Chapter 3: Breath of fresh air

Lan Wei watched them leave, his vision blurring as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, staggering toward the mechanical contraption in the corner. Before he could reach it, a falling stone struck his shoulder with a sickening crack. A sharp pain shot through his body—his collarbone had shattered. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, but forced himself to move.

Sticking close to the wall, he pushed forward with every ounce of strength left in him. His trembling fingers reached the bundle of cloth containing the key. He pulled it free, his movements slow and deliberate. As soon as he was within range, he inserted the key into the mechanism. A low, grinding sound filled the chamber, gears clicking into place. Two seconds later, a hidden entrance yawned open twenty meters away.

He yanked the key free and ran, his body screaming in protest. Adrenaline fueled his movements. As he crossed the threshold, the entrance remained open just long enough for him to glimpse the ritual hall collapsing behind him—tons of stone and dirt burying the chamber and everyone within it.

The entrance sealed shut. Still wary of the pressure that could force it open, he dragged himself another twenty meters deeper into the passage before collapsing against the cold wall. His breaths were shallow. He could feel the dull throb of his injuries, but there was no time to rest. He had already swallowed a healing pill and an antidote before escaping, and now he waited for them to take effect. After two agonizing minutes, warmth spread through his body, dulling the worst of the pain.

Fatigue clawed at his consciousness. He fumbled through his bag, pulling out another second-rank healing pill, knowing that his internal injuries were severe. His dantian was shattered, his cultivation gone, and his body broken. But he was alive.

He swallowed the pill, washing it down with a sip of spring water from his canteen. The moment he capped the container, sleep overtook him, dragging him into unconsciousness.

A slow, rhythmic dripping pulled Lan Wei from his slumber. His eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the suffocating darkness. He lay still, listening. The faint sound of water striking stone echoed through the cavern, each drop sending ripples through the silence.

Then it came—grief. A hollow ache buried deep in his chest.

Chen Yi was dead. His friend, his brother, gone. And for the first time in a long while, there was no one to witness his weakness. His body trembled, silent sobs wracking his frame as grief overwhelmed him. The dam of emotions he had bottled up finally shattered, spilling out into the darkness.

Minutes passed before he forced himself to breathe. He had to move forward. Chen Yi had died he couldn't afford to waste his second chance.

Shifting his focus, he assessed his injuries. His collarbone had healed, but his shoulder was still dislocated. Without anything nearby to lock it in place, resetting it would be impossible for now. His stomach and leg wounds had closed, but his internal injuries remained severe. His dantian was ruined, making him a mortal.

Even if he found a way out of these ruins, he couldn't return to the Everlasting War Sect in this state. The roads were dangerous even for cultivators—what chance did a lone mortal have? And even if he somehow reached the sect, Fang Jun would be waiting to finish what he started.

Lan Wei clenched his jaw.

First, he had to find a way out. Second, he needed to send a message to Ning Xue. If she was still in the Everlasting Azure Sect, it would be better for him and harder for anyone to intercept it by accident.

He reached into his bag and retrieved another healing pill. Seven left—not enough to fully heal his internal wounds, but enough to stabilize him. He swallowed it, then took out a strip of dried beast meat. Eating would help him regain strength and slightly accelerate his regeneration.

For a moment, he sat in silence, leaning against the marble wall. His gaze was unfocused, lost in the depths of his predicament. The overwhelming weight of his circumstances threatened to drag him down, but he refused to let despair take root.

With effort, he pushed himself to his feet. His limbs obeyed, though his internal wounds forced him to move slowly. Step by step, he made his way down the corridor, his senses on high alert for traps.

The walls were lined with intricate carvings, depicting the same demonic statues he had seen near the ritual bridge. Shadows danced across their grotesque forms as he advanced. Though he found no visible traps, he remained cautious, tossing a two-kilogram rock at suspicious spots before stepping forward.

After nearly a hundred meters, he reached a descending spiral staircase. The air grew colder. The steps, though still sturdy, bore the marks of time—cracks snaking across the marble, dust clinging to every surface. Sword cuts marred the walls, whispering stories of past battles.

He descended fifty meters before the staircase ended, leading into a wide corridor, at least ten meters across. The demonic carvings continued, their hollow eyes seeming to watch his every move. Here he found a small crack in the wall which was enough to fit his hand and lock it there he put his dislocated arm inside and trapped it in the crack. With full force of his body he yanked himself a loud pop sounded in the empty corridor. Dislocated arm popped into its place,

Lan Wei returned towards the corridor. At the corridor's end, he entered a larger chamber. A stone basin sat at its center, filled with a dark, rippling liquid. From the ceiling, a single protrusion dripped blood—slow, steady droplets that sent tiny ripples across the surface.

Realization struck him like a blade to the gut.

This chamber lay directly beneath the ritual site.

The blood in the basin was his. And everyone else's who had been there. There had to be a high-level formation above him, one he couldn't perceive. As he moved closer to the chamber's center, he realized the falling drops were not mere blood, but refined blood essence. Even from a cultivator, refining an entire body's worth of blood would yield only a few drops. To fill a basin of this size—nearly a cubic meter, holding close to a thousand liters—the number of sacrifices must have reached the millions.

And this was all after Tyrant's fall.

