Iron Jiangshi were the first that Han Yu saw.
Their bodies were dull, their skin marked with ritual scars and formation lines etched deep into flesh that was no longer truly flesh. Their eyes were sealed shut, yet Han Yu could feel awareness behind them. Not consciousness. Surveillance.
Further up, the Bronze Skin Jiangshi began to appear.
These were broader, heavier, their fras reinforced with alchemical tals and layers of hardened blood crystal beneath the skin. The blood Qi around them was denser, colder, heavier. Each step Han Yu took past them made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as if invisible fingers were brushing against his soul, asuring it, weighing it.
By the ti he reached the upper third of the peak, Steel Skin Jiangshi lined the path.
They were monstrous.
Not in size, but in presence. Their skin glead faintly, reflecting the dim light with a muted sheen, like polished armor. The formation arrays carved into their bodies were far more complex, layered upon layered, so so complex that Han Yu could barely recognize their function. These were not simple guards.
These were sentinels.
A warning to anyone foolish enough to think power alone granted access here.
Han Yu kept his gaze forward, his breathing steady, his spirit sense tightly reined in. He did not probe. He did not test. He did not even allow curiosity to surface. The Jiangshi did not react, but he knew better than to assu they were inert.
Thirty minutes passed like this.
When the path finally leveled out, Han Yu felt it imdiately.
The pressure changed.
It was subtle, but unmistakable. The blood Qi thinned, replaced by sothing older, deeper, and far more oppressive. It was not elental. Not blood. Not even spiritual energy as he understood it.
It was will.
Ahead stood the Hall of Inheritance.
Calling it a hall almost felt insulting.
Compared to the towering pavilions of the Heart Peak, or the sprawling complexes of the major peaks, this structure was modest. Squat. Almost humble. Its walls were made of ancient stone, worn smooth by ti rather than maintenance. There were no decorative carvings, no banners, no sect symbols emblazoned proudly on its surface.
Only a single, massive stone door stood at the front.
No guards.
No inscriptions.
No visible formations.
That alone made Han Yu more wary than any army of disciples could have.
He stepped closer.
The closer he got, the heavier the air beca. Not cold. Not hot. Just heavy, as if the space itself resisted his presence. Each step required more effort than the last, not physically, but ntally. His thoughts slowed, stretched, tested.
He paused several ters from the door.
This was the last mont he could turn back.
Han Yu closed his eyes.
He did not pray. He did not beg. He did not promise anything to fate or heaven or the sect founder whose will was said to linger within.
Instead, he reviewed himself.
Han Yu. Not Ju Fan.
A cultivator from a fallen orthodox sect, wearing the skin of a blood sect disciple. A man who had lost his ho, his companions, his future, and clawed his way back through deception, patience, and sheer stubborn refusal to die quietly.
He thought of Xuan Qing, silent and unyielding. Of ng Jueyan, broken yet enduring. Of Qing Luan, weaving alliances in the open world beyond the sect. Of the countless slaves buried beneath blood seals, and the friends he still intended to free.
He thought of Zhao Liun.
He thought of the Second Kidney Peak Head, desperate enough to gamble on a ghost of a legacy.
And finally, he thought of himself.
Not as a hero. Not as a savior. Just as soone who refused to be crushed.
Han Yu opened his eyes.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and pressed his disciple token against the stone door.
The reaction was imdiate.
A few runes appeared from the token as the rit points were deducted from it. A mont later the runes dissolved into light, its form unraveling into countless blood-red threads that sank into the stone. The door did not open right away. Instead, the space around Han Yu shifted.
The Jiangshi behind him vanished from his perception.
The sky disappeared.
The Blood Moon River, the peaks, the sect itself all faded away as if erased.
For a single, terrifying instant, Han Yu felt utterly unanchored, as though he were falling without moving, suspended in a void that did not recognize his existence.
Rumble
Then the door opened.
The stone did not move. It simply ceased to be solid, revealing a darkness beyond that was not empty, but dense, layered, and alive with sothing ancient.
Han Yu stepped inside.
The mont his foot crossed the threshold, the world behind him sealed shut without sound.
There was no turning back now.
The Hall of Inheritance accepted him.
Whether it would grant him anything at all was another matter entirely.
The darkness did not last for long.
At first, it was absolute, a void so complete that Han Yu wondered if his eyes had even remained open after stepping through the threshold. Then, without warning or ceremony, pinpricks of crimson light ignited in the air.
SHUA
One by one, blood flas blood.
They did not rise from torches or braziers. They simply appeared, hovering in midair like living embers, each fla shaped differently, so tall and thin like candles, others wide and restless, flickering as if stirred by an unseen breath.
Their color was not the bright red of fresh blood, but a deeper hue, closer to coagulated crimson, tinged faintly with black at the edges.
The hall illuminated gradually, shadows retreating inch by inch.
Han Yu exhaled slowly.
'Just as Hou Luli had said.'
His shoulders loosened by a fraction. Familiarity, even secondhand familiarity, was a comfort in a place like this. Unknown dangers were far more terrifying than known ones, even if the known ones were no less lethal.
As the light stabilized, the full breadth of the hall revealed itself.
User Comments
0 comments from readers