After I became the foremost Bladesmith in the spiritual world, I barely had a few days to enjoy the adoration. Then, a cataclysm struck. Most cultivators were wiped out, and the world became a desolate wasteland. The Age of Decay arrived. Even the air here turned foul, slowly devouring what little spiritual energy remained in this ravaged world. The surviving practitioners couldn’t endure such an environment and faded away, yet I still lived. Because I was a long-lived one. One by one, I bid farewell to my friends. I slung my ancient blade-box onto my back and walked the earth, gathering “resonance energy.” I sought to mend my soul blight and discover a way for spiritual energy to return. This time, I arrived at a desolate outpost. It was another rainy day, the ceaseless drizzle chilling me to the bone. With the blade-box on my back, I trudged through the mud, each step sinking deep. Suddenly, a searing, piercing pain exploded in my chest, rushing straight to my throat. I doubled over, an uncontrollable cough tearing at my throat and lungs, as if trying to rip my rattling frame apart. The icy rain seized the chance to pour down my collar, making me shiver violently. Several equally soaked, hunger-ccrazed drifters closed in, like a pack of hyenas scenting blood. They shoved me, their skeletal fingers clawing at the blade-box on my back and the threadbare, patched cloak at my waist. Guttural, meaningless sounds escaped their lips, their clouded eyes filled with nothing but primal greed. I let them push me, like a piece of decaying wood battered by wind and rain. My steps even faltered, almost sending me sprawling into the mud. The blade-box shifted gently on my back, emitting a dull “clack.” That sound made the drifters pause. A flicker of instinctive fear crossed their murky eyes. In this cursed place, anyone carrying even a bit of iron and daring to show it was either a hardened killer or a dead man. They scrutinized me – a face so pale it lacked a trace of blood, a few strands of dark hair plastered to my forehead by the rain, and that faded, patched-up old cloak. By all appearances, I looked like a destitute scholar with one foot in the grave. I merely gave them a cold glance. Just one look, and their budding greed was instantly crushed by fear. They sullenly withdrew their hands, muttering crude curses, and retreated to the shelter of a dilapidated awning by the roadside that offered meager protection from the rain. From there, they continued to stare outwards with empty, hungry eyes. I straightened up, wiping the rain and spittle from my face, my gaze sweeping forward. A broken wooden plank leaned crookedly by the road. On it, two words were scrawled in charcoal: “Tavern.” To call it a tavern was an overstatement; it was more like a makeshift shack that barely kept out the wind and rain. Pushing aside the greasy, torn thick cloth curtain, a heavier stench of stale air assaulted me. The interior was dim, a few oil lamps flickering weakly in the turbid air, casting light on equally grim faces. Several rough-looking men, their shirts unbuttoned, sat by crude wooden tables, reeking of stale earth and fresh blood. Clearly, they’d just finished their “business,” their weapons carelessly tossed at their feet. Behind the counter, a greasy-faced, corpulent man looked up, the rolls of fat on his face jiggling with the movement. He puffed on a short pipe, his beady, murky eyes scanning me from my worn blade-box to my mud-stained trousers. The disdain in his gaze was almost palpable. “Get out! You stinking beggar, you’re bad for business!” He spat out a puff of cheap smoke, his voice like a rusty gate. **Chapter 2** I stopped in the doorway, rain dripping from my hair and clothes, pooling in a small, murky puddle at my feet. A brief silence fell over the pub; even those hardened men, used to violence, cast sidelong glances my way. “A bowl of hot soup,” my voice was low, hoarse from coughing, yet strikingly clear in the quiet tavern. “I’ll pay for it.” I pulled a few copper coins from my pocket, tarnished and worn smooth at the edges, but undeniably money. I gently placed them on an empty, broken wooden table a few steps from the counter. The fat barkeeper squinted, eyeing the coins, then my expressionless, unnaturally pale face. Finally, he merely scoffed. “Wait your turn!” he grumbled, waddling his bulky frame slowly towards the greasy curtain at the back. Low murmurs resumed in the pub. The scar-faced men continued to boast about their day’s “haul,” but their eyes periodically darted my way, filled with scrutiny and a hint of almost imperceptible wariness. One of the scar-faced men, bowl in hand, sat down opposite me, slamming the earthenware bowl onto the table, splashing some cheap liquor. His gaze swept over my pale face and the blade-box on my back. “Hey, kid, you’re not from around here, are you?” I didn’t reply, simply leaned back slightly, reaching