After taking in his surroundings, Syth scanned the crowd of prisoners gathered in the open space.
The air was thick with tension, broken only by the low rumbling of carriage wheels.
The area, though spacious, was quickly becoming overcrowded. It wasn't just his group from the prison — more and more carriages kept arriving, and it was becoming clear that the number of prisoners would far exceed the 200 he had initially estimated.
There would likely be over a thousand once all the carriages arrived.
'People from other prisons...'
Syth thought, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. He was searching for something.
It didn't take long before he found them.
They were hard to miss. While the other prisoners were dressed in rags, their faces pale and weary, these people stood out. Their clothes were 'strange' but well-made, and their skin was smooth and healthy, untouched by the suffering around them.
Syth smiled to himself. Coming from a similar background, he knew exactly who they were.
'Otherworlders...'
The novel Syth was in had the unique premise of a main character who regresses back to when he first arrived in this world.
However, another unique aspect of the novel was how there were other otherworlders — individuals from a different realm altogether who somehow ended up inside this world of magic.
Through their clothes, it wasn't hard to guess that they were from modern Earth.
Syth observed them from a distance, his sharp gaze scanning the group. They were scattered across the area, their diverse backgrounds evident in their appearances.
Some were middle-aged, with worn faces that hinted at years of hard labor, while others appeared much younger — likely students or youths no older than seventeen.
Their expressions were a mix of fear, confusion and uncertainty.
'Most of these people will become significant figures in the future. One of the defining traits of otherworlders is that they each possess a unique ability or talent to help them survive in this world,' Syth mused.
Otherworlders had something that set them apart from average mortals — something that allowed them to adapt quickly to the strange environment they'd been thrown into.
Unrivaled martial talent. God-like spiritual roots. Strange, mystical abilities… These were known as 'otherworldly blessings.'
Essentially, cheats straight out of a novel.
Of course, some blessings were better than others.
Still, even the weakest ones held value. For example, the protagonist's blessing was the power to regress — allowing him to return to the past and gain a second chance. But it didn't make up for his severe lack of talent, which had led to him being surpassed by all his peers in his first life.
'Maybe I have an otherworldly blessing too…' Syth wondered briefly.
Regardless, even if he didn't, his knowledge of future events was already a powerful advantage.
Of course, in a place as brutal as the Blood Sect, any extra edge could be the difference between life and death — so he certainly wouldn't mind if he had one.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Syth turned his attention to a particular figure in the crowd.
Despite her innocent appearance, she exuded a chilling and gloomy aura that made others subconsciously keep their distance.
Without hesitation, Syth approached her.
"Judging by your clothes, are you also from Earth?" he asked in perfect English. While he had inherited the native language of this world through his predecessor's memories, being originally from Earth, he still remembered his own.
The girl flinched slightly, startled, but nodded. "Are you from Earth too?"
Syth gave a wry smile. "I ended up in this world a few months ago… It's a relief to know I'm not the only one."
Of course, that was a lie.
He naturally had his reasons. Revealing his origin wasn't a big deal — there were many more otherworlders. He simply wanted to get close to a few individuals from modern Earth — especially those who would become powerful in the future, and communicating with them early on is a simple way of doing that.
If his memories served him correctly, the girl before him was one of them. A future Godrealm candidate known as the Death Harbinger, Lillias. She played a role as one of the antagonists in the first arc.
The fact that she spoke English confirmed her identity. Out of all the otherworlders here, she was probably the only one he could meaningfully communicate with — most of the others likely came from different countries or backgrounds.
As for his unusual appearance and the rags he wore, he'd likely claim it was due to some strange phenomenon after arriving in this world. As for the latter, he can just say he got robbed.
"Do you know how we got here?" Lillias asked.
Syth shook his head. "I'm as clueless as you."
He sighed. "I just woke up in this completely foreign world. Everything's backwards — different language, different geography… everything."
He chose to be honest, leaving out only the fact that he had taken over another body.
