Rain lashed against the roof of the blacksmith's shop, striking like fingers drumming to the rhythm of fate. In the upstairs room, Aeron awoke before dawn, his breathing calm and steady. The Spirit Focus Pill had worked perfectly—he now felt power pulsing inside his core, the kind of strength that begged to be tested.
He sat cross-legged and began cycling the Vein Meditation technique.
Spiritual energy from the air flowed into his body like mist drawn to a flame. The energy passed through his meridians, washed over his bones, muscles, and skin. A soft blue light glowed faintly around him, pulsing in sync with his breath.
> At Body Foundation Level 2, his strength, speed, and durability had nearly doubled from the level before. His senses were sharper—he could hear conversations from the street below and even count the individual raindrops hitting the windowsill.
He opened his eyes slowly.
> This is not enough. Not nearly enough.
The Ironroot Spear School, the most respected martial sect in the eastern provinces, had already dispatched forces to track down the boy who killed one of their outer elders. He had no time to waste.
He stood and began his daily drills.
His spear whirled in tight arcs—slashes, thrusts, spinning sweeps—each move ending in a precise stance. His muscles burned, but his expression remained calm. This was more than practice. This was war preparation.
Downstairs, the blacksmith's hammer rang like thunder.
—
By noon, the rain had stopped. A thick mist lingered in the alleys of Grayharbor, clinging to stone and skin alike. Aeron left the shop dressed in black robes and a hooded cloak, his spear tied beneath the fabric.
He moved through the busy streets toward The Hall of Adventurers—a circular building carved into an old coliseum, now repurposed to serve as the city's bounty hall and mission board.
Inside, cultivators milled around in small groups. Some wore robes, others armour, and a few even carried spirit beasts at their sides. A large board filled the eastern wall, covered in parchment notes and engraved wooden plaques—missions of various ranks.
Aeron walked up to the counter where a clerk sat behind thick glass. She had short white hair and wore a monocle that glowed faintly with spiritual runes.
"I want to register," Aeron said.
The woman raised a brow. "Name?"
"Aeron Vale."
"Cultivation level?"
"Body Foundation, level two."
She typed something into a spirit tablet, then placed a small black stone on the table. "Place your hand on the Soul Stone."
Aeron pressed his palm against the cold surface. The stone pulsed with blue light, recording his identity and cultivation level.
"Done," the clerk said. "You're officially a Bronze Rank adventurer. Missions are ranked from Bronze to Platinum. Don't take something above your grade, or the guild won't take responsibility for your corpse."
"I won't die," Aeron replied simply.
The clerk snorted. "They always say that."
—
He took two missions from the board:
1. Retrieve a missing caravan from the eastern merchant road. Last seen five days ago near the Whispering Hills.
2. Clear a ghoul nest near the abandoned shrine of Dorne—six leagues north of the city.
Both missions had a decent payout and were in similar directions. If completed quickly, they would bring him enough coin to purchase new cultivation gear and information.
By sunset, he had packed supplies, checked his gear, and left Grayharbor on foot, following the narrow trail that led northeast into the hills.
He moved quickly, eating as he walked, his senses alert.
By midnight, he was standing at the edge of the Whispering Hills.
The land here was silent in a strange way. No birds. No insects. Just wind that slid across the grass like whispers in the dark. Small hills rolled in the distance, shrouded by mist and moonlight.
In the far distance, a broken cart lay overturned.
Aeron approached it cautiously, one hand resting on the hilt of his spear.
The cart had been torn open. Bloodstains marked the wooden panels, and several crates were smashed. A merchant's emblem—a gold coin within a sun—was painted on the side.
> Same caravan mentioned in the quest.
But no bodies.
Just drag marks... heading into the hills.
He followed the trail.
For half an hour, he moved through the rolling fog until he reached a hollow between two hills. There, among scattered stones and wilted trees, he saw them.
Eight figures huddled together—thin, crooked, moving strangely. Their eyes glowed red. Their skin was grey and cracked.
