Pyradine City sat like a glittering, jagged jewel in the southern dominion of the Chrysoprase Empire. It was a metropolis defined by motion—a stronghold where the heavy rivers of commerce, war, and cultivation collided.
The air here carried a permanent metallic tang, fueled by the rhythmic clang of steel from the training yards. There, disciples drenched in sweat chased the elusive, shimmering dream of immortality, their shouts lost in the cacophony of the streets. Merchants barked their wares with a desperation that bordered on theater:
"Spirit herbs! Fresh from the Jade forests, still dripping with essence!"
"Refined blades! Guaranteed to shear through bone like silk!"
Through this chaos, young masters from affluent clans paraded in fluttering silks, their eyes cold with the effortless arrogance of the high-born. Yet, those who truly knew the city looked past the flash of gold. They watched the shadows, where the real experts moved—quiet, calm, and as dangerous as still water hiding unfathomable depths.
In Pyradine, rumors were the only currency cheaper than copper.
Near the City Gates
"Have you heard?" a guard whispered, leaning into the cool shadow of the stone archway.
"Heard what?" his companion asked, shifting the weight of his spear. "That the price of wine is going up again?"
"No. There's a shop in the West District. They say… it lets you enter another world."
The other guard scoffed, wiping sweat from his brow. "You're drunk before noon. That's the oldest scam in the empire. Some illusionist looking to fleece a few country hicks."
"I'm serious! Old Liu saw a cultivator crawling out of there at sunset—screaming as if he'd stared into the very bowels of the abyss."
"Sounds like a haunted house for fools," the second guard muttered, though his grip on his spear tightened. In a city where every warrior hunted for a hidden edge, even a haunted house was worth a second look.
The West District
Far from the prestige of the main thoroughfares, tucked into a neglected corner where the dust lay thick and undisturbed, stood a dying shop. Its wooden walls groaned under the weight of decades, and the sign above the door hung at a precarious, wind-battered tilt.
Origins Dungeon Hall. It was a name far too grand for such a decrepit structure. Beneath the sign sat Yuan Bi.
He was a young man with a posture that could only be described as aggressively lazy. He fanned himself with a frayed folding fan, his eyes half-closed as he tracked the occasional stray dog wandering the empty street.
"No customers again," he murmured to the stagnant air.
Occasionally, a passerby would slow their pace, their eyes flickering toward the dark doorway before leaning in to whisper to a companion.
"That's the place," one hissed. "The shop of screams."
"It looks like a stiff breeze would knock it over. I heard the owner lost his mind after his cultivation base shattered. Now he just sits there waiting for death."
Yuan Bi's eyebrow twitched. "I can hear you," he said, his voice flat and bored.
The group stiffened, scurrying away like startled rabbits. Yuan Bi sighed. Once, this place had scraped by selling chipped weapons and watered-down healing salves. Now, it sold nothing. Or so the city thought.
Everything had changed forty-eight hours ago.
Yuan Bi had woken to a voice—not an external sound, but a vibration echoing directly within the architecture of his soul.
> [Initialization Complete.]
>
He had frozen, waiting for the hallucination to pass. It didn't. Instead, raw, crystalline knowledge flooded his mind. He had been bound to an ancient core, a relic capable of constructing "Trial Realms"—shards of reality designed for one purpose: growth through suffering.
"A trial realm?" he had asked the empty room. "No legendary technique? No hidden treasure?"
Then, he had laughed—a soft, amused sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So that's the game. No instant rise to power for me. Just a way to let others die a thousand deaths to make me rich. Not a bad trade."
By the next morning, the shop had been purged. The dusty shelves were gone. In their place stood four sleek, black seats made of an unknown, light-absorbing material. Atop each sat a helm-like artifact that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.
At the entrance, he had placed a new board:
> OPEN: MORNING TO MIDNIGHT
> Entry Fee: 2 Spirit Crystals/hour
> Trial Access: 5 Spirit Crystals
> Maximum Time: 6 hours
> Life and death within the trial feel real. Enter at your own risk.
> Violators will be suppressed.
>
"Perfect," Yuan Bi sighed, leaning back. "No one in their right mind will ever come."
BANG!
The door slammed open, rattling the loose floorboards. A round, sweating figure rushed in, gasping for air. Min Luan, Yuan Bi's only remaining 'friend'—if one counted the man who spent most of his time trying to talk him into failing business ventures—glared at the new sign.
"Yuan Bi! What is this madness?" Min Luan wheezed. "Seven crystals? Are you trying to rob the district, or have you finally snapped?"
"Try it," Yuan Bi said, his voice like cooling silk. "If it's worthless, I'll refund you every shard."
"On your reputation?"
"On my very name."
Min Luan snorted. "You don't have a reputation left to pawn. But fine! I'll expose this scam of yours right now."
He slammed the crystals onto the table, sat in the chair, and pulled the helm over his head.
The Trial
Darkness. Absolute and heavy.
Then, a rush of cold, stagnant air hit Min Luan like a physical blow. The cloying scent of rot and wet earth filled his lungs. When his vision returned, he wasn't in the shop. The sky above was a bruised, blood-red smear, hanging over a decaying mining facility.
Metal groaned in the wind; wooden beams sagged like the rotting ribs of a giant.
> [Enter the trial?]
>
Min Luan swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat. "Yes," he whispered.
He stepped into the mine. The silence was suffocating, broken only by a distant, rhythmic sound.
Drag. Scrape. Drag.
A figure stumbled from the gloom. Its skin was blackened and peeling, its eyes milky voids. It wore a tattered miner's uniform, its limbs twisting at unnatural, broken angles.
It lunged.
"AHHHHH!!!"
Min Luan didn't fight. The instincts of a pampered merchant took over, and he bolted. But the mine was a labyrinth of shifting shadows. More shapes emerged—rotting hands reaching from the dark, cold and eager.
A sharp, agonizing flare of pain erupted in his leg as teeth sank into his calf. He hit the ground screaming, the sensation of bone grinding against bone feeling terrifyingly, impossibly real.
"EXIT! EXIT! GET ME OUT!"
Light exploded in his retinas.
Min Luan tore the helm off, collapsing onto the shop's wooden floor. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his face the color of old parchment. He frantically clawed at his leg—it was whole. No blood. No marks.
But the phantom pain still throbbed in his mind, a haunting echo of the teeth.
"That..." he gasped, his chest heaving as he stared at the black chair. "That wasn't an illusion. That was real."
Yuan Bi leaned back, a faint, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "I told you."
Min Luan didn't argue. He staggered to his feet, his knees knocking, and stumbled out the door without another word.
Outside, a small crowd had gathered, drawn by the shriek. "What happened? Did he cheat you?" they pressed.
Min Luan paused, his lips trembling as he looked at the gathered cultivators. He spoke with a haunting, hollow clarity: "It's real. God help me, it's all real."
By evening, the mockery had died. The rumors shifted from laughter to a dark, shivering curiosity.
Inside the Origins Dungeon Hall, Yuan Bi sat in the deepening shadows, watching the street.
"Finally," he murmured to the silence. "Business."
End of chapter