Liang's POV
The sky was no longer blue.
Not even twilight.
It had turned the color of dried bone—pale, heavy, and dead.
I kept running. My legs didn't feel like mine anymore. Each breath I took burned my chest, and the gash on my arm throbbed with every heartbeat. Blood dripped from my fingers, trailing behind me in the dust like a message I didn't mean to leave behind.
But it was better than stopping.
Because stopping meant remembering.
Remembering what they did—what we had done. Burning the remains of our ancestors. The sacred bones turned to ash. Elder Mu's screams still echoed inside my skull, along with his final words:
> "They fear resurrection. They burn the dead to silence what they no longer understand."
Now he, too, had become smoke.
I didn't know who was chasing me anymore. Only that I had seen too much.
---
My steps finally carried me to the edge of the Wujing River. Or what used to be one.
There was no water now. Just a long, hollow scar on the earth—cracked and dry, with jagged rocks jutting out like broken ribs. I slid down the slope without thinking, my boots skidding across loose dirt and old roots.
The ground welcomed me roughly.
I coughed, clutching my side. The riverbed was still. Not silent—dead. No wind, no birdsong, no energy.
I stood slowly, body shaking. And that's when I saw it.
A patch of overgrowth—impossibly green—thriving in the middle of this lifeless place. I staggered toward it, brushing aside the brambles. Behind them, half-buried in stone, was a narrow crevice. Just wide enough for a person.
Cold air whispered from the darkness.
I pressed my palm to the edge.
It pulsed beneath my skin.
---
I didn't know what I expected when I crawled inside. An animal den, maybe. Some hidden pocket of spiritual energy.
Not this.
The tunnel opened into a chamber—vast and breathless.
A tomb.
The walls were lined with carvings—old, older than any sect I'd studied. Sitting in the center were rows of skeletal cultivators, still cross-legged in meditation. Their weapons rested across their laps. Some clutched talismans. Others wore beads stained dark with ancient blood.
It wasn't dust that filled the air.
It was memory.
I took a step forward. Then another. My heart beat faster, but not from fear—recognition. These weren't just the dead. These were the origin.
> "The founders…"
I knelt before one skeleton wrapped in a dragon-spine robe—the symbol of the Xuanlong Sect, destroyed centuries ago.
My fingers hovered over the prayer beads around its neck.
Then, something beat.
Thump.
Not sound. A pulse.
I turned slowly.
A bone—long, jagged, glowing—lay alone in the center of the room. A femur, cracked down the middle. But it… vibrated.
Before I could think, I stepped toward it.
Then the world moved too fast.
CRACK!
The bone flew through the air—and stabbed straight into my arm.
Pain exploded. My scream tore through the silence, echoing off stone. Blood splattered across the tomb floor. The bone drank it, pulsing brighter, as if feeding.
I tried to pull it out.
It wouldn't budge.
Then my mind tore open.
---
Visions That Weren't Mine
Suddenly I stood in a battlefield. But not as me. My hands were older, heavier—holding a sickle blackened by fire. Two-headed beasts roared around me. I spun, slicing through their bodies.
Someone—something—spoke through my lips:
> "The Bone Scripture is not a technique. It's a covenant. You give blood. You gain power. You surrender time."
Then the vision collapsed. I fell back into myself, breathless, trembling.
I looked at my arm.
The wound wasn't bleeding anymore.
It had turned black, threaded with dark symbols—familiar ones. Bone sigils. Forbidden ones.
Suddenly, I wasn't alone.
The skeletons were moving.
Slowly.
Bones shifting, realigning. Not alive—but not dead. Their spirits bled into the air—ghostlight dancing behind hollow sockets.
I stepped back.
Then I heard the voices. Not spoken. Inside my head.
> "Your blood woke us."
"We remember the pact."
"We require a vessel."
My back hit the wall.
"No," I whispered. "I didn't agree to anything."
The entrance—gone. Collapsed. I was sealed inside.
