The room smelled of mildew and old sweat, but the door had a heavy iron bolt. That was enough.
Yang Yi slid the latch home and wedged the heavy oak chair under the handle. Paranoia wasn't a flaw; it was a survival trait.
He sat cross-legged on the thin straw mattress. The sounds of the city—drunken shouts, the clang of distant forges—filtered through the paper-thin walls. He tuned them out.
He uncorked the porcelain vial. A few mouthfuls of the Refined Beast Blood remained.
"Do or die."
He downed the rest.
The reaction was immediate. Violence erupted in his gut. This wasn't the steady warmth of a healing tonic; it was a chaotic flood. The wolf's essence, crude and predatory, clawed at his insides. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
His vision blurred. Red veins crept into the corners of his eyes. The beast's instinct to kill, to rend, to howl, washed over his mind.
Kill them. Kill them all.
Yang Yi gritted his teeth. He forced his breathing into a jagged rhythm. "My mind. My body."
The Dragon Transformation Token in his pocket seared his hip.
He fumbled for it, his fingers stiff and clumsy. He pulled the cold metal disk out and pressed it against his dantian, right over his navel.
The effect was instant.
The token pulsed. A deep, resonant thrumming that vibrated through his skeleton. The chaotic heat of the wolf blood was sucked toward the metal. The token drank the madness, the impurity, the feral rage.
In exchange, it pushed back a stream of cool, refined power.
Yang Yi gasped. The agony vanished, replaced by a sensation like ice water flowing through a parched riverbed. The energy settled in his muscles, knitting torn fibers, hardening bone.
He didn't break through to Tier 2. The barrier was too thick. But his foundation, once cracked and brittle, now felt like solid granite.
He exhaled. A cloud of gray impurity left his lips.
"Better."
He closed his eyes. He didn't sleep. He waited.
Dawn broke with the sound of war drums.
The deep, booming rhythm shook dust from the inn's rafters. Yang Yi opened his eyes. They were clear, dark, and sharp.
He grabbed his sword and the empty vial. He crushed the porcelain in his hand, letting the shards fall to the floor. No evidence.
Outside, the street was a river of bodies flowing toward the mountain. The excitement of the night before had curdled into a tense, sweaty anxiety. The weak already looked defeated. The strong looked hungry.
Yang Yi joined the current.
They gathered in a massive stone amphitheater carved into the base of the Dragon Peak. High walls surrounded them, lined with spectators—disciples in sect colors, wealthy merchants, and the city's elite. They weren't here to cheer. They were here to gamble.
In the center of the arena stood a massive, tiered structure. A pyramid of jagged obsidian steps rising three hundred feet into the air.
The drums stopped.
A figure descended from the sky. He didn't use a flying sword or a mount. He simply stepped down on the air as if it were solid ground.
He wore robes of crimson and gold. His hair was white, tied back with a jade ring. An Elder of the Dragon Transformation Palace.
The pressure of his presence hit the crowd like a physical weight. Thousands of knees buckled.
Yang Yi remained standing. He locked his knees and focused his will. This is nothing compared to the killing intent of a Demon King.
The Elder landed on the floating platform above the pyramid. He looked down at the sea of hopefuls with bored indifference.
"I am Elder Qin. You seek power. You seek to shed your mortal shells and ascend."
His voice wasn't loud, but it echoed in every ear.
"The Palace does not accept waste. We do not accept the weak."
He swept a hand toward the obsidian pyramid.
"The First Trial: The Stairway of Purgatory. Three thousand steps. Heavy gravity array. Illusion formations. And... guardians."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Reach the top before the sun hits the zenith," Elder Qin said. "Fail, and you are expelled. Die, and you nurture the soil."
He turned his back.
"Begin."
Chaos erupted.
The front line surged forward, a desperate stampede. Hundreds of cultivators scrambled for the bottom steps.
Yang Yi didn't run. He watched.
The first wave hit the stairs. The moment their feet touched the black stone, they crumpled. The gravity array slammed them down. Some screamed as ankles snapped under the sudden weight.
Then the stone shifted. Spikes shot up from the steps.
Blood sprayed.
The crowd in the stands roared.
"Careless," Yang Yi muttered.
He moved to the edge of the throng, finding a gap in the chaos. He stepped onto the first stair.
Weight settled on his shoulders. It felt like carrying a heavy pack. Manageable.
He climbed. One step. Two.
A man next to him, a burly ax-wielder, was struggling, sweat pouring down his face. He grabbed Yang Yi's cloak to pull himself up.
"Help me!"
Yang Yi didn't break stride. He drove his elbow back into the man's nose.
The man fell back, tumbling down into the crushing mass of bodies below.
Yang Yi kept climbing. The air grew thinner. The pressure increased with every tier. At step one hundred, the gravity doubled. At step two hundred, the illusions started.
Shadows danced in his peripheral vision. He heard the voice of the thug he killed in the woods. You little rat.
Yang Yi ignored it. "Dead men don't talk."
He looked up. The leaders of the pack were already at step five hundred. Among them was a familiar figure—the Hawk Clan leader he had choked out the night before.
The man looked back. His eyes locked onto Yang Yi. He sneered and whispered something to the two disciples flanking him. They nodded and slowed down, blocking the narrow path upward.
They were waiting for him.
Yang Yi loosened the sword in its sheath. The stairs were steep, the gravity crushing, and enemies waited above.
Perfect conditions.
He accelerated.