for the Jade-Blade at my waist. Only after caressing its unique material did I feel a measure of calm. I lightly patted my chest, exhaling a breath. This world’s stagnant, decaying air felt like swallowing razors with every inhale. “If you were just a common traveler passing through, that’d be one thing. But with a big box like that on your back, you’ve got plenty of ‘goods’ in there, eh?” The man reached out, intending to touch my box. I subtly shifted, avoiding his grasp, my eyes growing colder. The man seemed to grow irritated. “Don’t you know the rules, boy? Don’t you know you gotta pay passage through here?” “If you don’t have money, we can take a person instead. Silas’s crew seems to love ‘new recruits’ like you, might even earn us a nice bonus,” another man at a nearby table chimed in. The big brute, emboldened by the support, became even more arrogant, reaching out again to snatch my box. I spun around, hooked a chair with my foot, and kicked it out. “Get lost. Don’t make me say it twice.” The brute seemed not to realize that a sickly-looking person like me could suddenly unleash such strength. Unprepared, he was struck squarely by the chair. He touched his nose, and a stream of blood flowed out. “You bastard…!” The brute seemed ready to pull out a weapon to deal with me, but his movements instantly froze when his gaze met my cold eyes. He felt fear. An invisible pressure seemed to bear down on him, and the blade he’d just gripped clattered to the floor with a dull thud. After a long moment, he cursed, “Damn bad luck.” I averted my gaze. As I was picking up the chair I’d kicked, I bumped into someone. **Chapter 3** I swayed slightly from the collision, my chest churning again. The kid looked up, his hollow eyes staring at me blankly for a moment, then were seized by profound terror. A rasping, wheezing sound, like a broken bellows, escaped his throat, but not a single word. A mute? He gestured wildly, then violently whipped his head towards the doorway, as if a vengeful spirit was hot on his heels. Then, like a startled rabbit, he ignored everyone else in the pub and bolted towards the side, where a dilapidated shrine stood. He huddled amidst the accumulated junk and dust of the shrine, curling into a small ball, trembling uncontrollably. Only his hollow eyes, peering through the gaps in the debris, remained fixed on the doorway. A few men in the pub exchanged glances. One of them, a bearded man, grinned, revealing yellowed, smoke-stained teeth. “Heh, is that Finn, the mute kid? What, did Knuckles and his crew chase him again?” “What else? Couldn’t pay off his debts! His parents owed Boss Knuckles a fortune for medicine before they died. With compound interest, the kid couldn’t work it off even if he sold himself a dozen times over!” Another lanky brute interjected, a hint of schadenfreude in his tone. “Tsk, tsk, I heard Boss Knuckles is really going to sell him to the northern ‘flesh pits’ this time. They specialize in young lads like him there, easy to break, easy to control…” “Shh! Keep it down! Silas’s people are in town these days, don’t stir up trouble!” The name “Silas” had a chilling effect, instantly silencing the lanky brute, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. The bearded man sullenly took a gulp from his earthenware bowl of cheap liquor and said no more. The atmosphere in the pub grew heavier, more oppressive, broken only by the crackle of the oil lamps and the persistent patter of rain outside. The fat barkeeper finally emerged from behind the back curtain, carrying a murky bowl of “hot soup” with a few questionable vegetable scraps and grease slick floating on top. He slammed the earthenware bowl down onto the broken table where I’d placed the copper coins, splashing a few drops of broth onto the grimy surface. “Here! Drink up and get out!” he gruffly urged, his beady eyes darting nervously to the trembling shadow in the dilapidated shrine, then quickly away. Clearly, he wanted no part of any trouble. “Finn, hiding here won’t do any good. Just come out.” Finn didn’t answer, nor did he move. The barkeeper cursed a few times, then bothered with him no longer, retreating to the back as if to avoid association. I didn’t rush to drink the soup. My gaze passed over the barkeeper’s greasy head and landed on the shrine behind him. The mute boy, Finn, was curled there like a small, battered animal driven to desperation. Every word spoken by those men earlier had been like a poisoned needle, piercing his hollow, despairing eyes. But now, in those dark eyes, besides fear, something deeper, darker, was slowly gathering, settling. It was hatred. A blood-soaked hatred, brewed by despair for too long, now congealed and crystallized. This hatred… so pure, like raw iron forged in the fires of an abyss for eons, just waiting for a spark to unleash a furious blaze that would burn everything to ashes. A minute, almost