The line inched forward with agonizing slowness. The bluestone ground had been polished to a dull gleam by countless soles. Morning mist, thin with spiritual energy, crept cold and damp into the collar of Lin Yi's coarse hemp garment. His right hand withdrew into his sleeve, where the dark blue rune in his palm pulsed with clear, burning pain—the closer he drew to those massive pillars carved with array patterns deep within the mountain gate, the deeper the agony grew, like red-hot needles slowly churning beneath his flesh. A dozen or so people remained ahead of him. Mostly youths, some in splendid clothing, others in patch upon patch, crowded around several crude wooden tables. The outer sect disciples behind the tables lifted their eyes to survey them, their gazes weighing livestock. Lin Yi kept his breathing shallow. With every inhalation, the old wound beneath his ribs—eroded by the "Heavenly Dao Chains"—ached dully. The weakness from the contract rune had yet to recede; his limbs felt heavy as lead. Yet he stood perfectly straight, his spine unbent. This opportunity had been exchanged through Mo Chen's "debt of favor." It was also a contract signed in his own blood. He could not fall here. "Next!" The voice came from the rightmost table. The disciple in charge there wore green robes, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight, sitting with proper posture, his fingers long and slender. He was using a white handkerchief to methodically wipe a dark red stain from the table corner—whether someone's blood or dried cinnabar, none could say. Lin Yi walked over. He reached into his robes and withdrew that cold iron token. Its surface was rough, its edges rusted, with five crooked characters carved in the center: "Heavenly Derivative Menial Recommendation." He placed the token on the table. The green-robed disciple did not immediately take it. He first raised his eyes, his gaze sliding from Lin Yi's pale face to his washed-faded hemp clothes, then down to those cloth shoes caked with mud, their soles nearly worn through. That gaze was calm, even carrying a touch of gentle smile. Lin Yi's skin tightened. Like a frog fixed by a serpent's stare. "Menial recommendation?" The green-robed disciple finally spoke, his voice clear and melodious as a mountain stream. He extended two fingers to lift the iron token, his fingertips tracing its surface. "How long has it been since I've seen one of these." As he spoke, the thumb of his left hand unconsciously turned a jade thumb ring at its base. The jade was warm and lustrous. Lin Yi lowered his eyes, his gaze settling on the tabletop. The stone table was ice-cold, its chill seeping through his thin sleeve. The surroundings were noisy—discussions, urgings, occasional laughter, blending into a buzzing backdrop. But he could feel several gazes upon his back—scrutinizing, undisguised in their contempt. "Name?" "Lin Yi." "Where did you obtain this token?" "A gift from an elder." "An elder?" The green-robed disciple laughed lightly, that laughter soft yet piercing as an ice awl to the ear. "Which elder would gift you such a thing?" Lin Yi raised his eyes. Their gazes met for the first time. The green-robed disciple's eyes were bright, yet deep in his pupils lay a layer of thin ice. He was smiling, the curve of his lips perfectly measured, but that smile never reached his eyes. "The rules state only that one may enter with the token." Lin Yi's voice was not loud, his pace deliberately slowed, each word bitten clear. "No threshold is set, no origin questioned." The smile on the green-robed disciple's face deepened slightly. "Correct." He nodded. His right index and middle fingers still held the iron token, while his left hand rested seemingly casually on the table edge. His fingertips lay only three inches from Lin Yi's right wrist upon the table. "I asked too much." The words had barely fallen. A strand of yin-cold spiritual energy, like a serpent's flicking tongue, silently emerged from his left fingertips and stabbed straight toward the meridian at Lin Yi's wrist! Every muscle in Lin Yi's body tensed instantly. Deep in his dantian, that old wound eroded by chains erupted in sudden agony! It was as if countless ice needles stabbed simultaneously into flesh and blood, churning the already withered remnants of his spiritual root. And almost simultaneously, the contract rune in his right palm flared hot—dark blue light bursting beneath his skin, a weak yet stubborn resistance automatically triggering, forcibly repelling that intruding strand of yin-cold spiritual energy! "Ugh Lin Yi's breathing was ragged. The stabbing pain in his dantian had yet to subside, and the contract rune still throbbed with faint heat. He could sense that the rune's resistance just now had consumed a great deal—his already frail body now felt even heavier. But he lifted his head and met the other's gaze directly. "The token is real." The blue-robed disciple stared at him for two seconds. Then he laughed. This time, his laughter carried a trace of undisguised mockery. "Of course it's real." He released the iron token, letting it fall back onto the table with a sharp *clack*. "A menial's recommendation—no matter how worn, it's still a token." He pulled a crude wooden plaque from beneath the desk and casually tossed it over. The plaque tumbled through the air. Lin Yi reached out and caught it. The surface was rough, the edges still splintered, and two crooked characters were carved in the center: *Ding Mo.