Chapter 7: The Silent Forest Trial
Dawn broke over the Broken Sect with a grim stillness. No drums. No announcements. Just a list nailed to the cracked wall outside the servant barracks.
Ashen Wu stood among the half-starved, dirt-covered servants and read the jagged calligraphy scrawled in dried red ink.
"By order of Outer Elder Rong, the following lowborn are summoned for the Silent Forest Trial. Survive seven days. Return with a beast tooth. Fail, and be forgotten."
His name was the last on the list.
No cheers. No gasps. Just a low murmur of dread. The Silent Forest had no real path. It had no recorded maps. Just trees that twisted wrong and beasts that didn't sleep.
It wasn't an opportunity.
It was a culling.
"Guess it's time we see which dogs can bite," a tall servant sneered beside him. "Or just whimper and die."
Ashen didn't answer. He didn't need to. His thoughts were already ahead—calculating steps, rationing stamina, recalling the half-mad murmurs he'd heard about the forest over the years.
The Broken Sect didn't train its servants. It tested them like meat.
And now it was time to bleed.
By noon, a small group of twelve was herded to the edge of the Silent Forest, a vast wall of black-barked trees that swayed though no wind blew. The air was thick with pollen, spores, and silence so deep it clawed at the ears.
An elder in crimson robes addressed them without ceremony.
"The Silent Forest was once part of a sacred beast graveyard. The qi is wild. Unstable. Half-dead. If you survive, you may be considered for outer sect trials. If not… the forest will feed well."
He tossed a satchel of crushed herbs at the group.
"Apply these if you're bitten. Won't save you, but might buy time."
Then he turned and left, robes swaying, not even glancing back.
A gong sounded once.
Enter.
The forest swallowed them.
Within ten minutes, two servants had vanished. One ran the wrong way and never screamed. The other touched a flower that let out a screech like a child, then collapsed foaming at the mouth.
Ashen pressed forward.
He moved like a shadow, low to the ground, cloak drawn tight, senses sharp. The Heaven-Eating Scripture whispered—soft, steady.
Not to guide him.
To hunger.
He could feel it react to the forest. To the corrupted beast qi pulsing beneath the roots. The marrow of old creatures long since dead, still lingering in the trees like ghosts.
As the sun vanished behind dense canopy, Ashen made his first camp.
A hollow between two boulders, warded with a stolen talisman and a circle of ash. He didn't sleep. He meditated, listening to the forest breathe. Around midnight, a creature passed near—its steps unnaturally rhythmic, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings.
It didn't smell him.
But it felt something.
And for a moment, Ashen saw it through the brush—three legs, one eye, bone plates stitched with red moss.
Then it was gone.
He didn't breathe again until dawn.
Day Two.
By morning, only seven remained.
Ashen found tracks—clawed, deep, leading to a shallow ravine where he saw another servant's corpse impaled on a vine. His chest was open. His teeth removed.
Still no screams.
The forest devoured silently.
He continued deeper.
Found mushrooms that pulsed with qi.
Inhaled spores that stung his throat—but burned like medicine.
Felt the Heaven-Eating Scripture stir.
"Take what even nature forgets."
He chewed the fungus.
And that night, broke through the third layer of his false cultivation.
No one would believe it.
He didn't care.
Day Four.
A girl servant tried to steal his satchel.
She'd been part of his barracks. Eyes wide with hunger. Teeth yellow. Ashen offered to share a root he'd boiled.
She lunged with a shard of bone instead.
He dodged.
Slashed her leg.
She screamed.
And the forest answered.
A creature of roots and fur burst from the thicket, grabbing her before she could even beg. It didn't roar. It didn't snarl.
It simply unhinged its jaw and bit.
Ashen didn't stay to watch.
He walked until his feet bled.
Day Six.
Only three were left.
They didn't speak. Didn't group.
The trial had no rules—but all knew: if you trust, you die.
Ashen had begun to feel it—the way the forest breathed qi into him. The Scripture inside him twisted with every step, absorbing the beast-saturated air. He could taste it on his tongue: a thick metallic tang like blood and smoke.
He'd begun hearing voices in the leaves.
Not hallucinations.
Echoes.
Old beasts.
Old cultivators.
Old failures.
They whispered names of lost techniques, fragments of rituals, chants to gods long since buried.
The Scripture devoured them too.
Not with understanding.
With instinct.
Day Seven.
The final day.
Ashen didn't rest.
He stalked a beast—one of the lesser spirit creatures that lurked near the old shrine at the forest's center. Not powerful, but fast.
He baited it with blood from his palm.
Let it chase him.
Led it across thorned roots and into a natural spike trap he'd carved from fallen wood and a broken sword.
It howled once.
Then died.
