The last strands of sunlight clung to the mountaintop like dying embers, but here, in this quiet hollow beneath thick canopy, the world had already turned dark. The air felt still. Dead.

Two figures stepped forward from the gloom. Robes of muted black. Eyes glinting faintly in the twilight.

Second and Third Grand Elders.

Aaryan didn't flinch. He'd expected this. At this point, if someone in the sect wasn't trying to kill him, he'd have started questioning reality itself.

They stood in silence. But even in that silence, Aaryan could feel it—an edge of tension, a thread pulled too tight.

Veterans, yes. Cultivators whose names carried weight.

But even they hadn't expected this.

They had slipped away from the plaza once the second challenge began, confident he'd be disoriented, maybe even scared when they cornered him. Alone, without allies, deep in the mountain. They thought he'd panic.

Instead, they found him calm. Watching them with unreadable eyes.

He spoke first.

"So... you separated me from the others. Let me guess—another accident to blame on the mountain?"

Neither elder reacted.

"My guess," Aaryan continued, tone casual, almost lazy, "is that you can't fully control the formations here. If you could, you'd have acted sooner. Maybe you can't change the core workings... just nudge a few paths, stir a few spells. Send someone far enough into the dark where no one asks questions."

Still no response. The faces before him were blank as slate. But beneath that stillness, their hearts beat faster.

He was right.

They could only influence a sliver of the Veinsunder's ancient formations. They couldn't command them. Only misdirect, displace, isolate. Just enough to misdirect. Displace. Isolate. Enough to make someone disappear—and make it permanent.

Second Grand Elder finally stepped forward, voice sharp and low. "Beating those three has clearly gone to your head. You dare speak to us as if you are equal? Still just a stray mutt, snapping at shadows."

He took another step, shadows clinging to his feet.

"You don't need to understand what's happening. You won't live long enough to matter."

Aaryan's lips curled. That familiar grin returned.

"You won't kill me," he said simply.

The Third Elder narrowed his eyes.

"You need me alive," Aaryan said, almost like it was obvious. "Whatever game you're playing, I'm still a piece on your board. But that's the difference between us."

He took one step forward, and the light caught his eyes—two smouldering coals in the dusk.

"I've already killed three elders. If I have to make it five..."

His grin sharpened. "So be it."

He moved. No hesitation. No build-up.

A roar ripped from his throat as he surged forward, fists clenched, the mountain shadows rushing past him like a wave of vengeance.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

At the base of Mount Veinsunder, the sun had nearly slipped behind the jagged horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing. A subtle chill rode the evening air, brushing through the grass and the robes of the six waiting disciples.

They stood scattered around the ancient transportation altar, their expressions a mix of fatigue, impatience, and unease. Some, like Nitish and Hemant, lingered near the glowing formation with arms crossed, eager to return. Others—Vayu and Rudra—kept looking around, as if expecting someone to emerge at any moment.

That someone, of course, was Aaryan.

Swati sat quietly on a flat stone, legs tucked beneath her, gaze unwavering. Swali stood beside her, arms folded, face unreadable. The wait dragged on like an unanswered question.

Then, without warning, the altar shimmered.

A ripple of spiritual light pulsed across the ancient runes, and in the next breath, Elder Kiyan materialized at its centre.

His robes snapped around him as he landed. His sharp gaze swept across the disciples—but the moment he saw Rudra, he moved.

He strode over without a word, his hand already reaching out. A thread of Qi surged into Rudra's meridians, scanning his condition with practiced precision.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low and tight.

"I'm fine, Grandfather," Rudra replied. His expression softened a little at the sight of the old man's barely hidden worry.

Kiyan nodded, tension loosening from his shoulders. He'd seen Rudra through the spirit mirror during the trial—but it wasn't until he touched him, sensed the steadiness of his breath and pulse, that his heart truly settled.

Straightening, he turned to the rest of the group. His voice, though calmer than before, carried the unmistakable command of an elder.

"We return to the sect. Now. All of you—follow me."

Nitish and Hemant exchanged a glance and immediately moved toward the altar without protest.

But Rudra remained still.

His eyes flicked once more to scan the surrounding. He swallowed, then spoke.

"Aaryan hasn't returned yet," voice quiet but firm. "We can't leave without him."

Vayu nodded beside him. "Brother Rudra is right, Elder Kiyan. He might just be delayed. It's only been a short while."

Swati looked toward Swali. Swali's gaze lingered on Kiyan, thoughtful but silent.

Elder Kiyan's jaw tightened. "This is not a matter for debate. These are the Sect Leader's orders. No one is to remain behind. We leave immediately."

"But Aaryan—" Rudra tried again.

Kiyan's voice rose with a sharp edge. "That brat is always causing trouble!"

Then he paused, exhaling slowly. His gaze settled on Rudra again, and his tone shifted—softer, wearied, familial.

"The safety of the disciples takes priority," he said. "Once we're back, others will be dispatched to search. He may have strayed too far into a formation or missed a marker. That tomb isn't exactly forgiving."

Rudra clenched his fists but said nothing.

