the wall was a bronze mirror. Its surface was smooth, reflecting Lin Yi's figure and the cold iron chair. "The Disciplinary Hall has its methods," Xuan Yin Zhenren said. "The 'Heart-Questioning Array' on that chair will help you remember. It will also help us see... the things you don't want us to see." He turned back. "But it will be very painful." Lin Yi looked at the bronze mirror. In its reflection, his face was pale, and the corner of his mouth still bore traces of blood he hadn't wiped clean. His right arm hung limp, its sleeve torn. He looked like someone who had just crawled out of hell. He raised his left hand and wiped his mouth. The movement was slow. Then he stepped forward, walking toward the cold iron chair. His footsteps were steady. He stopped before the chair. Lowering his head, he glanced at the runes flowing along its armrests. Those runes were unfamiliar, yet they carried a faint sense of recognition. They did not share an origin with the contract runes. But they were both powers of law. Lin Yi turned and sat down. The cold instantly pierced through his clothes and into his skin. Not ordinary cold—the kind that could freeze spiritual power and congeal blood. The numbness in his right arm worsened at once. Xuan Yin Zhenren walked to stand before him. "Now," he said. "Tell me." Lin Yi raised his head. "The power I used," he spoke, his voice hoarse but each word distinct, "comes from a contract." Xuan Yin Zhenren's eyes sharpened. "What contract?" "I don't know," Lin Yi said. "Three years ago, after the Heavenly Punishment, it was in my dantian." "Who made the contract with you?" "I don't know." "What are its terms?" "...I don't know." Xuan Yin Zhenren fell silent. He stared at Lin Yi, his gaze like a blade trying to cut through flesh to see the truth within. "Three 'I don't knows,'" he said slowly. "Are you playing me?" "No," Lin Yi said. "What I know is only this." "Then how do you use it?" "At the brink of life and death," Lin Yi said. "It awakens on its own." Xuan Yin Zhenren said nothing. He walked to the bronze mirror and touched its surface with one finger. Ripples spread across the mirror. At their center, the scene on the Tempering Bone Platform appeared. Shi Meng's fist descended, Lin Yi met it, their fists collided, and a flash of black light vanished in an instant... The image froze on that moment. In the mirror, the black light on Lin Yi's fist was magnified, clearly visible. Within that light, even finer traces of patterns could be seen flowing. Like writing. And like chains. Xuan Yin Zhenren stared at those patterns, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper. He watched for a long time. Then he turned. "Contract runes," he murmured, as if to himself. "Heavenly Dao chains..." He looked at Lin Yi. His expression had changed. No longer scrutiny, but something deeper—a mixture of shock and dread. "Do you know," he said, "why something like this would appear on you?" Lin Yi shook his head. Xuan Yin Zhenren walked back to the cold iron chair. He leaned down, drawing close to Lin Yi. Very close—close enough to catch the faint scent of sandalwood on him, and a thread of something even colder, like metal. "Heavenly Dao chains," he said, each word deliberate. "Are forbidden." Lin Yi's pupils contracted slightly. "Those who touch the forbidden," Xuan Yin Zhenren straightened, "have only two fates." He raised two fingers. "One, consumed by the chains, soul scattered to nothingness."