The mist on Silent Peak did not just obscure the vision; it dampened the soul. For three days, Hua Sui had remained within the confines of his frost-rimed cave, the rhythmic thrum of the broken scythe-blade vibrating through his skeletal structure. The Sword-Seed in his spine had begun to extend microscopic, crystalline filaments into his nervous system, weaving the ancient weapon's malice into his own biological intent. He was no longer just a boy holding a tool; he was becoming the sheath for a primordial hunger.

  However, the "silence" of the peak was a lie. Silent Peak was a hierarchy of the forgotten.

  On the fourth evening, the heavy silence was broken by the sound of dragging metal. A figure emerged from the shifting grey fog—a man built like a mountain of scarred meat, his legs replaced by crude, rusted iron prosthetics that hissed with steam. This was "Iron Ghost" Wei, a former inner sect prodigy who had been discarded after a disastrous soul-merger. In his prime, he was Rank 4 of the Foundation stage; now, he was a bitter scavenger who ruled the lower slopes of the peak through sheer, desperate brutality.

  "The Deacon said a rich little rat moved in," Wei rasped, his voice sounding like a rusted saw cutting through wet wood. Behind him, two other crippled disciples lurked in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with the predatory greed of those who had lost everything. "Three thousand points... that's a lot of wine and marrow-balm, boy. Hand over the remaining jades and that slab of cold-iron you brought up, and I might let you die of old age."

  Hua Sui sat motionless, his hand resting on the hilt-less tang of the broken scythe. He didn't look at Wei. He was focused on the way the dark runes on the blade were beginning to glow with a faint, expectant crimson.

  "The iron is gone," Hua Sui said softly. "I turned it into a tomb. Would you like to see inside?"

  Wei's face twisted into a mask of scarred rage. "A clever tongue for a corpse! Break his arms!"

  The two lackeys lunged forward. They were Rank 9 Qi Refiners—weak by sect standards, but formidable against a 'crippled' newcomer. One wielded a jagged bone-hook, the other a chain-mace.

  Hua Sui didn't stand up. He didn't even adopt a defensive stance. He simply allowed the Inverse Qi to flood the broken blade.

  The air in the cave suddenly curdled. A wave of absolute, crushing cold erupted from the scythe, turning the moisture in the air into jagged ice-shards. As the first lackey swung the bone-hook, Hua Sui flicked his wrist.

  The movement was too fast for the human eye to track. There was no flash of light, no heroic sword-aura. There was only a thin, jagged line of blackness that seemed to tear through the space between them.

  The bone-hook didn't just break; it vanished, disintegrated by the corrosive sword-intent. The lackey froze, a look of profound confusion crossing his face before a thin red line appeared diagonally across his torso. A second later, his upper body slid off his waist, the wound cauterized by a frost so intense it turned the flesh to black glass.

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  No blood spilled. The blade had drunk it all before the body hit the floor.

  "What... what kind of demonic art is that?" the second lackey screamed, dropping his mace and scrambling backward.

  Iron Ghost Wei roared, his iron legs hissing as he lunged forward, his massive fists glowing with a dull, muddy earth-elemental Qi. He was a Foundation-level fighter, and his sheer mass was enough to crush a stone pillar.

  Hua Sui finally stood up. He felt the Sword-Seed pulse, sending a jolt of cold adrenaline into his brain. He didn't use the Ghost-Step to dodge. He met Wei head-on.

  As Wei's fist descended, Hua Sui thrust the broken scythe upward. The jagged edge of the weapon met the "Iron Ghost's" fist. There was a sickening sound of metal being shredded. The scythe-blade didn't just cut through the earth-Qi; it ignored it entirely, slicing through the heavy muscle and bone of Wei's forearm as if it were soft wax.

  "Argh! My arm!" Wei recoiled, staring at the stump where his hand used to be. But the scream died in his throat as he realized something far more terrifying: he couldn't feel his Dantian.

  The moment the blade had touched him, a swarm of microscopic, needle-like Inverse Qi had flooded his meridians, acting like a paralyzing frost. His spiritual energy was being locked, frozen in place by the weapon's malice.

  "You are the first," Hua Sui whispered, stepping into Wei's personal space. He leaned in, his violet eyes reflecting the man's terror. "The first of many who will learn that 'broken' does not mean 'weak'."

  Hua Sui swung the blade in a wide, horizontal arc. The scythe's runic edge sang a high, mournful note. Wei's massive head spun into the air, his eyes still wide with shock.

  As the two bodies collapsed, the broken scythe began to vibrate violently. Hua Sui felt a warm, liquid heat flowing from the tang and into his palm. It was the refined life-essence of a Foundation-level cultivator, stripped of its impurities and converted into pure, dark energy by the weapon's ancient forge.

  His own Inverse Foundation roared with delight, absorbing the stolen power. The "cracks" in his meridians—the ones he had faked to deceive the Elders—seemed to hum with a new, reinforced density. He wasn't just healing; he was evolving.

  Hua Sui looked at the surviving lackey, who was now kneeling in the snow, sobbing hysterically.

  "Go," Hua Sui said, his voice carrying the weight of an executioner's axe. "Tell the other 'ghosts' on this peak that the territory around this cave belongs to me. If I see a shadow on my path, I will harvest the soul attached to it."

  The man scrambled away, disappearing into the fog like a frightened rabbit.

  Hua Sui returned to the center of his cave and sat down. He looked at the broken blade, which was now pulsing with a satisfied, crimson glow. He had tested the weapon, and the result was better than he had hoped. It wasn't just a tool for killing; it was a tool for growth. Every soul he harvested with this blade would become a stepping stone for his own ascension.

  While the "geniuses" of the Golden Sword Hall were meditating on sun-dappled peaks and consuming expensive pills, Hua Sui was here in the dark, feeding on the blood of the desperate.

  He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the Sword-Seed. He could feel the recommendation on the 'New Releases' list reaching its crescendo. He didn't care about the fame, but he knew that the more attention his "legend" garnered, the more the sect would be forced to watch him. And the more they watched, the more they would fear.

  The night was long, but for the first time, Hua Sui wasn't afraid of the dawn. He was the dawn—a dark, cold morning that would eventually extinguish the light of the Scarlet Cloud Sect.

  "One down," he murmured to the darkness. "A thousand to go."