Morning arrived without warmth.
A dull gray light seeped through the cracks in the walls, illuminating dust drifting lazily in the stale air. The Emperor opened his eyes before the light fully settled, his consciousness never truly slipping into sleep. This body could not afford such luxuries.
Every breath still hurt.
Not sharply like before, but with a constant, grinding ache that reminded him how close to collapse this flesh truly was. He lay still, listening, counting the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat.
Too weak. Too slow.
If his heart faltered even once, death would come quietly.
Footsteps echoed outside again—more than one this time. Heavy boots. Unhurried. The sound of people who had already decided his fate.
The door was kicked open.
"Up."
A different man entered, younger, eyes sharp and impatient. Behind him stood two outer disciples, their cultivation low but far beyond what this body could withstand. Spiritual pressure leaked from them unconsciously, pressing down like invisible weight.
The Emperor's chest tightened.
The boy's memories reacted first. Fear surged, familiar and instinctive. His fingers twitched against the straw mattress, nails digging in weakly.
"Did you go deaf?" the young man snapped. "I said get up."
The Emperor pushed himself upright.
The motion alone sent pain screaming through his spine. His arms trembled violently, muscles barely obeying his will. It took several breaths just to sit.
One of the disciples laughed.
"Look at him. He can't even sit straight."
"Why bother transferring this trash?" the other said. "He won't last a week."
The Emperor said nothing.
Silence was safer.
The young man stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. The grip was firm, careless, fingers biting into bone. He dragged him off the bed without hesitation.
The Emperor hit the floor hard.
Pain exploded through his side. His vision dimmed for a moment, blackness threatening to swallow him whole. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to remain conscious.
"Pathetic," the man muttered.
They hauled him up and pushed him outside.
The courtyard was small and barren, surrounded by low stone walls. Several other figures stood there—boys and girls dressed in similarly worn robes, heads lowered, bodies thin. Some looked injured. Others looked hollow.
Trash.
Discarded outer disciples. Failed cultivators. Bodies deemed no longer worth resources.
The Emperor stood among them, swaying slightly.
He felt it then.
Spiritual energy.
Thin. Impure. Hostile.
It brushed against his skin like cold wind, invading his senses without permission. His head throbbed in response. The Void within him reacted faintly, instinctively trying to erase the foreign presence—but his soul was too weak to act.
Restrain it.
He forced the reaction down.
A carriage waited beyond the courtyard gates. Old. Reinforced with iron bands. No windows. Meant for cargo, not people.
"Get in," the young man ordered.
No one resisted.
One by one, they were shoved inside. The interior was dark and cramped, the air stale and suffocating. The Emperor was pushed in last, collapsing against the wooden wall as the door slammed shut.
The carriage lurched forward.
Someone nearby whimpered quietly.
Another muttered curses under their breath.
The Emperor remained silent, eyes half-closed, focusing inward.
His soul was unstable, but not chaotic. The fusion had settled into a fragile balance. He could feel the fragments of Void Dao drifting within him, unreachable yet present.
A foundation.
Not for cultivation.
Not yet.
But for survival.
Hours passed.
The carriage stopped abruptly, jolting his weakened body painfully against the wall. The door opened, light flooding in.
"Out."
They were dragged out into a vast open area surrounded by jagged terrain. The land was scarred, pits dotting the ground, some still faintly glowing with residual formations.
A labor ground.
Or worse.
A tall figure stood waiting, robes dark and expression indifferent. His cultivation aura rolled outward without restraint, crushing down on the group instantly.
Several people fell to their knees.
The Emperor's legs buckled.
His vision blurred, but he did not collapse fully. He forced himself to remain standing, trembling violently as pressure bore down on his soul.
The tall man's gaze swept over them, pausing briefly on the Emperor's slender frame.
"So these are the rejects," he said calmly. "Good."
He turned away.
"Put them to work. Those who survive may earn their meals."
Those who don't were not mentioned.
The Emperor lowered his head.
This was not a sect.
This was a proving ground for despair.
Yet as the pressure lifted and he drew another painful breath, a single thought surfaced—steady, unwavering.
He was alive.
And as long as he lived, even trash could become something else.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But inevitably.