The grave beneath the peach tree was simple, but the silence around it was sacred.
For three days and three nights, **Shadow** knelt before it, unmoving. His knees were raw, his body weak, but he didn't feel it. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he ignored it. The pain in his chest drowned out all else.
The air around the **Verdant Moon Sect** was still. This far at the edge of the continent, in the shadow of mountains and silence, few souls ever wandered. The sect was neither rich nor feared. It was a **third-rate sect**, a quiet, forgotten name in a world ruled by giants.
High above them all stood the **Grand Azure Empire**—the supreme power of the Wilderness Continent. The Emperor ruled not through ministers and laws, but through force. His word was law, his will, a command from the heavens. Kingdoms bowed. Sects offered tribute. Cities knelt.
Below him, spread across the vast continent, were **Five Martial Kingdoms**—each ruled by a king whose strength rivaled mountain-shattering legends. Though they submitted to the Empire, they ruled their territories like empires of their own. Each kingdom housed cities, armies, and dozens—if not hundreds—of cultivation forces.
And beneath those kings were sects like **Verdant Moon**.
Not powerful enough to be feared. Not weak enough to be erased. They floated in mediocrity.
They paid tribute in spirit stones, pills, beast cores, and disciples.
If they failed—**disbanded**. Crushed by decree or swallowed by stronger sects.
They weren't alone, of course. Above them were **second-rate sects**—true regional powers with deep heritages and elite disciples.
And at the very top of the sect world, there were only **two** first-rate sects.
**The Burning Sky Pavilion** in the West.
**The Celestial Rain Sect** in the East.
Their names were so powerful they could speak to kings directly… or even ignore them. Their grand elders were rumored to be half a step from touching immortality. Their disciples… chosen from royalty, genius bloodlines, or divine chance.
Verdant Moon was not even dust in their eyes.
And yet, to Shadow… it had been everything.
Until now.
---
The sound of footsteps broke the silence.
A tall figure walked across the grass, robes rustling softly. His hair was streaked with white, and his eyes held the weight of too many winters.
He stopped a few feet behind Shadow and said nothing at first.
Then came the sigh.
"Three days," the man muttered, arms crossed. "No food. No water. Still kneeling."
"Boy… you'll die like this."
Shadow didn't move.
The man frowned.
"Your master… would be *furious* if he saw you now."
Still no response.
The man finally stepped beside him. He looked down at the grave, then at the boy before it. His expression tightened.
"You think grief honors him? You think wasting away is what he wanted?"
"He raised you to endure. Not to *break*."
Shadow's lips parted, but his voice was dry, cracked.
"There's… nothing left."
The man scoffed.
"He gave you everything. His name. His time. His life."
"And now you sit here, waiting to rot, while the sect prepares to *kick you out.*"
Shadow finally looked up.
The man continued.
"The **Outer Disciple Competition** starts in one month."
"The elders are watching. You have no cultivation. No techniques. No place."
"If you fail again... they'll remove you. You're taking up space and resources in a sect that can't afford to keep dead weight."
He dropped a small pouch at Shadow's feet. A soft clink followed.
Ten small stones spilled into the grass—each glowing faintly with spiritual energy.
**Low-grade spirit stones.**
A month's salary for an outer disciple.
"Your master left these for you."
"Said you'd be too damn stubborn to ask for help. Said you'd be too lost to take care of yourself."
He turned away.
"We served together. Fought side by side under the Empire's banner in the northern campaigns. He was known as the **Storm Yan** back then—sharp, fierce, untamed."
"He could have joined one of the first-rate sects… or become a royal enforcer in the Empire's court."
"Instead, he came here. To this dying sect."
"Why?"
"Because of *you.*"
"He sacrificed power, position, respect—because he believed in something the heavens themselves rejected."
He paused, voice heavy.
"I never understood why he did it… until the end."
"And now he's gone."
"And all I see left is a boy who doesn't understand what it means to carry the will of the dead."
He walked away slowly, shaking his head.
"Ten spirit stones. That's all he left you."
"And a grave."
"Don't let both go to waste."
And then he left.
No more words. No comfort. Just footsteps fading into the wind.
---
Shadow sat there, staring at the stones.
Ten fragments of energy. Of life. Of memory.
Each one paid for by the man who lay beneath the earth.
His fingers closed slowly over them.
And then—for the first time in three days—he stood.
His body swayed, legs shaking, stomach aching.
But he stood.
He looked down at the grave.
And whispered.
"I don't know how to walk this path."
"But I will walk it."
"Even if I was born a sin…"
He looked up at the sky.
"…I'll make Heaven regret creating me"