Morning light filtered weakly through the perpetual haze that cloaked the third-level district, painting the cracked streets in a dull, lifeless gray.
David stepped out of their small home, the rickety door creaking shut behind him with a familiar, protesting groan.
Anna stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her worn tunic, her spear leaning against the wall inside like a silent sentinel. Her eyes held a mix of pride and lingering concern, the events of the previous night still fresh in her expression.
"Mom," David said, turning to her with a determined smile that felt new on his refined features, "you should cultivate while I'm gone. Focus on pushing through that Half-Step barrier. We're close—I can feel it.
I'll visit the black market, check prices on cheap Grade 1 blades. Nothing fancy, just something sturdy that won't shatter the first time I swing with real force. Then we can plan our next hunt accordingly—target beasts whose full bodies sell well."
Anna nodded thoughtfully, her practical mind already turning over the details. "Smart thinking, David. Full beast bodies are worth far more than just cores these days.
Alchemists pay good coin for bones, blood, and organs to refine into pills—strengthening elixirs, healing salves, even poisons for the desperate. Smiths want hides for armor, claws and fangs for weapon edges, tendons for bowstrings. And the cores… well, those are always prime energy sources for arrays, breakthroughs, or trading up. Sell the whole carcass smart, and we might afford a decent cultivator-grade blade sooner than scraping for scraps."
She reached out, squeezing his shoulder firmly, her calloused hand a reassuring weight. "Be careful in the market. The black market especially—full of sharks smelling blood. Don't flash coin or strength. And keep an eye out for William's patrols. That man's ego won't let last night's humiliation fade quietly."
"I won't," David promised, his new height making him nearly eye-level with her now. A strange thrill ran through him at the thought of the black market—not just for the blade, but as cover for his true destination: the third-level graveyard. "I'll be back before noon."
As he walked away, weaving through the narrow alleys, David's mind churned with dual plans. The black market visit was necessary—a Grade 1 blade was essential now that he was a cultivator. Mortal steel would crumple under his enhanced strength, shattering mid-swing and leaving him defenseless. But the graveyard called stronger. He needed to test the second ability: Death Energy Consumption.
He didn't want Anna to know about it. Not yet. To her, anything tied to death would scream "dark path"—the forbidden cultivation routes that demanded violence, bloodshed, or worse to advance.
She'd worry endlessly, fearing he'd become one of those shadowed figures in the stories: soul-corrupting cultivators who grew strong by harvesting lives, turning into monsters hunted by sects and bases alike. Even if his ability wasn't like that—clean, efficient, drawing only from what lingered after death—the stigma would terrify her.
Mothers in the third level clung to hope of orthodox paths, the "light side" elements that led to acceptance, if not glory. No, this test was his alone. For now.
The streets of the third level were a grim labyrinth of decay and desperation.
Crumbling buildings leaned against each other like exhausted giants, their walls patched with mismatched scrap metal, beast hides, and whatever refuse could hold back the elements.
The air reeked of rust, unwashed bodies, stale smoke from low-grade pills, and the faint, underlying rot that never fully left a place where death was commonplace.
People shuffled by with hollow eyes—workers trudging to backbreaking labor in the walls' repair crews, hunters nursing fresh wounds or old grudges, children scavenging through refuse piles for anything edible or sellable.
Trust was a forgotten word here. In the third level, nobody cared about anyone else unless there was profit or threat in it. Show your back, and a knife might find it without a second thought—no hesitation, no remorse.
Alliances were fleeting, formed for a single hunt or trade and broken the moment one party saw weakness. Eyes flicked toward David as he passed—his changed appearance drawing brief notice. His taller frame, refined and coiled muscles, jade-like skin glowing with vitality, and those piercing dark-gray eyes framed by platinum blonde hair marked him as different now. A few women paused mid-step, whispering with surprised interest—a rare spark of attraction in this bleak world.
Men assessed him warily, sensing the subtle shift in his presence, the quiet confidence that radiated like a predator among prey. But curiosity died quickly.
Survival demanded focus inward. Strangers were potential threats or opportunities, nothing more. They glanced, then moved on, melting back into the crowd.
David roamed with purposeful nonchalance, weaving through familiar paths—past the leaking communal water pipes where long queues formed daily, around the shadowed alley entrances guarded by scarred enforcers who controlled access to the black market's hidden stalls.
