The mist outside the Black Rain Sect was thicker than it had any right to be.It clung to the slopes like a living thing, veiling jagged cliffs and gnarled trees in pale, sickly light. The path ahead was narrow — broken stone wrapped around the side of a canyon. One misstep meant a plummet into silence.
Yuan Zhi walked it alone.
No guards. No companions. No escort.
Just a black dagger at his waist, a thin cloth satchel for the spirit roots he was ordered to retrieve… and the knowledge that he was expendable.
The sect didn't train outer disciples to succeed.It trained them to survive failure long enough to become useful.
He reached the bottom of the slope by midday, entering the fringe of the Ashleaf Forest — a place spoken of in fragments by whispering disciples too afraid to enter. The air here pulsed with faint spiritual energy, but it was… off.
Tainted.
The trees were twisted, bark cracked and blackened like old wounds. The leaves were dark grey and curled at the edges, giving the forest its name. Roots burst through the soil like skeletal fingers, slick with mildew.
And somewhere beneath it all, Yuan Zhi could feel the weight of the land pressing in.He drew his dagger and moved carefully.
The spirit roots he needed only grew from Devilfruit Blossoms — parasitic plants that fed off decaying spiritual creatures. They were rare. Hard to spot. And guarded by the things that died to make them grow.
But Yuan Zhi had time.
He scouted the ground for signs: scorched moss, claw marks, blood-darkened soil. After an hour of silence, he found his first blossom — wilted, red-veined, coiled around the corpse of a horned snake the size of a grown man's thigh.The root glowed faintly beneath the petals.
Yuan Zhi knelt.
The blade in his hand wasn't for the plant.
It was for what came next.
Because spirit roots… screamed.
Not aloud. But with qi. The moment he plucked the root, the forest reacted — branches shook, birds scattered, and something stirred in the distance.
He didn't hesitate.
One root. Secured. Placed in the satchel.
Four to go.
The second root was harder. It was buried beneath a half-eaten beast that looked like a cross between a wolf and a centipede. Its limbs twitched, but it was long dead. Still, Yuan Zhi took no chances — driving his blade into the skull before retrieving the root.
Again, the forest shifted.
This time… not just the wind.
Footsteps.
He vanished into the undergrowth, crouched beneath thorned vines.
The steps grew louder. A robe brushed against leaves.
Then a voice, casual, almost bored: "Two roots in under an hour? Impressive for outer sect trash."
Yuan Zhi's eyes narrowed.
The speaker came into view — tall, lean, with silver clasps on his robe and a crescent-shaped scar on his neck. An inner disciple.
Of course.Elder Mo hadn't sent him on a task.He had sent him to die.
"Come out," the inner disciple said, voice amused. "No need to make this messy. You're new, right? You give me the roots, I let you limp home. Maybe."
Yuan Zhi didn't move.
"Still hiding?" The disciple drew a long blade from his hip — black steel, sharp as silence. "Fine."
He turned and slashed in one motion — cleaving through the bush Yuan Zhi had been hiding behind.
But Yuan wasn't there.
The real Yuan Zhi dropped from the branch above, blade angled down, aiming for the neck.
The inner disciple twisted — fast. Faster than anyone Yuan Zhi had faced so far. The two blades clashed mid-air.
Sparks.
Yuan landed and rolled, avoiding the counter-slash by a breath.
"You're quick," the disciple said, mildly surprised. "But outer sect rats should know when to run."
Yuan Zhi didn't answer.
He lunged.
The fight was fast, violent.
The inner disciple was stronger. More refined. He used a formal sword technique — long arcs, guarded steps, precision strikes. Yuan Zhi, in contrast, was all angles and unpredictability — knees, elbows, shallow slashes, baiting with feints and movement.
Three times he closed the distance. Three times he was knocked back by a flare of qi.
But every strike told him something.
Stamina. Rhythm. Habit.
Even refined techniques form ruts.
And Yuan Zhi… was a trap builder.
On the fifth pass, he baited a wide arc swing and dropped low — driving a handful of ashleaf thorns into the disciple's exposed calf.
The man screamed, staggering.
Yuan struck.
Blade to thigh. Elbow to gut. Knee to chin.
Blood sprayed as the inner disciple fell back, gasping, his sword arm twitching.
"You think this makes you strong?" he hissed.
"No," Yuan Zhi said. "But it makes you dead."
He didn't finish with a clean stab.
He broke the man's sword hand, crushed his throat with a stomp, then severed the head.Clean kills were for people who feared being caught.
Yuan Zhi… feared nothing now.
He looted the corpse: a better blade, three spirit stones, a qi compression pill, and a worn talisman shaped like a crescent moon. Probably for identification. He pocketed it.
Three more spirit roots followed.
The last grew from the chest of a long-dead cultivator, wrapped in vines and fused into the soil. The corpse had no head.
Yuan Zhi took the root anyway.
He returned to the sect before sunset.
Blood-stained. Silent.
At the Bone Hall, Elder Mo waited — seated on the same high ledge as before.
"You return whole."
"I return changed."
Mo nodded, then held out one hand.
Yuan Zhi dropped the five roots into a black bowl.
Mo examined them with care, nodding.
"You killed the inner disciple."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Good."
The elder stood and threw a small leather-bound book toward him.
"Your reward."
Yuan Zhi caught it.
[Silent Blade Scripture – Root Level]
Step without sound. Cut without form. Kill without presence.
Mo's eyes gleamed. "You've earned the right to walk the quiet path."
He vanished in smoke.
That night, in his stone chamber, Yuan Zhi opened the book.
He didn't smile. He didn't rest.
He read.
He trained.
He moved without shadow.
They called it "outer sect."
But Yuan Zhi had already stepped beyond it.
Not in title.
In hunger.
In what he had already bled to become.