Gu Muye's eyes opened to darkness. The air smelled thick of rot and damp stone, as if something long dead clung to every breath. Bone lanterns flickered overhead, their pale green light barely pushing back the shadows on the walls. Shapes hung there, corpses chained in iron, silent and still.
Before he could move, pain slammed into his skull. It wasn't just sharp; it felt like his mind itself was splitting. Images crashed through him in wild flashes: narrow stone halls lit by bone lanterns, corpses swinging slightly in chains, a voice whispering in fear: "Six years… reach the Corpse Vein Realm… or become a corpse slave…"
The pain built until it felt like his head would break apart. His vision blurred, and before he could even draw a proper breath, darkness swallowed him again.
When Gu Muye woke again, the pain had faded to a dull throb behind his eyes. His clothes were damp with sweat. He lay on rough straw that scratched at his skin. His breath came in slow, shallow gasps, and his heart thudded in his chest, quick and uneven.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up. His limbs felt weak, his hands thin, bones sharp beneath pale skin. Around him, the cell was no more than a hollow cut into rock, walls dark with damp patches. The bone lantern above gave off just enough light to see the chains on the walls, each holding a corpse. Some fresh, skin pale and limp. Others dried and dark, flesh peeling away from bone.
The memories from before hadn't vanished. They were fragments, blurred at the edges, but they were enough to tell him what mattered. The place had a name: Corpse Refining Sect. He was an outer disciple, the lowest rank. And every outer disciple had the same rule carved into their future: within six years, they had to reach the Corpse Vein Realm. If they failed, they weren't expelled. They were turned into corpse slaves, their bodies kept for use by others, their names forgotten.
His chest tightened as he forced himself to breathe slower. From what pieces of memory he had, he guessed the body he now occupied had already been here about a year. That meant he had roughly five years left. Not a lifetime. Just five years.
Gu Muye wiped sweat from his forehead, hand trembling slightly. He remembered other things, too: that he hadn't been born here. That once, somewhere else, he had lived a different life. Those memories felt distant now, thin as smoke, but the fear was real and sharp in his chest.
Beyond the cell, muffled voices drifted through the narrow doorway. Other outer disciples, talking low, careful not to draw attention.
"Three more were taken yesterday," someone whispered.
"Didn't sense corpse qi in time, probably," another voice answered, dry and bitter.
"They say six years," a third voice, older, rasping, "but some get called early. Fail a mission, say the wrong thing… you end up in the Bone Garden all the same."
Their words sent a chill across his skin. The fragments of memory agreed: failure wasn't always about missing the deadline. Disciples who showed no progress, spoke out of turn, or angered the wrong person could vanish sooner.
He shifted, letting the straw crunch softly under him. The cell had no door, just an open archway leading to a stone hall beyond. He could see faint outlines of other cells, other figures sitting hunched or lying down. None of them spoke loudly. None looked comfortable. Fear hung over them like the smell of rot.
Gu Muye tried to stand. His legs felt unsteady, but he managed, gripping the rough wall to steady himself. His robes were thin, coarse cloth patched in places, stained at the cuffs. They smelled of dust and old sweat. His body felt light, almost frail, as if the bones beneath skin remembered hunger and fear more than strength.
Fragments of memory showed him more: the Corpse Qi Baptism Realm, the first step. Absorbing corpse qi, letting it sink into flesh and bone. Painful, dangerous. After that, the Corpse Vein Realm. Opening corpse veins to circulate the qi properly. Beyond that, the words blurred: Bone Tempering Realm, Corpse Core Realm… he had no details, just names that felt far away.
What little he knew came from the leftover soul that had clashed with his when he first woke. The pain from before wasn't random; it was that last piece of the old soul resisting before fading. It hadn't destroyed him, but it had left behind scattered thoughts, fears, warnings.
He stepped closer to the doorway. The hall outside stretched in both directions, lit by more bone lanterns whose light wavered with every small draft. The stone floor was worn smooth in places by countless feet. A few outer disciples passed, their heads down, robes as gray and thin as his own. One glanced his way, then looked quickly aside.
Further down, a disciple leaned against a wall, older than the others, with pockmarks on his face and eyes that didn't bother to hide their coldness. A name tugged at the back of Gu Muye's mind: Wu Yuan. Not an inner disciple, but stronger than most outer disciples. Someone to be careful around.
He pulled back into the cell, heart beating faster. Even that brief look outside felt dangerous, like stepping too close to a cliff's edge. Better to wait, to watch.
He sat again, hands resting on his knees, and let the memories settle in his mind. Bits of the sect's structure floated up: outer disciples by the hundreds, all under the Bone Scripture Hall, where records were kept. Inner disciples, fewer in number, stronger, granted better resources and tasks. Core disciples, a smaller circle again, close to the elders. And above them all, the Patriarch—and the Hidden Corpse Ancestor, spoken of only in whispers.
Most outer disciples would never rise beyond their rank. Some lacked talent. Some died in missions. Others simply disappeared when the six-year mark came and they had nothing to show.
Gu Muye's breath trembled. The original owner of this body hadn't been gifted. His soul felt no stronger now than before. But deep inside, when he focused, he sensed something cold and silent: a shard of black bone, dark as old ashes, buried in his dantian.
It didn't speak. It gave no warmth, offered no comfort. But it was there, unmoving, as if it had always been waiting.
He didn't know what it was or why it had come with him. It felt as foreign as the new world around him. But its presence was steady, and in this place, that alone meant something.
Outside, the voices of the other disciples faded, replaced by the low hum of air moving through stone halls. Somewhere deeper, a horn made from polished bone sounded, a dull, hollow note that echoed off the walls. The shift of guards, the memory suggested, though the details were blurred.
Other disciples moved, some rising to leave, others sitting back down. Life in the outer sect wasn't only waiting to die. There were chores, tasks assigned by older disciples or by the Bone Scripture Hall. Feeding corpse beasts in the garden, carrying corpses to the Bone Garden, cleaning the halls where the stench never truly left.
All of it, the memory said, was meant to teach fear, and obedience.
Gu Muye let his gaze fall on the corpses hanging in chains around his cell. Their heads bowed, empty eyes staring at nothing. In this sect, even death was no escape. Corpses were tools, weapons, or warnings. And those who failed to become stronger joined them.
His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick. Even knowing these truths didn't make them easier to face. But better to know than to hope blindly.
Fear stayed, cold and sharp. But under it, something else settled: a small, stubborn thought. He didn't know the techniques. He barely knew where to start. But he had roughly five years. And as long as he lived, there was a chance to find a way.
He wouldn't plan yet. There was too much he didn't know. Too many dangers he hadn't even seen. But doing nothing meant death.
The bone lantern overhead flickered, making the shadows of the corpses dance against the walls. The green light caught on rusted chains, on bone and rotted cloth.
Gu Muye drew in a slow breath and let it out. His heart still beat fast, but his mind felt clearer.
He didn't know how yet, but he had to survive.
Outside, somewhere far down the hall, a low growl echoed, the sound of a corpse beast restless in its pen. The air shifted, carrying the cold scent of stone and old death.
Gu Muye kept his eyes open, watching the lantern sway slightly on its iron hook. In the stillness, he whispered the only truth that mattered:
I must live.