Ashen approached, panting, vision blurred.
He cut the tooth from its skull with shaking hands.
Held it aloft.
And laughed.
Not in triumph.
In defiance.
He was supposed to die here.
He didn't.
And now… he was closer.
Author's Note:
This chapter begins Ashen Wu's ascent from prey to predator. The Silent Forest Trial is where most hopefuls die, not because they're weak, but because they hesitate. Ashen's path allows no hesitation. He doesn't just survive—he devours everything around him. From this point on, his power begins to grow faster… and darker.
•
Killing a Senior Brother
The Silent Forest had thinned.
Ashen Wu walked through tangled roots and stone to where the light broke through—patches of pale gold on moss. His body ached, skin torn, qi bubbling beneath the surface like boiling pitch.
Seven days of survival. One spirit beast slain. A tooth in his satchel.
He was ready to leave.
But the forest wasn't done with him.
"Little rat," a voice drawled behind him. "Thought you'd crawl out of this place without kneeling first?"
Ashen turned slowly.
Standing beneath a dying tree was Senior Brother Mo Lin—outer disciple, sect sadist, and rumored killer of three servants during the last trial. His robes were spotless. His eyes gleamed with cruelty.
And in his hand: a coiled whip of spiritual silk, humming with the force of a second-level Qi Disciple.
"You shouldn't be here," Ashen said evenly.
Mo Lin smirked. "Neither should you, cripple. But here you are—alive, dirty, holding a beast tooth like you earned it."
He cracked the whip once. The air trembled.
Ashen didn't flinch.
"You stole that kill," Mo Lin continued, stepping closer. "I was tracking that beast for hours. Then I see your little shadow slit its throat and gut it like a pig. Did you really think we wouldn't settle this?"
Ashen said nothing. The Scripture inside him stirred. Not out of fear.
But anticipation.
Mo Lin wasn't a servant. He was a proper disciple.
A feast.
Mo Lin lunged.
The whip lashed out, coiling around Ashen's wrist. Pain flared as the spiritual silk dug into his flesh, burning through muscle and skin.
Ashen gritted his teeth.
Mo Lin yanked—and Ashen flew forward, slammed into a tree with a crack. Blood filled his mouth.
"Let me guess," Mo Lin sneered. "You got lucky. Found some moldy pill in the trash and thought yourself a cultivator. Don't worry. I'll return you to the dirt where you belong."
He raised his whip again.
Ashen's lips curled.
"I am the dirt," he whispered. "The kind that buries gods."
And then he moved.
It wasn't a martial form.
It wasn't elegant.
It was survival made flesh.
Ashen tore the whip from his bleeding wrist and lunged, fists glowing with the corrupted, devouring qi of the Heaven-Eating Scripture. Mo Lin tried to parry—too slow. Ashen's palm struck his ribs with a wet crunch.
Qi exploded.
Mo Lin howled—spiritual energy leaking from his nose and ears.
"You dare—!" he choked, swinging again.
Ashen ducked under the whip and slammed his elbow into Mo Lin's chin. Bone cracked. Teeth flew.
The forest watched.
Mo Lin staggered back, gasping, drawing a jade talisman.
Too late.
Ashen grabbed his face and devoured.
It was not like devouring a beast.
This was human.
Cultivated.
The spiritual root in Mo Lin's dantian was a twisted thing—fire-aspected, sharp, cruel. It bucked and screamed as Ashen's scripture opened, wrapping it in coils of darkness and swallowing it whole.
Mo Lin convulsed.
His body shrank.
Eyes turned glassy.
Then his core shattered.
He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Ashen stood over him, chest heaving, blood running down his arms.
Inside him, the Scripture rejoiced.
The Null Root pulsed.
From the ashes of nothing, another spark was born.
He had devoured a spiritual root.
He had stolen power meant for heaven.
Silence reigned.
Ashen knelt beside the corpse and closed the dead man's eyes.
"I warned you," he whispered. "I didn't want this."
But he had needed it.
Mo Lin's power burned inside him like a second sun.
It wouldn't last forever.
But it was enough.
He turned back toward the path that would take him out of the forest—and into the eyes of the sect.
Let them test him again.
Let them weigh him like meat.
He was ready now.
Because for the first time…
He had tasted cultivator flesh.
And it had tasted like heaven.
Author's Note:
This chapter marks Ashen Wu's first real kill—a moment that shapes his entire journey. Mo Lin wasn't just an enemy—he was a mirror. A warning of what the outer sect becomes when power is hoarded and cruelty is praised. Ashen's act of devouring a spiritual root is a violation of every sacred rule in cultivation. But it is also the birth of something terrifying:
A cultivator who answers not to heaven—but to hunger.
Please leave power stones!!!