He'd check blade prices later, perhaps haggle for a basic Grade 1 short sword or dagger forged from low-tier beast materials. For now, the graveyard pulled him like an invisible thread.
The third-level graveyard lay on the district's ragged edge, a forsaken patch of earth squeezed between crumbling perimeter walls and the outer energy barrier. In a base where death came swift and often—beast attacks claiming hunters nightly, failed cultivations exploding meridians, gang skirmishes over scraps, or simple starvation thinning the weak—proper burial was a rare privilege.
Those with enough coin bought spots here for their loved ones: simple mounds of dirt marked by etched stones, rusted plaques, or crude wooden stake .
A semblance of peace, a place for the dead to rest undisturbed. The truly poor—the majority—were dumped in mass pits beyond the walls, their bodies left as carrion for the wilderness beasts. No names, no markers, no peace.
David slipped through a gap in the graveyard's low scrap-metal fence, his steps light and silent on the uneven ground. The air here was still, heavy with the scent of dry earth and faint decay.
Overgrown weeds clung stubbornly to the mounds, tough and thorny, thriving in soil enriched by the dead.
Faded markers dotted the landscape—some with names long weathered away, others fresh enough to evoke recent loss.
A few wilted flowers or trinkets lay at the bases, offerings from grieving families who could afford little more.
Here, death lingered.
David felt it immediately—the physique stirring like a beast catching scent. Faint wisps of death energy hovered in the air, remnants of lives ended, qi dissipating slowly from buried remains. Not potent—not fresh like a battlefield corpse—but present, a subtle haze for those who knew how to sense it.
He found a secluded spot behind a cluster of older graves, hidden from the main paths by overgrown bushes and leaning markers.
Sitting cross-legged on the packed earth, he closed his eyes, steadying his breath.
Alright, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Time to see if the old fossil was right.
"Old fossil"—that's what he'd dubbed the mysterious man in his mind. The ancient soul had been cryptic, dramatic, and annoyingly vague about practical details. No step-by-step guide, just grand descriptions and warnings. Typical.
First attempt: basic cultivation.
David breathed in the standard pattern—drawing ambient Heaven and Earth energy. Thin strands responded, trickling into his meridians as always. Nothing exceptional. No surge, no special pull from the graves. Just ordinary absorption, the kind any Qi Refining cultivator could manage.
He frowned. Not it.
Second try: proximity.
He stood, moving closer to a nearby mound—fresh enough that faint earth disturbance marked recent burial. He stood there, waiting, focusing on the ground beneath.
Nothing happened.
No automatic draw. No energy flooding in just from standing near death.
Frustration crept in. Come on… how does this work?
Then memory sparked—the old fossil's words echoing faintly.
"You can absorb lingering death energy from the recently deceased… It requires focus…"
Focus. Concentration.
David sat again, this time deliberately reaching out with his intent. He concentrated on the graves, visualizing the lingering essence—the faint qi seeping from bones and flesh long stilled. The physique responded, like a key turning in a lock.
Death Energy Consumption activated.
A subtle pull emanated from his core—like inhaling through every pore. Grayish wisps, invisible to normal eyes but clear in his cultivator senses, rose from the soil.
From multiple graves now—traces of the unrested, the forgotten. They flowed toward him: cool, heavy, laced with the quiet finality of endings.
Energy surged.
It coursed into his meridians—steady, nourishing. Not explosive like a core, but pure and refining. His dantian expanded slightly, power condensing. Vitality bloomed; the last remnants of his injuries vanished completely. Skin tingled with renewed life, senses sharpening further.
David exhaled slowly, eyes opening in wonder.
It worked.
No backlash. No dark corruption or bloodlust. Just strength drawn from what was already lost—easing the burden of the dead while empowering the living.
Relief and excitement mingled. The old fossil hadn't lied. This ability was real—and discreet. Perfect for hidden growth.
But the implications settled heavily. Fresh deaths—beasts felled in hunts, enemies in combat—would yield far richer harvests. Battlefields could become fonts of power.
Dark path? Perhaps in appearance. But necessary.
He stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. The graveyard felt subtly lighter, as if he'd siphoned away some unseen weight.
Time to head to the black market. Prices for a Grade 1 blade—and perhaps scout a hunt to test more.
Anna waited at home, cultivating.
His secrets deepened—one ability tested, one step closer to strength.
As David left the graveyard, slipping back into the bustling streets.
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