* "Ding Mo group," the blue-robed disciple said, his voice returning to its earlier clear, gentle tone, as if stating the most ordinary fact in the world. "The lowest rank. The trial grounds are farthest to the west. Follow the flags." He paused, leaning slightly forward, lowering his voice. That voice slithered over Lin Yi's ear like a venomous snake. "Good luck, Ding Mo group's..." The corner of his mouth curved upward, and he spat out the final two words: "trash." Lin Yi tightened his grip on the wooden plaque. The splinters dug into his palm, mingling with the burning pain of the rune. He said nothing—only put away the Ding Mo plaque and turned to leave. After several steps, he could still feel that cold gaze fixed upon his back like nails. At the far end of the square, a few tattered yellow flags fluttered in the wind. Beneath them, more than a dozen people had already gathered, all dressed in rags, their faces sallow and gaunt. Some crouched on the ground gnawing at dry rations; others stared blankly at the other groups in the distance, their well-dressed and gleaming formations drawing looks of envy and fear. Ding Mo group. The lowest rank. Lin Yi walked beneath the flag and found a corner to sit against the wall. He closed his eyes, regulating his breathing, trying to suppress the churning agony in his dantian. The heat in the rune on his right palm was slowly fading, but the hollow, drained sensation was growing clearer. Mo Chen's contract cost more than he had imagined. And that blue-robed disciple from just now... Lin Yi opened his eyes, gazing toward the wooden table on the other side of the square. The blue-robed disciple had already resumed his warm, composed demeanor, smiling as he received the next applicant. As he spoke, the thumb of his left hand still slowly turned that jade thumb ring. Xiao Han. Lin Yi committed that name to memory. *Clang—!* A muffled bell toll suddenly rang out from deep within the mountain gate. The sound was thick and heavy, carrying a pressure that pierced straight through the eardrums, instantly drowning out all the noise in the square. Everyone stood up. Several gray-robed supervisory disciples emerged from within the mountain gate, sweeping their expressionless gazes across the crowd. "The trial begins," the one in the lead said in a dry voice, like two stones grinding together. "Form ranks by group. Enter the *Path of Inner Demons*." The lines began to inch forward. Lin Yi followed the tattered flag of the Ding Mo group toward a valley entrance on the western side of the square, shrouded in pale gray mist. The closer he drew, the more intense the burning pain in his palm became, as if it would sear straight through his flesh. Most of the Ding Mo members walked with their heads down, their steps unsteady, no one speaking. Only heavy breathing and the soft scraping of soles against stone. The valley entrance gaped like the maw of some colossal beast. The mist churned, obscuring what lay within. Only faint, inhuman whimpers drifted out from the depths. One by one, those ahead vanished into the fog. It was Lin Yi's turn. He drew a deep breath and stepped inside. A frigid mountain wind poured in from the valley mouth. The instant Lin Yi entered that mass of pale gray mist, his body went rigid. Not from stopping— it was as if all color had been drained from the world, then splashed back again. The gray-green rocks before him, the backs of those waiting in line, the distant supervisory disciples half-visible in the haze—all twisted, melted, and reformed. Fire. Orange-red tongues of flame sprang up from The voice bored straight into his skull, grinding against his brain matter. Phantom chains emerged from the flames, each thick as a child's arm, their surfaces covered in savage barbs, drilling out inch by inch from his dantian, churning, dragging invisible entrails behind them. "Ngh..." Lin Yi dropped to one knee, fingers digging deep into the ground. What his fingertips touched was not rock—it was scorched earth, searing hot and heavy with ash. The illusion was growing. It moved like a living vine, coiling around his consciousness, precisely locating every old scar and tearing them open with force. The agony from three years ago when the Heavenly Punishment descended—the interlacing cold and searing heat as chains pierced through him. The falling silhouettes of his clansmen, his father turning around, the blood on his robes that belonged to him. And earlier still, hazy memories: his mother's gentle fingers as she hummed nursery rhymes, finally becoming cold, motionless wrists that would never move again. Every pain was amplified, cycled, repeated. "Wrong..." Lin Yi clenched