The morning light spilled across the sweeping, multi-tiered streets of Pyradine City, painting the sweeping clay-tiled rooftops in shades of liquid gold. But unlike the days before, the air in the West District felt charged. Heavier. The idle, mundane chatter of the marketplace had shifted, vibrating with the electric friction of a rumor that absolutely refused to die.
At the Morning Dew Teahouse
"I'm telling you, by the ancestors, it's true! Min Luan, the Silk Merchant's son, went into that dilapidated shop yesterday," a man whispered, leaning so far over the polished wooden table his nose nearly dipped into his cup of bitter tea. He wore the gray robes of an outer sect disciple, his sword leaning lazily against his chair.
"And?" his listener, a burly mercenary with a scarred jaw, urged. "Did he come out screaming again? I heard he pissed his fine silk pants the first time."
The disciple grinned, revealing stained teeth. "Worse. He came out looking like a freshly buried corpse himself—pale as a ghost, knocking knees, drenched in a cold sweat. They say he fought something inside."
"Fought what? A shadow? A bad memory?" The mercenary snorted, crossing his massive arms.
"A dead man," the disciple lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, dramatic rasp. "And the dead man won. Ripped his throat out, from what the street urchins saw."
The entire table erupted into raucous, belly-deep laughter, drawing the ire of the teahouse owner.
"Hahaha! That fat pig Min Luan!" the mercenary roared, wiping a tear from his eye. "He's so useless he can't even beat a man who's already stopped breathing! I always knew those merchant brats were soft, but losing a shadow-boxing match to an illusion? That crippled Yuan boy must have crafted a terrifying mind-array to fleece him out of his spiritual stones."
While the men in the teahouses mocked, true curiosity was beginning to fester in the deeper corners of the city like an itch that couldn't be scratched. Near the Martial Academy road, young, ambitious disciples whispered about "hidden inheritances" and "soul-traps." Near the city gates, veteran guards debated whether it was an elaborate scam or a miraculous, heaven-defying artifact.
But inside the Origins Dungeon Hall, the atmosphere was one of profound, lazy stillness.
Yuan Bi sat behind his counter, half-reclined in his battered bamboo chair, his eyes closed. To anyone looking through the open doorway, he appeared to be dozing, wasting away in the morning heat.
In reality, his internal state was a raging tempest.
Beneath his calm exterior, the fifteen days' worth of pure, refined Origin Internal Force he had received from the System was cycling through his newly reconstructed meridians. It moved like a heavy, rushing river, tearing through the minor blockages in his body and settling into his dantian with a warm, dense weight. Every breath he took was perfectly aligned with the flow of Qi. He could feel the microscopic imperfections in the wooden floorboards beneath him; he could hear the heartbeat of a stray dog sleeping two alleys over.
Power, Yuan Bi thought, a dark, satisfying smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Just one failure from a fat merchant's son, and my foundation is already solidifying. He opened his dark eyes, tracking a single dust mote drifting through a beam of sunlight.
"…Still empty," he observed softly to the quiet shop. His tone wasn't disappointed; it was simply factual. He had all the time in the world.
Outside, footsteps would occasionally slow. Errant martial artists and curious commoners would pause on the dusty street, their eyes lingering on the strange, pulsing black obsidian seats and the cryptic wooden board that promised Martial Enlightenment. Then, they would shake their heads, their footsteps quickening as they walked away. Seven spiritual stones was a steep price for a headache, and no one wanted to be the first fool of the day.
BANG!
The shop's dilapidated double doors didn't just open; they surrendered, slamming against the interior walls with a violent crack that sent a cloud of dust raining from the ceiling.
Min Luan burst in.
The wealthy merchant's son looked entirely unhinged. His usually immaculate hair was a tangled bird's nest, his eyes were heavily bloodshot with dark, bruised bags beneath them, and his round face was a ghostly mask of absolute exhaustion. But beneath it all—beneath the fatigue and the lingering terror—something intense and fanatical was burning in his eyes.