Then one skeleton stood.
Reformed by ghostlight. Cloaked in shadows. Its eyes glowed red. A massive scythe hovered in its hands.
> "You carry the First Bone."
"The heir has returned."
"Stop calling me that!" I shouted.
But I could feel it inside me.
Power.
Old, terrifying power. It throbbed beneath my skin, pulsing through my bones.
The spirits bowed. Whispers surrounded me:
> "The Bone Heir walks again."
"The cycle begins anew."
"He must choose."
I trembled.
"I didn't come here to become a monster."
> "Then they will come to destroy you."
Outside… I felt it. Pressure. A presence—no, many.
Cultivators. Powerful. Angry.
And one of them… was carrying a Torch of Bonefire.
They had found me.
The ground trembled beneath my feet. The cave ceiling groaned.
I looked up.
A single crack split open above my head—
And the floor gave way.
I screamed as I fell into the dark.
Deeper.
And deeper.
Until I saw it—
A vast spiral staircase carved from bone.
In the distance, a whisper spoke:
> "Welcome to the Bone Library, child of ash."
I fell for what felt like eternity.
Wind howled past my ears, yet there was no air—only pressure. Ancient. Heavy. It felt like I was plunging into a memory older than time itself.
Then, light.
A faint glow beneath me, spiraling like veins of moonlight carved into the earth. I hit the ground hard—dirt and bone dust exploding around me.
I coughed, groaned, and slowly pushed myself up.
Wherever I was now, it wasn't just another level of the tomb. This was a catacomb carved with purpose.
Columns shaped from fused ribs lined both sides of the narrow corridor. Skulls rested in alcoves like watchers—each etched with runes that shimmered faintly as I passed.
At the far end, a staircase descended even further. But there was no time to question it. Behind me, the stone above had sealed.
No turning back.
Each step I took echoed. The air was thicker here—charged with something spiritual, and yet... wrong. Like a melody played out of tune.
> "Child of ash," the whisper returned, softer now.
"You carry the marrow of kings. But you do not yet understand the cost."
I clenched my fists.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice shaking. "What is this place?"
There was no answer. Only the shifting of shadows.
Then… a light flared ahead.
A chamber.
I stepped inside, and my breath caught in my throat.
Rows and rows of stone shelves—made of vertebrae and femurs—stretched endlessly. Upon them were scrolls, bones, and preserved relics bound in flesh. Floating above the center was a sphere of pure spiritual flame, pulsing like a heartbeat.
And beneath it… a figure.
Draped in robes that moved like smoke. His face was a skull, but not lifeless—eyes burned from within, ancient and knowing.
> "I am the Curator," he said, without speaking. "The Keeper of What Was Cast Away."
I took a step back, but my feet wouldn't move.
> "You opened the gate with blood. You summoned the Bone Scripture from its grave."
"No. I—I didn't mean to—" I stammered.
> "Intent means nothing to the contract. The pact is old. Your blood answered. And now… you are bound."
I felt the sigils on my arm burn brighter.
I looked down—and saw veins turning dark. Spreading. Crawling toward my heart.
Terror clutched my throat.
"What happens if I resist?" I whispered.
> "Then your body will crack. Your mind will rot. And your name will be forgotten—like all who denied the Bone Path."
The chamber began to spin.
I staggered, vision warping. The scrolls whispered my name. The relics pulsed.
And the flame above me lowered—
> "Take it," said the Curator. "Accept your marrow-born destiny."
I reached toward it—
But behind me, I heard a voice I knew.
A voice from my past.
Soft. Gentle. Trembling.
> "Liang…?"
I froze.
Turned slowly.
And saw her.
Qin Yao.
Dressed in white robes, dirt on her cheek, eyes wide with disbelief.
"How did you—" I choked.
But her eyes weren't looking at me.
They were looking at my arm.
And the sigils still glowing with death.
Her lips parted in fear.
> "What… have you become?"