Swali turned to glance at the misty mountain path one last time. Swati lowered her eyes, silent.

Vayu exhaled, then spoke with measured calm.

"Elder Kiyan is right. We can't do anything from here. The altar is the only safe zone—and we can't re-enter the mountain on our own. Staying would only waste time."

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Rudra's jaw tightened. His hands trembled slightly, but eventually, he gave a curt nod.

"…Fine."

One by one, the disciples gathered around the altar.

Elder Kiyan reached into his sleeve and drew out a slender object of jade and dull silver. A flick of his fingers, and it pulsed with light as the embedded runes flared to life.

The altar answered in kind.

Symbols ignited beneath their feet, humming with ancient energy. Light rose in columns around them—brilliant and silent.

In a final shimmer of spiritual force, they vanished.

And the mountain stood still once more.

Only the wind remained.

Whispering through the trees.

Mourning what was lost—or perhaps, warning what was yet to come.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

A blur cut through the stillness.

Aaryan burst towards the elders like a thunderbolt, streaked with dried blood and burn marks that marred his robes. His eyes were wild, gleaming with something between desperation and fury.

The Third Grand Elder stepped forward, unfazed. With a flick of his fingers, a vine erupted from the ground—thick, green, and barbed with spiritual force. It cracked through the air like a serpent and slammed into Aaryan just as he leapt forward.

Boom!

The vine curled, the ground cracked—and Aaryan was launched backward like a broken doll. His back slammed into a tree trunk with a crunch, and he dropped to one knee, coughing up a mouthful of blood.

But even before it hit the ground, he was already standing.

The elders blinked.

That attack—while restrained to avoid killing him—should have knocked out any ordinary 8th or even 9th stage Body Tempering brat. But Aaryan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming with rage.

He charged again.

"Still coming?" the Second Elder muttered, incredulous.

Once more, the Third Elder flicked his wrist. The vine whipped out, cracking like a whip—and Aaryan was hurled again a scarlet spray trailing from his lips.

This time, he staggered a moment longer.

He dragged one foot forward. Then the other. And with a strangled breath—charged again.

It was madness.

Aaryan's body was clearly failing, yet he charged like a man possessed, each attack thrown with the desperation of someone refusing to die.

Once more, he was hurled away—his ribs likely fractured, his breath ragged. He took longer to stand, swaying slightly.

Then one last time, with a hoarse cry, he surged toward them.

Crack!

The vine struck his side mid-leap, and he crumpled, rolling across the ground like a lifeless bundle.

This time, no blood came. No coughing.

Just silence.

The elders straightened, finally convinced he'd reached his limit.

But Aaryan… got up.

Slowly. Quietly. His head lifted.

And then he turned—

—and ran.

Not toward them. Away.

The elders stared, dumbfounded, watching as the boy vanished into the darkness between trees. The last flicker of his robe dissolved into the night.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"Wait," the Second Elder said slowly. "Did he just—?"

The Third Elder's eyes widened. "That little bastard!"

Qi surged. "He was baiting us!"

Rage crackled in the air. They'd seen his determination, his pain, the relentless charges—assumed it was sheer stubbornness. But it was all calculated. Every bloodied stagger, every delayed stand—it had all been a damn performance.

A distraction.

So they'd think him too broken to flee—and lower their guard.

And they had.

"Damn it!" the Third Elder roared. "He tricked us!"

In twin flashes of light, both elders shot into the night sky, their spiritual senses spreading like a net.

The wind stirred behind them.

Carrying with it a faint sound. A distant laugh.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan darted between trees like a shadow let loose, the night swallowing his figure as he fled.

Behind him, two streaks of light tore through the stillness of the jungle.

"Old geezers!" his voice rang out from the darkness, sharp and mocking. "You think I've hit my head that hard? You think I'm dumb enough to fight you head-on before I'm out of options?"

The Second Elder growled, fury crackling around him. "Wait till you land in our hands!"

But Aaryan was already gone, weaving through the forest at impossible speed. Though marred with blood and burn marks, his body moved with uncanny resilience. Every impact he had taken had looked devastating—but barely left a mark.

They'd treated him like another 8th-stage brat. That was their mistake.

Aaryan's physical body was anything but normal. With the Dominion Tyrant Physique, the Third Elder's attacks weren't nearly enough to injure him. Not truly.

He had sold them a performance. They had bought it whole.

Now, he ran—just long enough to turn the board in his favour.

Branches whipped past his face. Leaves blurred. He zigzagged in no particular direction, a ghost in the trees, until—

A cave.

Dark. Unremarkable. Nestled between craggy boulders like the mouth of some forgotten beast.

Aaryan didn't hesitate. He dove inside, landing in a crouch. The moment he crossed the threshold, he stilled his breath. His hands moved fast—forming the precise mudras of the Heavenly Silken Mask Art.

His aura vanished.

The cave swallowed him in silence.

For a heartbeat, he dared to believe he was safe.

Then—

He felt it.

A pulse. Cold and vast. A sweeping force descending from above like an invisible tide.

Spiritual Sense.

Both elders had unleashed theirs.