"Yuan Bi!" Min Luan gasped, his chest heaving as he gripped the doorframe to steady himself.
Yuan Bi didn't even adjust his posture, merely lazily snapping his frayed paper fan open. "Min Luan. Back so soon? I thought you were going to warn the city guard about my 'illusion tricks'?"
Min Luan completely ignored the barb. He marched straight to the wooden counter, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. "I'm going in again."
This time, Yuan Bi actually paused his fanning. He raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused. "Oh? You were terrified yesterday. You crawled out of here looking like you'd seen the Underworld. Why come back to have your throat chewed on again?"
Min Luan's hands curled into trembling, white-knuckled fists. The memory of the Undead Hall flashed vividly through his mind—the stench of ancient rot, the freezing, stagnant air, the horrifying, unnatural precision of the corpse's movements, and the agonizing, hyper-realistic sensation of teeth grinding against his collarbone.
He had woken up three times in the middle of the night, screaming, clutching his perfectly uninjured shoulder.
"I lost," Min Luan said, his voice raw, stripped of his usual young master bravado. "I died to a mindless, rotting corpse."
He leaned over the counter, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Yuan Bi's. "But when I woke up this morning… I went to my father's courtyard. I threw a kick at the guards' training dummy." Min Luan's breath hitched. "I shattered the solid oak post. Perfect posture. Perfect kinetic transfer. I didn't even have to think about it. The muscle memory… it's real."
Yuan Bi smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "I told you. The enlightenment is permanent."
"I won't accept losing," Min Luan breathed, his greed and martial pride suddenly warring with his terror. He was sick of being the family disappointment, sick of his failed ventures. "Not to a mindless thing like that. And I want more of that enlightenment."
Without waiting for a reply, the young merchant slammed a heavy brocade pouch onto the counter. He pulled out seven glowing, translucent spiritual stones. They rang out against the wood with a sharp, decisive, metallic chime.
He didn't wait for permission. Min Luan turned, marched directly to the first obsidian seat, threw his heavy frame into it, and shoved the pulsing silver helm onto his head before his courage could fail him.
Yuan Bi chuckled, waving his hand over the spiritual stones, depositing them into his own spatial ring. "System. Initiate Dungeon: The Undead Hall. Difficulty: Normal(Solo play)."
Min Luan opened his eyes to the exact same nightmare.
The transition was jarring, stripping away the warmth of the morning sun and plunging him into the freezing, oppressive gloom of the decaying martial arts pavilion. The massive, rotting wooden pillars loomed over him like the ribs of a dead giant. Moonlight filtered through the shattered roof tiles. The air tasted of rust, old blood, and ancient decay.
Instantly, Min Luan felt the familiar, terrifying void in his center. His meager Internal Force was entirely sealed, leaving him as nothing more than a fragile mortal man in a tomb of monsters.
But he didn't freeze this time.
He didn't panic and look for the exit. Instead, he reached into his silken sash and drew a small, unadorned iron dagger. It was a merchant's tool, meant for cutting ropes or deterring petty street thieves, but the steel was sharp.
"Yesterday, I panicked," Min Luan whispered to the howling wind, his voice trembling only slightly. "Today, I fight."
He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his racing heart to steady, and stepped deeper into the ruined pavilion. His heavy boots crunched softly against broken tiles. The shadows stretched long and jagged, playing tricks on his eyes.
Shuffle. Drag. Shuffle.
There it was.
From behind a shattered weapon rack, a figure emerged. It wore the tattered, rotting robes of an ancient sect disciple. Its gray, desiccated skin was drawn tight over sharp bones, and its milky, sightless eyes locked onto Min Luan's position with predatory instantly.
It didn't roar. It didn't hesitate. It immediately raised its hands into a stiff, flawless martial arts stance and lunged.
Min Luan's instincts screamed at him to turn and run. His skin crawled with the phantom pain of yesterday's bite. But he forced his legs to root to the ground.
Wait for it, he told himself.
