The Echoes of the Fallen

The Echoes of the Fallen

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Jiang Yun placed the blood core in his bag and continued his work.

As he carved deeper into the beast's remains, his mind turned toward the items he had gathered so far.

Each piece of loot had a story.

Each had once belonged to someone.

And in Forsaken Blood Valley, he had seen their bodies.

Jiang Yun's first true kill in the valley had not been a beast.

It had been a man.

A scavenger, a former sect disciple who had been thrown into this forsaken place and had chosen to prey on the weak rather than fight the valley itself.

He had greeted Jiang Yun with a smile.

Offered false kindness.

Then lunged for his throat.

Jiang Yun had crushed his arm with an axe swing, driven him to the ground, and split his throat with his own dagger.

When the body fell still, Jiang Yun had searched him.

The man had carried a rusted sword—once sharp, once a disciple's prized weapon. Now dulled, its edge worn from neglect.

Jiang Yun had taken it.

Even a broken blade was better than nothing.

Now, that same rusted sword sat at his waist.

It was unworthy of a true cultivator—but Jiang Yun was not a cultivator.

Not yet.

Spirit stones were currency.

In the sects, they were wealth.

In Forsaken Blood Valley, they were meaningless.

Jiang Yun had found three small spirit stones in the pockets of a corpse slumped against a boulder, his robes torn by claw marks.

He had been young. Barely older than Jiang Yun himself.

But his injuries…

Jiang Yun had seen blade wounds on his back.

A scavenger had cut him down. Not a beast.

Another disciple.

Perhaps a sect brother.

Perhaps a traitor.

But in the end, it had not mattered.

His body had been left to rot. His killers had stripped him of everything but a few useless spirit stones.

Jiang Yun had taken them.

They meant nothing to him now.

But perhaps, one day, they would.

The ointment that had saved his wounds had been looted from a dying scavenger.

Jiang Yun had not killed him.

The man had been crawling, fingers digging into the dirt, his breath wet with blood. His stomach had been torn open, his intestines spilling across the earth.

He had reached for Jiang Yun's leg.

Begged.

Jiang Yun had taken his pouch, found the healing salve, and left him there.

The man had died alone.

Jiang Yun had lived.

That was all there was to it.

The dagger now tucked into Jiang Yun's belt had belonged to a girl.

He had found her body hanging from a broken tree branch, her throat slit, her eyes still open.

She had been young. Younger than him.

A cultivator once. But in the end, only a girl.

Her dagger had been the only thing of worth left on her.

Jiang Yun had taken it.

He did not know her name.

But he remembered her face.

Jiang Yun exhaled, standing from the beast's corpse.

Every item in his possession had a history.

Every weapon, every stolen pouch—a piece of someone else's story.

But in Forsaken Blood Valley, the dead did not need their stories anymore.

Only the living mattered.

Jiang Yun turned his gaze toward the mist.

He had survived another night.

He had killed his first true beast.

But the valley was far from done with him.

There would be more battles.

More blood.

More stories left behind.

Jiang Yun would not become one of them.

He did not look back.

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Did you know?

In Forsaken Blood Valley, every weapon and treasure carries a story—a story of the fallen.

🔻 The Rusted Sword – Once a disciple's pride, now Jiang Yun's tool for survival.🔻 The Spirit Stones – Useless in death, stolen from a corpse left to rot.🔻 The Healing Ointment – Taken from a dying man's final hope.🔻 The Dagger – The only trace of a forgotten girl, now Jiang Yun's to wield.

☠️ In this valley, only the strong get to tell their tale.