his jaw, blood seeping through his teeth, the salty metallic taste exploding across his tongue. He tried to activate the Calming Heart Mantra—the foundation every aspiring cultivator memorized. But the moment his intention rose, the phantom pain at his dantian suddenly intensified, like a startled viper striking viciously. The contract seal on his palm began to burn. Faint blue light struggled beneath his skin, attempting to resist the invading illusion. But this glimmer, before the overwhelming flames and chains, was as weak as a candle in the wind. Worse still, with each resistance, he could clearly feel—something within his body being drawn away. Spiritual power? He had long since lost his spiritual power. It was something more fundamental. Warm, flowing, the thing that sustained his heartbeat. Vitality. "Those who defy heaven... shall sink... for eternity..." The chains' hum converged into indistinct phrases, flooding both ears. The screams of other trial-takers drifted from deep within the mist, distant and near, like festering harmonies in the background. Someone was laughing, someone weeping, someone murmuring repeated confessions. Lin Yi braced against the ground, trying to rise. His knees went weak. The edges of his vision began to darken. The illusions of flame and chain grew ever clearer, his mother's cries growing ever more urgent, screaming almost against his ear. Then— The burning pain in his palm seal suddenly changed. From pure scorching to a rhythmic throbbing. Thud. Thud. Thud. Slow, heavy, like a heart that did not belong to him. The phantom pain of flames burning his skin grew increasingly real—he could even smell the stench of charred flesh. The churning force of the chains intensified, as if in the next second they would completely shatter his dantian. Conventional methods were useless. The Calming Heart Mantra was a joke. Endure through brute force? His consciousness was already beginning to scatter, his mother's blood-stained face and his father's cold retreating figure flashing alternately, each time striking his heart like a heavy hammer. He had to break through. Break through this cage tailor-made for him. Lin Yi closed his eyes and drew a deep breath—inhaling a lungful of scorching smoke and blood. He no longer resisted the phantom pain, no longer withdrew his consciousness. Instead, he forced his last fragment of remaining clarity to sink down. Sink toward the root of the pain. Deep within his dantian. It was no longer ruins there. When the contract seal was branded, he had "seen"—black remnants of erosion from the chains, like dried riverbeds coiled around his shattered spiritual root. The faint blue seal patterns extended from his palm, sharing subtle and fragile connection points with the edges of those black "riverbeds." Two forces. Both carried the aura of "rules," yet tore at each other. The illusion was using the chain remnants to attack him. Then... Lin Yi's consciousness, like a cold slender needle, probed toward that connection point. There was the densest vortex of pain, the source of the illusion's power, and the battlefield where the contract seal attempted to take root yet was repelled. Contact. Instantly, his internal organs trembled. His real body kneeling on the scorched earth convulsed violently, warm liquid pouring simultaneously from nose and mouth, dripping down his chin and sizzling against the burning ground. In his consciousness, the black remnants and faint blue seal collided madly, each impact exploding with silent thunder, shaking his soul to the point of shattering. Guide it. He no longer treated the pain imposed by the illusion as an attack, but as fuel. All of it Amid the humming of the chains, a sharp, discordant note crept in. "Give me..." Lin Yi's will screamed, expending his final strength to press all the pain, all the fear, all the cold fury wrung from desperation, against the connection point on the verge of collapse. "...OPEN!" From the depths of his consciousness came a crisp, shattering explosion like breaking glass. The foundation of his entire perceived world cracked open. The boundless scene of flames and chains before his eyes tore apart like a painting ripped by brute force, a twisted black fissure bursting open at its center, lined with radial cracks. Through the gap, he saw what lay behind—rough gray rock, damp, flowing gray-white mist. The real stone path. The fissure was highly unstable, its edges writhing and closing in on themselves. Lin Yi's eyes snapped open—he was still kneeling, but beneath him was cold, damp mountain stone. The metallic stench of blood in his nose and mouth was impossibly thick, warm blood still pouring out. In his right palm, the contract rune's light had gone completely dark, leaving only numbness from the burning pain beneath his skin, and an abyssal exhaustion. He swayed as he pushed himself up, every muscle screaming. His vision blurred, his ears rang without cease. But he could see ahead now, where the mist had thinned slightly, a narrow, steep mountain path extending upward, vanishing into even thicker