Ning Xue's grandfather had spoken of another ritual site, found in the Retreat Palace. There, hundreds of thousands had perished in a similar blood-soaked offering. They had caved in the site, destroying it, but here, the ritual remained intact. Zhao Lengyan must have had powerful backers among the local nobles—perhaps he was no more than a puppet for this grand design. The sheer manpower needed to abduct and slaughter so many young cultivators was staggering. Even the ruling monarch of the Lengyan Kingdom must be complicit. How else could such an immense number of people disappear without notice?

And if they were involved, it wouldn't be long before they came to reclaim their blood essence.

He had to move fast.

Just as he passed through the basin, a single drop of blood essence fell into it from above. His own. He recognized it instantly. The moment it touched the liquid, an immense force pressed down on him. He couldn't move.

A golden radiance erupted beneath his feet. Thousands of delicate, interwoven formation lines spread across the ground, forming an intricate ritual array. Among the golden luminescence, small black eyes emerged—countless, hungry, peering directly into his soul.

The ritual had been activated.

A cold dread seized his heart. Before he could react, reality collapsed around him. Time stretched, then fractured. He hurtled through an endless void, stars and planets flashing past in a cosmic blur. A fraction of a second became eternity. When the madness ceased, he found himself standing on a smooth, ashen surface.

The sky above him churned with shadows, filled with shapes that defied logic—monstrous, writhing beings that pulsed with an unfathomable presence. He could not even begin to grasp the depths of their power. Each one of them was stronger than any cultivator he had ever known—perhaps millions of times stronger.

His breath caught in his throat.

This was no dream.

A whisper slithered into his mind, though it bore no words—only the agonized screams of millions, intertwined with a guttural, cryptic laughter.

One of the creatures approached. It moved through the air like a drifting specter, its decaying hawk-like frame infused with the translucent tendrils of a jellyfish. An amalgamation of horror and majesty. It loomed before him, regarding him with eyes that held no warmth, only endless hunger.

Then, it spoke.

"What do you want for these?"

Lan Wei stared in terror, unable to utter a sound.

The creature twirled in the air, as if amused. Its voice slithered through his mind again. "Speak, little one. Convey your thoughts."

And just like that, all his fear vanished. It wasn't courage—it was something else, something unnatural. His mind was eerily clear, his voice steady.

"I want a way to restore my foundation."

The creature let out a low, rumbling laugh. "You bring too much for such a pitiful wish. I shall grant you something far greater."

It reached down, scooping up a handful of white ash. From it, a small pebble formed—smooth, calcified, and oddly pristine. It extended the object toward him.

"Once you return, break it. Smell the fresh air of the world beyond. You will find your own way to restore what was lost."

Lan Wei narrowed his eyes. "I may not be able to return to this place once I leave. How do I come back?"

The creature cackled. "Greedy, are you? Next time, you must bring me twice as many of these."

A decayed, feather-like appendage extended, brushing against Lan Wei's forehead. A flood of knowledge surged into him. In that instant, he understood the layout of the ritual site, the intricate design of its underground halls, and the hidden exit—a small qi-gathering channel that led to the surface, concealed by an illusion formation strong enough to last five centuries.

And then, he was back.

Lan Wei collapsed onto his knees, his body drenched in cold sweat. He gasped for air, staring in disbelief at the empty basin before him. His mind reeled. Had it been a hallucination? A fevered dream caused by the ritual's activation?

His hand clenched around something solid.

The pebble.

It was real. The entity had truly given it to him.

He took a deep breath, regaining his composure. Looking down at the basin, he noticed a single drop of blood essence—the one he had lost. The creature had returned it. Without hesitation, he touched it to his finger and swallowed. A small, refreshing energy flowed through him, revitalizing his exhausted body.

He steadied himself, rising to his feet. There was no time to linger. He knew the way out now. He had a plan. He knew all the formation lines he traced around the circle finding and changing close to 60 lines in the formation towards other lines. This action would allow the circle to overburden and explode during the next time somebody wanted to gather blood essence. With his sabotage done he returned to his plan.

Moving with purpose, he navigated the underground maze, his pace bordering on a sprint. The endless, winding passages had once seemed disorienting, but now, he saw their true design—an intricate formation meant to trap natural qi, providing an everlasting power source for the ritual site.

Finally, he arrived at the hidden exit. The small tunnel stretched upward, just wide enough for a man to crawl through. Covered by flawless illusionary formations, it would remain undiscovered for centuries.

Before climbing, he hesitated.

His fingers brushed over the pebble in his secret pocket. Originally, he had planned to use it on the surface, under the veil of the formation's protection. But now, he reconsidered. Even if the cultivators above excavated the ruins, they would never find him within this labyrinth.

Drawing the pebble from its enchanted cloth wrap that was next to the mechanical key, he placed it. Then, without further hesitation, he crushed it between his fingers.

The white ash dissolved into a mist—cool, refreshing, like the dawn of spring. As he inhaled, an indescribable power surged through his body, filling him with both chaos and order, an unfathomable duality beyond comprehension.

For an hour, he sat in silent meditation, absorbing the energy.

When he finally opened his eyes, he inspected himself. His body remained unchanged, his organs unaffected.

But there—above his dantian—something new existed.

A single speck of emptiness.

When he sent a wisp of qi toward it, the void responded. In that instant, it unfurled into a vast, miniature world brimming with raw vitality.

A small world.

His heart pounded. He clenched his fists.

The creature had given him something far greater than a simple restoration. It had given him the foundation of a legend.