As the Undead Novice Disciple closed the distance, extending a clawed, rotting hand toward Min Luan's throat, the young merchant moved. He didn't just throw a wild strike; he let his newly acquired muscle memory take over.
He pivoted his hips, planted his supporting heel with textbook perfection, and snapped his right leg out in a devastatingly fast, kinetic kick.
CRACK!
His boot slammed perfectly into the undead's knee joint. The brittle, centuries-old bone snapped backward with a sickening crunch. The corpse's forward momentum failed, and it pitched forward, crashing onto the stone floor.
"DIE!" Min Luan roared, the primal thrill of combat washing over his fear.
He lunged forward, dropping his weight, and drove his iron dagger downward, aiming squarely for the center of the creature's back, right where the heart should be.
The blade sank in with a wet thunk, burying itself to the hilt.
Min Luan gasped, a triumphant smile breaking across his sweating face.
But the corpse didn't fall still. It didn't even flinch. It didn't have a beating heart.
With horrifying speed, the creature simply turned its head around—twisting its neck further than human anatomy should ever allow—and let out a guttural, inhuman shriek right into Min Luan's face.
"What—!?"
Before the young man could pull back, the undead swept its unbroken leg around, sweeping Min Luan off his feet. He crashed hard onto the unforgiving stone. The corpse scrambled on top of him in an instant, its weight cold, heavy, and smelling of the grave.
Its jaws snapped inches from Min Luan's face.
Desperate, Min Luan threw up his left forearm to block. The agony was instantaneous and blinding. Jagged, rotting teeth tore through his silk sleeves and sank deeply into his flesh, grinding against his ulna bone.
"GAAAH! It hurts…!" he hissed through clenched teeth, tears of sheer agony springing to his eyes.
Panic threatened to consume him, to break his mind just as it had yesterday. But amidst the blinding pain, a cold, desperate clarity surfaced.
The chest didn't work. It's already dead. I have to stop the head.
Ignoring the tearing of his own flesh, Min Luan let go of his dagger. He reached up with his free, trembling right hand and grabbed the creature's matted, brittle hair. He pulled its rotting face down, exposing the back of its neck, and with a desperate, primal scream, he reached for a loose, jagged shard of a broken spear shaft lying on the floor beside him.
He drove the jagged wood directly into the base of the creature's skull, right into the spinal column. Once. Twice.
With a sickening crunch of breaking vertebrae, the corpse shuddered violently. Its limbs flailed in a brief, spastic dance, before it finally went entirely limp, collapsing its dead weight onto Min Luan's chest.
Min Luan lay on the cold floor, the putrid blood of the creature mixing with his own. He shoved the heavy body off him and gasped for air, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He had survived and for 10 minutes he passed.
Upon exiting, a sudden faint golden warmth spread from the base of his skull down to his limbs. It was subtle, like the first gentle rays of spring melting winter snow, but entirely undeniable.
His mind flashed with sudden, crystalline insight. He suddenly understood the exact angle needed to deflect a grapple. He understood how a dagger should sit in the palm of his hand to maximize cutting leverage. The desperate, sloppy scuffle he had just engaged in had been organically analyzed by the Undead Hall and refined into perfect, permanent battlefield experience.
His bloodshot eyes went wide in the dark. "I… I improved ."
There were no expensive alchemical pills. No decades of staring at a waterfall in meditation. Just a single, brutal life-and-death struggle, and his martial foundation had deepened.
Before he could stand up to face the rest of the hall, the massive double doors of the pavilion slammed open, and three more Undead Disciples poured in.
Light flashed brightly in Min Luan's retinas.
He ripped the silver helm off his head with a gasp, jumping to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the heavy obsidian chair. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his chest heaving, but he didn't check his body for injuries this time. He just stared at his hands, clenching them into tight, powerful fists.
"I DID IT! I KILLED IT!" Min Luan bellowed, his voice echoing out of the shop and into the street. "I gained the dagger comprehension! I felt it!"
Behind the counter, Yuan Bi tapped a finger lazily against his chin. "The spine or the brain. You figured it out. Though, letting it bite you first was poor form."