fog. He stumbled toward the fissure, squeezing through sideways before it could fully seal shut. Cold mountain stone struck his shoulder. He staggered several steps and collapsed helplessly, his cheek pressed against the rough, damp rock face, gasping violently. Every breath carried the taste of blood and rust. His consciousness felt like a hollowed-out barrel crammed back together, riddled with cracks. He forced his head up. Behind him, the fissure he had torn open was rapidly contracting, sealing itself, until only a faint, distorted ripple in the air remained, soon swallowed completely by the surging mist. And in the depths of that vanishing ripple, amid the curling mist, he seemed to glimpse— A pair of eyes. Cold, emotionless, like a predator observing prey from far beneath the water's surface. A flash, then gone. Lin Yi's breath stopped short. Not an illusion. The texture of that gaze was identical to the cold scrutiny Xiao Han had cast upon him when inspecting the iron token. He braced himself against the rock wall, nails digging into crevices, trying to steady his swaying vision. The mist churned behind him. His skin tightened abruptly. A chill crawled out from between his vertebrae, intertwining with the residual wrenching pain in his dantian. He forced himself to look away, turning toward what lay before him. The mist had thinned slightly, revealing a steep, narrow mountain path ahead, its blue-gray rocks covered in slippery moss, extending upward and vanishing into deeper clouds. On either side of the path lay bottomless ravines, wind curling up from the valley floor carrying the rank stench of rotting vegetation and beast dens. This was the true path of the "Heart Demon Trail." What of the other trial-takers? He tilted his ear. Only the wind, and from afar, faint screams and sobs distorted by the mist. Each person was trapped in their own cage of illusion. The tear he had ripped open was only his own. The contract rune pulsed weakly in his palm, like an exhausted heart. Itsghostly blue glow had dimmed to near-invisibility, replaced by a deep, almost black bruise spreading from the rune's edges into the surrounding skin. With each pulse, it sapped a thread of strength, feeding back a faint, gnawing ache. Mo Chen hadn't said there would be this kind of backlash. Or perhaps he had, but hadn't finished. Lin Yi wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, the salty-metallic taste lingering at the back of his tongue. He looked down and saw that besides fresh bloodstains, his cuff bore several dark brown old marks—left from the mine floor, mixed with rust and dirt. His coarse hemp clothes were already in tatters, barely covering his body. He had to keep moving. Stopping here meant waiting for death. His left foot had just stepped onto the first slippery stone step— From behind the rock to his right, three figures burst out. Their movements weren't fast, even clumsy, but their timing was precise. It was the exact instant when his center of gravity had shifted forward, his old strength spent and new strength not yet born. Three hard wooden clubs as thick as bowls, whistling through the air, struck toward his head, shoulder, and waist. No shouts. No curses. Silent killing intent. Lin Yi's pupils contracted abruptly. His A dull thud. Not the crack of bone, but the wet, heavy sound of flesh struck. The man howled, clutching his face and stumbling backward, blood seeping between his fingers. The other two clubs were already swinging again. Lin Yi rolled across the ground, the gravel biting into his bones. He fetched up against the base of the rock wall, his back pressed to cold stone, gasping for breath. His eyes swept over the three men. Coarse cloth, rough faces, eyes clouded with brutish ferocity and a flicker of barely concealed panic. Not sect disciples. Fellow "Ding-Wei Group" trial-takers like himself, iron tokens in hand. Perhaps they'd fallen into the illusion earlier, or perhaps they'd never entered at all—simply waited here. "Hand... hand over everything you've got!" the man with the bleeding face rasped, blood dripping through his fingers. "Pills! Talismans! Now!" "Why waste words on him!" the short, stocky man on the left spat, leveling his club at Lin Yi. "Look at him—just crawled out of the illusion, running on fumes! Kill him, and everything's ours!" "The sect... the sect forbids killing in private fights..." The third man's voice trembled, his club-hand shaking. "Bullshit! In this cursed place, who'd know if someone died? Fog covers everything—throw him off the cliff, not even bones left to find!" The stocky man's eyes burned with savagery. "If we don't act, once he recovers, we're the ones who die!" The pressure shifted. From robbery, to life and death. Lin Yi leaned against the rock wall and slowly straightened. The scrape along his ribs burned. His dantian was empty, his runes dormant. But as he looked at the three men before him, there was no fear in his eyes—only cold assessment. "How long have you waited," he said, his voice hoarse but strangely steady. The three men froze. "None