Lillias nodded slowly. "It really feels like a dream…"
The two talked with each other for a while, bridging the gap between strangers through the shared experience of being thrown into an unfamiliar world.
///
As more prisoners arrived, the chatter in the open space grew louder — until a sharp whistle pierced the air.
The crowd fell silent at once.
From the shadows near one of the largest carriages, a figure stepped forward.
The man who emerged was unlike anyone they'd seen so far. Towering and broad-shouldered, he wore a long, blood-red cloak over black battle-worn armor that clinked slightly with each step. His face was rugged, marked by scars earned through countless battles. A single pauldron shaped like a wolf's head rested on his left shoulder, and an enormous curved blade hung across his back.
His presence alone was enough to silence even ten thousand prisoners.
The man stopped in front of the gathered crowd, his gaze sweeping across the faces before him like a butcher eyeing livestock.
"Follow," he commanded, his voice low but powerful.
No one questioned him.
The crowd moved, hesitant at first, but the threat of whatever punishment might follow disobedience kept them in line. Syth and Lillias fell in with the others as they were herded along a narrow path leading away from the open space.
However, instead of heading up to the Blood Sect's visible fortress nestled near the summit, they were led to a narrow crevice in the base of the cliffs — an entrance that opened into the mountain itself.
Massive stone gates slowly parted, revealing a cold, cavernous tunnel lit by glowing red crystals embedded in the walls. The air grew damp and cold as they descended.
Eventually, they arrived at a vast subterranean arena — circular, and filled with stone platforms, training dummies, and ancient weapons scattered across the ground like bones. Dozens of tunnels branched off from the main space, likely leading to dormitories, supply rooms, and other miscellaneous places.
The man turned to face them once more.
"This," he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "is one of the Blood Sect's training grounds. It is here that you will spend the next year."
A murmur passed through the crowd.
"A year?"
"For what?"
But the man raised a hand, silencing them again.
"Only ten of you will remain."
This time, the murmurs turned into confused shouting.
"Ten?! What does that mean?"
"There are over a thousand of us!"
The man's expression remained unchanged. In an impassive voice, he continued, "You are all here because the Sect has run out of warriors to train its disciples. Your fate is that of helpless livestock — to be mercilessly butchered, whenever and however the Sect desires."
What?!
Shock was evident in all of the prisoner's faces.
'By run out of warriors, he probably means they were all killed…' Syth muttered inwardly.
The Blood Sect was a cruel organization — twisted in its methods — but its results were undeniable. It produced powerful disciples with unmatched combat experience. The secret?
These one thousand prisoners...
This was one of the Blood Sect's methods.
They would gather a large number of slaves and criminals, teach them the basics of martial arts, then pit them against their disciples in brutal, life-or-death battles. Those who managed to survive would earn the right to keep their lives. From this, they would also gain combat experience and also their first kill.
Naturally, the advantage always lay with the disciples. Unlike the prisoners, they were taught true cultivation techniques. The prisoners, by contrast, only learned mortal martial arts — crude imitations of real power.
And by the end of the year, only ten among these hundreds of prisoners would be deemed worthy of becoming true disciples themselves. The rest? They would continue serving as disposable opponents until they were all eventually slaughtered — and the cycle would begin again with a fresh batch of prisoners.
It was a twisted system — treating human lives as mere stepping stones.
But in the world of cultivation, this barely qualified as demonic. After all, the victims were slaves and criminals. Even the so-called righteous organisations would turn a blind eye to such lives.
The man scanned the crowd.
He closed his eyes and continued, a hint of emotion escaping.
"If you don't like the idea of dying like cattle, then I suggest you listen to my words carefully."
"I am your martial instructor. My purpose is to make you strong — strong enough to survive even just one more day."
"If you manage to grow powerful enough to catch the Sect's attention, even they won't be able to ignore you."
"So train like your life depends on it — because it does."
The man paused.
"That is my only advice."