Aaryan didn't flinch. While any ordinary Body Tempering cultivator would be oblivious to such a presence—or crushed beneath it—he sensed every ripple of it like a cold finger brushing the back of his neck.

He'd already begun brushing against the threshold of the Spirit Awakening stage. And with the Soul Anvil Technique, his soul power was anything but ordinary. Sharper. Deeper. More attuned than anyone at his level had the right to be.

He smirked—but it didn't last. He wasn't out of danger. Not yet.

He slipped back out of the cave's side, keeping low, his aura still hidden. Each footstep was placed with care, wrapped in the silence of practiced stealth. He began moving again—deeper into the mountain.

The spiritual sense swept over the area again, but found nothing.

He was gone again, biding his time.

And if fate was on his side—

He might just find the edge he needed.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Hours passed.

Aaryan had stopped and started too many times to count. His breath had burned in his lungs, his legs had screamed, but he hadn't stopped for long. Each pause was measured—just enough to pop a pill, bind a wound, suppress the ache roaring under his skin.

Now, his pace was steady. The worst of the damage was gone. His aura still hidden beneath the veil of the Heavenly Silken Mask Art, he moved through the trees like mist—unseen, untraceable. Only those who laid eyes on him could truly know where he was. That trick had saved him more than once. There'd been a dozen close calls already: leaves rustling, elders landing a breath away, spiritual sense sweeping past his ear like a blade. But they hadn't caught him.

Not yet.

Now, he stood at the edge of a valley.

It didn't feel like the rest of Mount Veinsunder.

No birds. No rustling wind. No chirping insects. The silence here wasn't peace—it was the kind that crawled under your skin, gnawed at your nerves.

Aaryan narrowed his eyes. The sky above the valley looked the same, and yet the light didn't seem to reach the earth below. It was... dimmer. Duller. Wrong.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

Behind him, he sensed the faint echoes of movement—far, but closing. No choice. Whatever lay ahead was better than being caught.

He moved in.

No trees. No grass. Not even weeds. Just cracked stone and dust, stretching into silence.

He kept moving—one step, then another, a wraith drifting across dead stone. Time blurred.

A shape emerged—half-buried in shadow

Not natural.

A cave—no, a structure. Low and wide, as though someone had carved it straight into the valley wall. Its mouth was jagged, yawning open like some beast waiting to be fed.

He paused, every instinct screaming at him.

Too clean. Too quiet. Wrong.

But the pressure behind him surged. The elders were growing closer again. They might not sense his aura, but they weren't fools. A wrong move, a flicker of movement, a trace of scent—and they'd pounce.

Aaryan clenched his jaw and entered.

The temperature dropped the moment he crossed the threshold.

Inside, the walls were smooth—too smooth. Carved by tools, not weather. This wasn't some random cave. It was a passage. A man-made tunnel.

Or rather, something else's lair.

The path stretched forward and forked after some time. Aaryan hesitated only briefly before picking the left one. The air felt thick here, like it carried weight.

As he moved deeper, strange doorways began appearing. Rooms. Empty, at first glance. Storage chambers? Ritual spaces? Traps? He didn't linger to check. His steps were slow, silent, but deliberate. His gaze sharp. Muscles taut.

Enemy territory. That was the only conclusion that made sense. Whoever had built this place hadn't wanted it found—and certainly hadn't expected visitors.

He should've turned back.

But it was too late.

Too deep in. Too far gone.

Eventually, the narrow corridor gave way.

He stepped into a vast chamber. His breath snagged.

The ceiling rose high above him, supported by dark arches etched with ancient symbols. But it was the centre that drew the eye.

A red altar.

Massive. Carved from some stone that shimmered faintly with deep crimson hues. Ancient runes pulsed across its surface, glowing and dimming in slow rhythm, like a heartbeat waiting to awaken.

At the altar's four corners stood pillars—black, towering, cold with a silence that felt carved from time itself.

From each, thick iron chains stretched outward—four in total, one from each pillar. They didn't merely wrap around a figure at the altar's centre.

They pinned it.

A person.

Or what barely passed for one anymore.

The figure hung in the centre of the altar, body stretched unnaturally. Each limb was yanked outward and bound to a chain—arms pulled back, legs held wide, the tension locking the body in place.

The fifth chain hung from above, hooked near the collarbone. It didn't pull—the head hung low on its own, as if even gravity pitied the weight.

Their posture wasn't slumped in rest—it was the pose of something forced to remain upright. A prisoner displayed like a relic.

Skin clung to bone, dry and papery. The figure looked more skeleton than human. The robes were tattered. The face was obscured by long, matted hair and filth, but Aaryan could still hear it—

A breath.

Shallow. Rasping. Almost lost beneath the altar's silence.

They were alive.

Somehow.

The skin, the flesh, the air around the body shimmered faintly, like heat rising from scorched stone. Not natural. Not clean. Something old clung to them.

A curse.

Or worse.

Aaryan's lips parted, but he said nothing. He took a step closer, then another, eyes wide.

This wasn't some skeleton. This wasn't decoration.

This was someone. Still breathing. Still chained. Still here.

Forgotten.

But not dead.

Not yet.

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