of your damn business!" the stocky man snarled, but his feet stopped of their own accord. "The Heart Demon Path's illusion differs for each person," Lin Yi said slowly, his gaze tracking their club-hands, the calluses on their palms, the wear on their clothes. "You either never triggered a proper illusion, or... you broke free quickly. Which means your obsessions run shallow, or your pain runs insufficient." He paused, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile without warmth. "So you're afraid. Afraid you won't pass the harder trials ahead, afraid of death. So you wait here, rob those who come after, even... kill for their goods, using others' lives to pave your own path." The stocky man's face flushed crimson; the other two's eyes flickered. "So what if we are!" the stocky man growled. "The strong prey on the weak—natural law! Blame your own bad luck!" "I don't blame you," Lin Yi said, his voice softer now, yet piercing the air like ice. "I only ask—who told you that killing here would go unseen?" All three stiffened simultaneously. "Fog may hide corpses, but it doesn't hide traces." Lin Yi's eyes fell on the blood dripping from the injured man's face. "Nor does it hide... certain eyes." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze seeming to drift casually toward the thick fog in some direction behind him. Those cold eyes. Xiao Han's eyes. Or the eyes of other watchers. Panic, like poisonous vines, instantly coiled around their hearts. "Y-you're lying!" the third man's voice rose sharply. "Stop trying to scare us!" "Whether it's a bluff, you can test." Lin Yi slowly raised his right hand, palm upward. There, the dull bruise of a rune stood stark against his pale skin. "I just came out of there. I saw 'certain things.' Do you think those who arranged this trial simply threw us in and then paid no attention whatsoever?" Silence. Only wind and distant, faint screams. The stocky man's throat bobbed. He looked at the bruise on Lin Yi's palm, at his companion's bloodied face, at the churning fog surrounding them that seemed to hide countless watching eyes. Fear overwhelmed greed. "Go!" he gritted out, glaring viciously at Lin Yi before plunging into the fog on the other side. The other two fled as if granted amnesty, stumbling after him, soon vanished. Lin Yi remained against the rock wall until their footsteps were completely swallowed by the wind. Then his body went limp, sliding down to sit against the stone, coughing violently, bringing up more flecks of blood. A bluff. A gamble that their fear of unknown watchers outweighed their immediate will to kill The other two clearly hadn't expected this "waste from the Dingmo Squad" to react so quickly, to strike so ruthlessly. Their movements lagged half a beat behind. Lin Yi had already rolled to the fallen figure's side, seizing the dropped club—no, not a club. It was heavy in his grip, ice-cold, its surface rough and thick with the smell of rust. Half of a rusted mining pick, its wooden handle broken, leaving only the corroded head and a short stub of grip. The weight felt wrong, the balance too far forward. But it was hard enough. The second club came crashing down toward his head. Lin Yi didn't block. He dropped low, the pick head slashing upward at an angle, targeting the wrist of his attacker's club hand. "Want to cripple me?" The man sneered, not altering his swing, relying on his reach advantage to split Lin Yi's skull wide open. Lin Yi didn't dodge. The rusted blade of the pick tore through the man's sleeve, scraping across flesh. "Ah!" A short cry of pain. The club veered off course, smashing into Lin Yi's left shoulder. Bone groaned under the strain. The agony numbed half his body instantly. Lin Yi grunted, teeth clenched tight, using the force of the blow to his shoulder to propel his body forward, the rusted pick head driving hard into the man's chest. *Crack.* This time it was the crisp sound of shattering bone, transmitted through flesh and clothing—brief and terrible. The man's eyes went wide. Bloody foam bubbled from his mouth as he fell backward, collapsing limply. The third man finally felt fear. He held his club raised but dared not bring it down, his gaze terrified as he looked at his two companions on the ground—one clutching his face, rolling in silent agony; the other with a caved-in chest, breathing out but not in. Then he looked at Lin Yi. Lin Yi leaned on the rusted pick, forcing himself upright. His left shoulder sagged. With every breath, sharp pain lanced through his ribs, as if shattered bone fragments churned within. Cold sweat from his forehead mixed with blood and slid into the corner of his eye, his vision a blurred crimson. He raised a hand to wipe it away, then fixed his gaze on the last man. His eyes were ice, devoid of anger, devoid of fear—only a mechanical, almost clinical focus, assessing the remaining threat of his prey. "What's valuable..." he spoke, his voice terribly hoarse, thick with the sound of blood froth scraping his throat, "is only life." He gasped for breath, the pick head lifting slightly, its