Ghouls.
Low-tier spiritual beasts—undead creatures that fed on spirit energy, often found near old battlegrounds or cursed shrines. Normally they hunted animals and scouted corpses, but in a pack, they could overwhelm weak cultivators.
> Looks like the missing caravan was taken by them.
Aeron crouched low behind a bush. One of the ghouls was dragging a half-conscious man toward a black pit in the earth.
He had to act now.
Aeron drew his spear, summoned spiritual energy, and activated Blazing Thrust.
The tip of the spear ignited with a line of orange light.
He aimed.
Thrust.
A beam of concentrated energy shot through the air, piercing the lead ghoul's chest. The creature screamed and fell backward, twitching.
The others turned, hissing.
He charged forward.
As he reached the group, he activated Iron Root and planted his feet.
A ghoul leapt at him.
He twisted, sidestepped, and cleaved upward—slicing through the creature's skull.
Two more came from the left.
He ducked, drove the spear butt into one's knees, then used the shaft as leverage to flip it onto its back. Before it could rise, he stomped its neck, shattering bone.
The third ghoul tackled him.
Aeron rolled with the blow, using the enemy's momentum to toss it aside. He spun, stabbed it in the heart, and kicked it off the blade.
But one had circled behind him.
It clawed his shoulder—sharp nails tearing cloth and skin.
He winced, elbowed it in the face, then spun his spear and decapitated it in one clean strike.
Blood—black and sticky—covered the ground.
Only one ghoul remained, holding the captive.
It snarled and tried to retreat into the pit.
"No you don't," Aeron whispered, focusing all his energy.
Blazing Thrust!
He launched another energy spear.
It struck the ghoul in the spine, sending it tumbling.
The prisoner hit the ground hard, groaning.
Aeron rushed forward, pulled the man away from the pit, and checked his pulse.
Still alive.
Badly wounded.
But alive.
The ghouls were dead.
But the whispers in the wind grew louder.
Aeron turned toward the pit.
It wasn't just a hole.
It was a shrine.
Half-buried stone walls lined its edge, carved with symbols worn by time. A decayed banner hung from a nearby tree—black with a crimson emblem.
He recognised the symbol from the ancient texts in Henricus Longus' inheritance.
It was the mark of an ancient sect...
The Crimson Spire.
A faction said to have vanished 2,000 years ago.
Aeron's eyes narrowed.
> If this shrine survived… what else might have endured?
He stood at the edge of the pit, staring into the blackness.
And for the first time in days, he felt something stir in the depths of the earth.
Something... watching him.
Aeron crouched beside the unconscious man, his ears attuned to the stillness surrounding the shrine. He tore strips from his own cloak, quickly binding the wounded man's shoulder and leg where deep gashes oozed blood. As he worked, he kept glancing toward the pit. Something about it unsettled him—not just the eerie silence, but the pulsing sensation he felt in his core.
> The energy here… it's old. Heavy.
He finished dressing the wounds and placed the man gently against a boulder. Then, gripping his spear, Aeron stepped toward the edge of the pit.
Moonlight glinted off the moss-covered stones. Symbols chiseled into the crumbling walls shimmered faintly as if reacting to his presence. He recognized none of the characters, but the oppressive spiritual aura pressing down on him spoke louder than language.
> What was this place?
He climbed down slowly, testing each foothold. As he descended, the whispers in the air sharpened—not voices, but impressions. Grief. Rage. Longing.
At the bottom, he found himself in a circular stone chamber, only a few paces wide. In the center stood a broken pedestal, its top split and blackened by scorch marks. The same crimson banner he'd seen above hung limp beside it, woven with golden thread that shimmered faintly.
Aeron stepped closer and placed a hand on the banner.
A flash of light engulfed his mind.
He saw a city in flames—towers crumbling as robed cultivators clashed in the sky, launching techniques of terrifying magnitude.
Swords of fire.
Shields of crystal.
Chains of lightning.
