The rain came down like whispers from the heavens, soft but relentless. It soaked the dirt roads of Broken Sky City and washed filth into the gutters, but no one paid attention to the boy curled beneath the collapsed stone lantern near the city's southern wall. Lin Yuan shivered beneath a thin hemp robe, a garment that clung to his bony frame like a curse rather than protection. His eyes, hollow yet still tinged with some ember of human light, stared out from under his tangled black hair.
He hadn't eaten anything from two days. The baker across the street had chased him off earlier, shouting that beggars brought bad luck. Another stall keeper had thrown spoiled cabbage at his feet, and even that had been stolen by a dog before Lin Yuan could crawl toward it. And the city's lower district was no place for kindness, especially not in a realm where strength dictated worth and compassion was the first thing burned away by the fires of cultivation.
Lin Yuan coughed once, dry and sharp, and curled tighter into himself. The sky above loomed in shades of iron and grey. He wondered, briefly, if the Immortal Sects above ever looked down upon this place. If those sages in flowing robes and golden crowns saw the streets through their divine gazes. Did they see the starving? The broken? Or did the higher realms simply exist to feed on the suffering below?
As he was wondering to himself a sharp gust of wind tore through the alley, and with it came a scrap of dark cloth—tattered, rain-soaked, and seemingly worthless. It fluttered and caught on the shattered lantern beside him. Lin Yuan blinked and reached for it with numbed fingers, expecting it to be just more trash from the market square.
But the moment his fingers touched the cloth, a cold prickle surged up his arm.
He flinched, pulling the cloth closer. There was something folded inside. Paper? No—it was too thick. A book, or rather, the remnants of one. Bound in blackened hide, its edges frayed, symbols scorched and barely legible on the cover. He stared, lips parting, breath held.
The Dark Demon Cultivation Path.
The title was written in ancient runes, the kind he had seen carved into the stone gates of old sect ruins when he had wandered too far outside the city. His heart beat faster. Because no cultivator in this city would abandon such a thing—not unless they were dying… or wanted it never to be found.
He looked around, but the rain had driven even the rats into hiding. With hesitant hands, Lin Yuan opened the first page.
No golden light burst forth. No spirit surged into his body. There were only words, twisted and harsh, written in archaic prose that dug deep into the mind. But they made sense to him. More than any sermon of the city temples. More than the stories of immortals that children whispered like lullabies. These words were heavy with meaning—ugly, painful meaning—but true.
"The Dao of Heavens is not mercy. The way of life is a cycle of consumption. To devour, is to exist. To resist, is to vanish."
His fingers trembled as he turned the next page. And the next. The text spoke of how the world's systems were just an illusions—that the noble sects built temples of lies to convince mortals that their place was to kneel. That the righteous path of cultivation, paved with rituals and obedience, was nothing but a slow death offered up willingly to the systems above.
The book did not promise him power but It promised him an understanding. understanding of the world that he is living in.
For a moment, Lin Yuan sat completely still beneath the broken lantern, rain pooling around his bare feet. He read, and the city around him disappeared. There was no pain in his stomach, no sores on his skin, no cold in his bones. Only words. Ancient, brutal, indifferent truths that did not pity him but did not lie to him either.
He had begged all his life—begged for scraps, for warmth, for someone to see him. But this book did not see him. And yet, it spoke to him.
The final lines of the first chapter that he read:
"When the soul core of the strong is consumed, the world must accept the devourer. This is the hidden law of succession, buried beneath the rites of false virtue. Power lies not in seeking heaven's favor, but in tearing it down and wearing its skin."
After reading that line, Lin Yuan closed the book slowly. The rain was starting to ease, tapering into a quiet drizzle that left the world strangely quiet. In the far distance, bells rang out from the eastern sector—a sect parade, probably, honoring the birth of some elder's grandson. More wealth. More displays. More arrogance.
But he did not envy them, he did not hate them.
0Instead he simply turned back to the book and read again.
Not because he wanted power.
Not because he had a dream.
But because for the first time in his life, something made sense. And unfortunately he had nothing else.