rusted edge aimed at the man. "Want it?" The thug's Adam's apple bobbed violently. He looked at Lin Yi, looked at his companions on the ground between life and death, then looked again at the blood-dripping rusted pick in Lin Yi's hand. "Madman..." his lips trembled as he retreated one step, then another, "you're a fucking madman!" He spun around and fled, stumbling and scrambling into the mist to the side, quickly vanishing from sight. The mountain path fell silent again. Only the wind remained, and Lin Yi's own ragged breathing like a broken bellows. He held that position, waiting several more breaths, confirming that the man had truly fled far away, that there was no ambush. Then his legs gave out, and he slid down to sit against the cold rock face. The rusted pick slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground beside him. Only now did the pain crash over him like a tidal wave. His left shoulder was completely immobilized. His ribs felt as if several red-hot knives had been plunged into them—every inhalation brought darkness swimming before his eyes. At his dantian, the residual cold of the chains and the burning heat of the contract seal ravaged him in turns, like two opposing armies slaughtering each other within his body. His throat tasted sweet. He turned his head and spat out another mouthful of dark blood mixed with clots. His gaze fell on the thug with the pierced chest lying at his feet. The man was already dead, eyes still staring at the gray sky. He wore coarse cloth clothes, his cuffs worn, his palms rough—the look of someone accustomed to manual labor. Not like a sect disciple. More like... hired muscle. Lin Yi gasped for breath and reached to search the man's waist. A small cloth pouch, tied tight. He pulled it free, his fingers trembling uncontrollably from pain and exhaustion. He undid the knot. Inside were several brown pills the size of fava beans; a piece of hard, dark brown jerky; and a small lump of coarse salt wrapped in oil paper. No The pale blue rune in his palm had grown dimmer than before, yet the black bruising spread wider, web-like, burrowing deep beneath the skin. At the center of the rune, a hairline crack seemed to have formed. To use it came at a price. He clenched his fist, driving his nails into the flesh where that crack lay. From above the mountain path, a cold, utterly emotionless voice suddenly echoed through the mist: "Group Ding-Wei, Lin Yi, has passed the first trial, the 'Path of Inner Demons.'" The voice paused. "Rest for half a shichen. When the time comes, proceed to the second trial—the 'Bone-Honing Terrace.'" Lin Yi raised his head. Through the mist that had yet to fully dissipate, he gazed upward. Deep in the clouds, the outline of a precipitous stone platform was faintly visible, crouching like some dormant beast, its jagged rock edges cutting against the gray-white sky. At the platform's edge, several figures already seemed to stand in silent vigil, looking down upon this blood-stained mountain path below. The Bone-Honing Terrace. The name carried undisguised malice—a place for grinding bones to powder. Half a shichen. Barely enough time to stabilize his injuries, if that. He withdrew his gaze, looking toward where he had just fought his desperate battle. Two villains, one dead, one gravely wounded. Who had arranged this? Xiao Han? Or someone else in the sect who found him troublesome, who feared the "secret" within him? The trial's rules had become a tool for murder. And he, within this tool, was the flaw destined to be "reasonably" eliminated. Lin Yi swallowed the last bite of jerky, washing it down with condensation from the rock wall. The warmth in his stomach remained faint, but it was there. He braced himself against the stone, enduring the agony, and slowly straightened his body. His left shoulder hung uselessly; the stabbing pain in his ribs intensified with every movement. He bent down and picked up the rusty pickaxe from the ground. The handle still bore warm blood, slowly cooling and congealing. The smell of iron rust and blood mingled together. He gripped the pickaxe tightly. Then he raised his head once more, gazing toward the faint outline of the Bone-Honing Terrace deep in the clouds. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, merely a cold, almost self-mocking curve. Half a shichen. He had to survive. The blood on the rocks had not yet dried. Mountain wind swept past, carrying the monitor disciple's second emotionless summons from afar: "Rest period, begin—" The voice stretched out, vanishing into the wind. Lin Yi leaned his back against the rock wall and slowly closed his eyes. Not to rest, but to force himself to calculate in the gaps between pain and dizziness—to calculate how much his rib injury might impair his movement, how long it would take for his dislocated or fractured left shoulder to regain even minimal strength, how long he could endure when the crack in his palm flared up again. He opened his right hand. The pale blue rune in his palm, beneath the dim sky, resembled a dying eye, regarding him coldly.