imperceptible tremor emanated from the depths of the blade-box on my back, carrying an indescribable sense of “hunger.” It was as if a beast, slumbering for millennia, had been slightly stirred by this intense hatred, turning over in its sleep. I watched him in silence. Through the dim light, the turbid air, and the shadows of the altar, he seemed to feel my gaze. His hollow, despairing eyes, with a last trace of deadened bewilderment, met mine through the gaps in the debris. There was no plea in those eyes, no hope, only a chilling, bone-deep ash of “defiance.” I took the bowl and advanced a few steps towards the dilapidated shrine. **Chapter 4** Actually, calling it a dilapidated shrine wasn’t quite right; it was merely a circle of crumbling ruins, barely forming a shelter from the wind. A few rotten timbers leaned precariously, barely supporting some leaky roof tiles. If not for its ability to block the wind and rain, the tavern probably wouldn’t have bothered to include it in its property. The idols were long gone, leaving only half a muddy, crumbling stone pedestal, remnants of an ancient altar, covered in bird droppings and thick dust. Someone had scrawled crooked, meaningless symbols with charcoal, giving off an unsettling, almost sinister vibe. I sat against the cold, broken wall. My soaked, old cloak clung to my body. I unslung my blade-box and placed it by my feet. Slowly, I drank the not-very-tasty hot soup, but at least the warmth it provided offered some relief from the chilling pain. A faint, suppressed sob, mingled with the chattering of teeth, drifted from a deeper corner of the shrine. It was Finn, the mute boy. He had buried himself deeper behind a pile of tattered straw mats and rotting wood, revealing only half of his wet head and a pair of eyes that glowed eerily in the darkness. The hollowness and despair were gone from those eyes, replaced by a frantic vigilance and terror, like a young wolf cornered by hunters on a cliff’s edge. He stared fixedly at the shrine’s only entrance – the crooked, cracked doorframe – as if a ravenous beast would burst in at any moment. He was waiting, waiting for those who were destined to come for him. In the darkness, the subtle “hunger” in the blade-box on my back resurfaced, like a deep-sea current, slowly but persistently stirring. It seemed drawn by the boy’s imminent, explosive aura, a mix of fear and hatred. Finally, heavy, shuffling footsteps, accompanied by crude curses, pierced through the wind and rain, growing louder as they approached. “Damn this cursed weather! That mute brat’s definitely hiding in here!” “Run? You owe Knuckles and you think you can run? We’ll break his damn legs!” “Boss said, ‘bring him back alive!’ The overseer from the northern flesh pits is due tonight, waiting for his ‘shipment’!” The footsteps stopped outside the tavern. Everyone inside seemed to shy away, and the fat barkeeper chose to hide in the back kitchen, clearly wanting no part of the trouble. Three hulking figures blocked the doorway. Leading them was a burly brute with a scarred face, a missing front tooth, and a necklace of animal bones – Knuckles, the local enforcer. Behind him were two equally menacing thugs, each carrying a short club and a rope. “Heh! Mute kid, playing hide-and-seek with me?” Knuckles sneered, the gap in his teeth showing like a dark hole. His eyes, like a vulture’s, scanned the pub’s interior, instantly locking onto the trembling shadow behind the dilapidated shrine. “Get out here! Save me the trouble!” Finn recoiled violently like a startled rabbit, a rasping, meaningless sound escaping his throat. His eyes were filled with desperate terror. He clutched tightly at a tattered bundle in his arms, as if it were his last pitiful support. “Damn it, you want to do this the hard way!” Knuckles spat, waving a hand to his followers. “Drag him out! Be careful, don’t damage him too much, we’re still counting on this brat for cash!” The two thugs grinned menacingly, grabbing their clubs and ropes, and strode towards Finn’s hiding spot. Their heavy footsteps echoed through the empty, decaying shrine, carrying a brutal sense of oppression. Finn cowered, with nowhere left to retreat. His scrawny body trembled violently from extreme fear, his teeth chattering so hard they almost shattered. In his eyes, fear was rapidly swallowed by deeper despair and a dying madness. He violently bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the cold, damp ground, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably, as if silently wailing. Just as the two thugs grinned and reached out, their rough fingers about to touch his worn tunic— I moved. **Chapter 5** It wasn’t deliberate. It was as if I’d simply lost my footing, buffeted by the bone-chilling draft that swept through the shrine, or maybe I’d slipped on a patch of water leaking from the roof.
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