The rain had stopped by the time night fully settled, but the city never truly grew quiet. Somewhere down the crooked alleyways, a drunk screamed curses at ghosts only he could see. Dogs barked at each other in the distance, competing for scraps. The upper districts lit their lanterns with warm spiritual fire, casting a soft golden glow into the mist that never quite reached the outer slums.
Lin Yuan sat alone, hunched over the strange book, his fingers tracing the rough hide of its cover. The streetlamp near the city wall flickered faintly, the flame inside struggling against the wind. He used it to read, shielding the pages from gusts with his thin frame.
He wasn't a scholar. He'd never learned formally. The only characters he recognized had been picked up by watching old merchants haggle and hearing temple priests chant. But somehow, the symbols in this book made sense—not just logically, but intuitively. As if the words had always been buried inside him, waiting to be uncovered.
"To consume is not evil. It is instinct, perfected."
The line sat in his mind like a stone dropped into water. He read it three times.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that, eyes moving from line to line, lips barely moving as he whispered parts to himself. His stomach gnawed at him, reminding him that his body hadn't forgotten hunger. But something had changed. The ache was still there, but it felt far away—less important.
Eventually, he stopped reading. Not because he was tired, but because his thoughts had grown loud.
What was this book, really?
He had seen cultivators before—men and women with glowing auras and robes cleaner than sunlight, floating down from spirit-cranes or riding palanquins pulled by beasts. He had seen them burn a man alive in the market once, accusing him of stealing from a sect caravan. They didn't ask questions. No one dared intervene. and the man who was burning had screamed for half a minute before his voice gave out, and no one had even remembered his name.
Cultivators weren't saints. They were powerful. That was all.
And this book—it didn't lie about that. It didn't claim that strength came through virtue or karma. It simply explained the truth: the world revolved around devouring. Whether through spirit roots or bloodshed, everything was taken, never given.
Lin Yuan lowered the book and stared at the cobblestones beneath his feet. A crack in the stone ran toward the wall like a scar and he ran his finger along it absentmindedly.
No one had ever explained the world to him before. People just told him to accept it.
"Be grateful you're still alive."
"Don't anger the sect guards."
"Bow deeper."
"Don't dream beyond your place."
And now here he was, sitting with a forbidden text that told him there was no place. That all places were cages built by those who had simply clawed higher.
His stomach growled again. He looked up, eyes narrowing at the faint glow of a noodle vendor's cart about two alleys over. The scent of broth wafted in on the breeze, mixing with the city's usual rot and ash.
He was starving. That hadn't changed.
But instead of shuffling toward the stall to beg—like he always did, like he had done every day for years—he sat still.
Something in him resisted the old habit. A small thing, barely alive, like a spark trying to survive in wet wood.
Dignity.
Where had that come from?
He didn't know. Maybe the book had planted it. Maybe it had always been buried beneath the hunger, the cold, the daily humiliations. But tonight, for the first time, he didn't move toward the food. He stayed with the book. Because even though it didn't fill his stomach, it fed something else.
Hope?
No. That word felt wrong.
Maybe clarity ?
He looked down at the pages again and flipped to the next section. The ink here was darker, almost glistening—fresh? No, not fresh. Preserved. It smelled faintly metallic, like old blood.
The next lines were stranger. Less philosophy, but more… instruction.
"To begin, the vessel must first abandon self-illusion. Desire is the anchor of mortality. Break it, and see."
He frowned.
"Desire…" he whispered aloud.
He wasn't sure what that meant for him. He had never wanted much. Not riches, not status. Just enough food to survive another day. A warm corner to sleep. Maybe someone to remember his name when he died.
Were those desires? Or just instincts?
He didn't know.
But he read the line again. Then again.
The wind stirred. The lantern flame beside him hissed, guttered, then died.
Darkness settled around him completely, but Lin Yuan didn't move. He just sat there, the book now held close against his chest, its words sinking deeper than any warmth ever had.
He wasn't a cultivator.
Not yet.
He had no spirit root. No sect. No master. But something had begun and it would not stop.