And above it all, a massive obsidian spire split in half—its peak tumbling down like a falling star.
At the heart of the destruction stood a man cloaked in red and gold, holding a spear much like Aeron's. His eyes were empty. Not hollow, but stripped of purpose.
"Protect it," a voice boomed in Aeron's head. "Guard the seed of our legacy."
Then silence.
He gasped and stumbled backward, heart pounding.
> Was that… a memory? Or a warning?
He looked again at the pedestal. Among the rubble, half-buried under stone, he saw a small metal case.
He pried it free.
The box was about the size of a man's palm, engraved with runes. It vibrated faintly in his hand.
Inside, he found a black crystal shard wrapped in red silk.
The moment he touched it, information flooded his mind.
Technique Unlocked: Crimson Pulse Spear
A mid-tier technique created by the Crimson Spire. Combines direct spear attacks with burst-type spiritual waves that disrupt enemy flow and stagger defences. The technique was once lost to time.
Aeron's eyes widened.
> So this was what they meant by legacy...
But before he could celebrate, the ground trembled beneath him.
From the shadows of the shrine, three forms emerged.
They were not ghouls. These were different.
Taller. Leaner. Their bodies were coated in layers of black mist, and glowing green crystals were embedded in their foreheads.
Wraith Cultivators.
Corrupted spirits bound to ancient battlefields. They retained the skills they had in life, but were twisted, their minds broken by dark energy.
And they were staring directly at Aeron.
The lead wraith stepped forward. Its voice rasped like metal dragged across stone. "You carry the last breath of the Crimson Spire. You must fall with it."
It launched forward with terrifying speed.
Aeron barely had time to raise his spear before the first blow landed. Their weapons clashed—steel on steel—and a burst of corrupted spiritual energy exploded around them.
Aeron gritted his teeth and pushed back.
The wraith spun midair and unleashed Black Wind Claws, slashing with a technique that sent curved blades of spirit energy spiraling through the air.
Aeron dodged the first, blocked the second, and let the third skim his shoulder, drawing blood.
He activated Iron Root and planted himself like a boulder.
Then he whispered, "Crimson Pulse."
Red energy surged through his veins. His spear lit with pulsing runes, and when he thrust forward, the energy exploded at the tip in a wide, shockwave arc.
The first wraith took the hit full-force and disintegrated on the spot, its form ripped apart by the shockwave.
The second and third paused briefly, then flanked him.
They came fast—one high, one low.
Aeron dropped to his knee and swept his spear sideways, knocking the lower wraith off balance. But the second landed a glancing blow to his ribs.
He stumbled backward, clutching his side.
Blood dripped onto the stones.
He could feel his spiritual energy dropping.
> One more technique… that's all I have before I'm drained.
The two remaining wraiths circled him.
His mind raced.
> If I die here, no one will know about the shard. No one will know about the revival of the Crimson Spire.
He grounded himself, focused on the core inside his chest, and drew every last strand of spiritual energy he could muster.
He charged forward.
Using Blazing Thrust, he faked a direct attack on the left wraith—then spun and used Crimson Pulse mid-motion, catching the right one by surprise.
The second one exploded in smoke and ash.
The last one tried to retreat—but Aeron would not let it escape.
He tossed his spear like a javelin.
The weapon shot through the air, glowing with crimson energy.
It pierced the wraith's chest, pinning it against the wall.
The creature let out a hollow screech—and vanished.
Silence returned to the shrine.
Aeron fell to his knees, panting, sweat pouring down his face.
The shard in his hand pulsed warmly.
He looked at it and whispered, "I don't know who you were… but I'll carry your legacy."
Outside the pit, dawn had begun to break.
The wounded man was still unconscious, but stable.
Aeron retrieved his spear, secured the shard, and climbed out.
As the sunlight pierced through the clouds, painting the hills gold, he glanced back one last time at the shrine.
> A hidden sect… ancient enemies…
He had stumbled into something far greater than a simple mission.
Something was awakening in the world again.
And he was now part of it.