Min Luan froze, turning to glare at the shop owner. "…You knew? You knew the heart wouldn't work, and you didn't tell me before I went in?"
Yuan Bi shrugged, the absolute picture of unapologetic nonchalance. "You didn't ask. Besides, a lesson bought with your own blood is a lesson never forgotten. You won't make that mistake tomorrow."
"You're completely shameless," Min Luan breathed, though there was no real anger in his voice. Just awe.
"Thank you," Yuan Bi replied smoothly. A notification only he could see shimmered into existence.
[Host EXP Gained: +10 Shop EXP.]
[Shop Level Progress: 20/100 to Level 2.]
By now, a small handful of onlookers had gathered at the entrance of the shop, drawn by Min Luan's triumphant shouting. It was only the second day, so the numbers were sparse, but their eyes were sharp. They peered into the dim interior, watching as the "useless merchant's son" stood tall. He looked exhausted, yes, but his posture had fundamentally shifted. He no longer stood like a pampered heir; he stood with the balanced, rooted stance of someone who had recently killed. His eyes were bright with a terrifying, newfound confidence.
"He actually killed something?" a young, sword-bearing cultivator whispered to his friend, leaning against the doorframe.
"He looks… different," an older, scarred veteran noted, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed Min Luan. "His aura is steadier. The fat is still there, but the boy beneath it just gained real killing intent. You can't fake that."
Min Luan turned to the small gathering, his voice booming with the fanatic zeal of a new convert. "It's real! Everything the sign says is real! You go in, you fight, you can die, and you wake up right here! And every time you kill one of those things, the Hall forces enlightenment into your mind! It engraves the combat into your muscles!"
The silence that followed his declaration was incredibly heavy.
In the world of Wuxia, progress was measured in months and years of agonizingly slow toil. Warriors bled, broke their bodies, and risked true death against monstrous beasts just for a tiny sliver of a chance at a breakthrough. [1]To hear of a shortcut—a supreme artifact where you could gain authentic, life-and-death battlefield experience without the permanent risk of dying—was more than a rumor.
It was a revolution. It was a treasure wars were fought over.
The handful of spectators shifted uneasily. Disbelief warred violently with blinding, intoxicating greed.
"Lies," someone muttered from the back. "A merchant's trick."
But then, a man stepped forward from the back of the small group. He was lean, wearing a tattered bamboo hat and a cheap, iron sword strapped to his hip. He had the desperate, hungry eyes of a wandering rogue cultivator who had been stuck at his current bottleneck for a decade.
He looked at Min Luan, then looked at the strange black chairs, and finally locked eyes with Yuan Bi.
"Boss," the rogue cultivator said, his voice raspy, burning with a mixture of immense greed and desperate hope. "If I die in there… do I really keep the technique refinement?"
Yuan Bi didn't speak. He simply smiled—a calm, knowing expression—and pointed his frayed fan at the wooden board.
The man stared at the "7 Spiritual Stones" fee. He hesitated for a long heartbeat, his hand trembling as he reached into his worn robes. He pulled out a dirty pouch, counting out his life's savings. He slammed seven glowing spiritual stones onto the wooden table.
"Fine. If it's a trick, I'll take your head," the rogue hissed. "I'm in."
"Take a seat," Yuan Bi gestured lazily toward the second obsidian chair.
As the rogue pulled the helm over his head and slumped backward into the simulation, the small group collectively held its breath.
Two other cultivators hesitantly reached for their coin pouches, whispering fiercely among themselves. It wasn't a stampede—not yet—but the spark had caught. In the cutthroat martial world of Pyradine City, no one wanted to be left behind while others grew stronger.
Behind the counter, Yuan Bi leaned back, closing his eyes as the sweet chime of spiritual stones hitting his table began to echo through the shop.
The shift had finally begun. Mockery was turning to curiosity. Curiosity was turning to desire. And soon, desire would become a bloody, fanatical obsession that Pyradine City would never be able to shake.
[1] His talking about novels