The marrow trial was over.
Seven stood.
Seventeen did not.
Their corpses were dragged away silently by faceless sect servants — robed figures without names or cultivation. Their eyes were hollow, their hands stained with the dust of countless disciples who failed before.
No one mourned.
Yuan Zhi sat cross-legged at the edge of the platform, blood dried on his lips. His body ached like it had been torn apart and crudely stitched back together. He could feel something different inside him now — deeper than muscle, sharper than pain.
His bones... pulsed.Not with warmth. But with potential.
Ironroot Elixir didn't just burn. It planted something in the marrow — a seed. And now that seed hungered for growth.
Elder Mo's voice cut through the night.
"The sect does not wait for your recovery."
He stood atop a jagged stone overlooking the Bone Hall. Wind tore through his robes, revealing pale scars stitched across his arms in looping, inhuman patterns.
"You are now eligible to cultivate the first technique. And like everything here…"
He raised one hand. A scroll floated down toward them. Its bindings were thick black thread, sealed with a mark shaped like a downward fang.
"…it must be earned."
The scroll hovered above a bloodstained altar.
"Kill for it," Elder Mo said.He vanished in a blink.
No warning. No rules. No mercy.
The seven disciples stared at each other.
One girl bolted.Another boy followed.
Yuan Zhi didn't move.
Not yet.
The first scream came seconds later — short and sharp.
A cleaver tore through the fleeing boy's spine, severing his body at the waist. The girl turned to fight, and her attacker — a tall, hook-nosed disciple — rammed her face into the altar until it shattered. Blood soaked the stone.
Five remained.
The hook-nosed one turned, eyes wild. "Back off! I'll kill anyone who comes near it!"
No one replied.
Yuan Zhi studied his stance — knees too wide. Grip too high on the blade. Aggression born from fear.
He would break.
Another boy, broad-shouldered, lunged forward. The two clashed, weapons scraping, robes flaring. The hook-nosed disciple screamed and drove his elbow into the other's throat, then kicked him backward—
Straight toward Yuan Zhi.
Yuan caught the stumbling boy's wrist and twisted.A clean snap.
The boy screamed, but Yuan had already kneed him in the face, knocking him out cold.
Four remained.
The hook-nosed disciple backed away toward the scroll, panting. "You stay back! I earned this!"
Yuan Zhi walked toward him.
"Don't make me kill you!" the disciple shouted.
"You already did."
Yuan Zhi pointed at the altar — to the blood still dripping from the girl's mouth.
"She was weaker than you. You took what you wanted. I respect that."
The disciple narrowed his eyes.
"But you hesitated after," Yuan said softly. "That's weakness."
The hook-nosed man charged with a roar.
Yuan didn't dodge.
He stepped in, raised both arms, and let the cleaver carve across his shoulder — flesh, not bone — then slammed his forehead into the disciple's nose. Bone crunched. The cleaver fell.Yuan Zhi grabbed it mid-fall, reversed it, and drove it through the man's neck in one smooth motion.Blood sprayed in hot arcs. The body twitched, then stilled.
Three remained.
Yuan Zhi pulled the scroll free and wiped the cleaver clean on the corpse's robe.
No applause. No reward yet.
Just silence — and an open scroll.
He sat and unfurled it.
The ink glowed faintly under moonlight. Words danced along the page in jagged vertical lines. Not just script — intent. The technique was alive, barely restrained.
[Ironbone Scripture – Root Form]
Temper the marrow. Harden the frame. Bind the spirit to the cage of flesh. Break it. Repeat.
There was no warmth in the words. This wasn't a gentle cultivation technique. It didn't align meridians or guide qi along golden paths. It didn't heal or nurture.
It scarred. It crushed. It rebuilt.
Each passage required an offering.
Each stage demanded destruction.
Yuan Zhi's fingers trembled as he reached the final line of the scroll.
To forge true bone, you must first destroy what was born.
They were assigned a new cave chamber at the cliff's edge.
Spartan. Silent. Cold.
Each of the three survivors had a bed, a crude mat, and one slab of stone for meditation. The rest of the room was empty — except for a brazier with burning bonewood, which filled the air with bitter smoke and made the lungs ache.
Yuan Zhi sat cross-legged in the dark, the scroll before him.He began the first movement.
There was no qi surge.No explosion of power.
Instead, it began with pressure.
Deep, internal, growing — like his own skeleton was folding inward.
The scroll guided him to compress the marrow. Not mentally. Literally.
He had to force his bones to crush themselves, squeezing the blood and energy inside into a finer, denser form.
He gritted his teeth and followed.
Hours passed.
His face turned pale. Blood began to seep from his gums. His vision narrowed, but he didn't stop.
Every second was agony. But agony taught.
By dawn, he had completed the first loop.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt it.
A pulse of heat in his bones.
Qi.
His.
Not granted. Not stolen. Forged.
That morning, Elder Mo appeared again — as if he had always been there.
"No one told you the cost," he said, watching Yuan Zhi through the bonewood smoke.
"No one will."
He knelt beside Yuan Zhi and placed a curved dagger on the ground.
"Tomorrow, you'll be sent on your first sect task. Outside."
Yuan Zhi's breath slowed.
"Collect five spirit roots. Kill anyone who interferes. Return before sundown."
He nodded.
Mo smiled faintly. "Good. Kill some inner disciples if you can. It keeps them sharp."
He vanished.
As Yuan Zhi cleaned the blood from his mouth, he thought of the scroll's final line again:
To forge true bone, you must first destroy what was born.
He looked down at his hands — shaking, bloodstained, steady.
He was already halfway there.