Morning spread across Pyradine City with its usual, indifferent rhythm. Sunlight stretched over the jagged tiled roofs like liquid copper, slowly warming the stone streets of the West District. In this neglected corner of the empire, the Origins Dungeon Hall stood quietly active.
It was no longer the site of the panicked, screaming riot that had defined the previous few days. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a steady, rhythmic hub of focused, grim industry. The atmosphere wasn't chaotic; it was professional. It was a factory of martial evolution.
A line of 10 people had formed at the door precisely forty minutes before Yuan Bi even bothered to open the shop. At the front of that line, three young men stood like statues of varying degrees of impatience.
"I'm telling you, it's about the wrist," Lu Dong muttered, checking his reflection in a small, hand-held silver mirror he'd pulled from his robes. "My Jade Wind style is perfect, but the Dungeon's passive suppression keeps making me feel like I'm swinging a wet noodle. If I just flick the wrist at the last second..."
"You'll break your wrist," Wu Feng interrupted, leaning against the shop's rotting wooden siding. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days. There were dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was sharp enough to cut silk. "It's not the wrist, Lu Dong. It's the ego. You're trying to look pretty for a Spectator Array that only the commoners are watching. The zombies don't care about your hair."
Lu Dong gasped, offended. "My hair is part of my martial intent! If I look disheveled, my spirit is disheveled!"
Bai Fan, who was sitting on a small folding stool he'd brought from home, didn't look up from the scroll he was reading. "Both of you are wrong. The Undead hall isn't a test of style or intent. It's a test of biological efficiency. Yesterday, I analyzed the skeletal structure of the Zombie Disciples. Their center of gravity is slightly offset to the left because of the way their flesh has rotted. If you strike at a thirty-degree angle from the right..."
"Shut up, Fan," the other two said in unison.
The heavy iron bolts finally slid back with a groan that sounded like a dying beast. Yuan Bi stepped out, squinting at the sun and letting out a yawn so wide his jaw audibly clicked.
"Eleven stones," Yuan Bi muttered before anyone could even say hello. "Registration is five, three hours is six. No refunds if you cry. No refunds if the zombies eat your favorite boots. Step inside."
"We know the price, Yuan Bi!" Lu Dong huffed, tossing his pouch onto the counter. "Just let us in. I have an appointment with a Faceless zombie that owes me a liver."
Yuan Bi swept the stones into his spatial ring without looking. He watched the three of them march toward their respective obsidian chairs with the grim determination of soldiers heading to a war they were losing.
Min Luan, the merchant's son, had arrived shortly after the young masters. He didn't bicker. He didn't talk about style. He was a man possessed. He had spent his entire life being the "soft" one, the one who handled the ledgers while his father's guards handled the blades.
He stepped into the Undead Hall without a moment's hesitation.
Today, I break past that wall.
The familiar, freezing darkness swallowed him. His Internal Force vanished, leaving him with that hollow, vulnerable sensation in his chest. His silken merchant robes felt heavy and restrictive.
Shuffle. Drag. Shuffle.
A Zombie Disciple emerged from the gloom of the pavilion's entrance. Its limbs dragged with that grotesque, uneven gait that Min Luan had seen in his nightmares for a week.
Min Luan immediately adjusted his stance. He didn't use a sword; he'd found that he preferred the balance of a short iron mace he'd scavenged in a previous run. Feet planted, breath held. The zombie lunged, its claws whistling through the stagnant air.
Min Luan reacted quickly—yet imperfectly. He stepped to the left, but his silk sleeve caught on a splintered piece of a wooden pillar.
Tch… too close.
The jagged claw grazed his arm. It didn't draw blood, but the phantom coldness made his skin crawl. His brows tightened. He had seen the attack coming—he knew the telegraph, he knew the timing—but his mortal body had hesitated for a fraction of a second. The Dungeon's passive suppression was clawing at his brain, trying to make him forget the footwork he had spent twenty hours perfecting.
"Still not enough," Min Luan hissed.
He stopped reacting instinctively. He began to read. He watched the way the zombie's rotted tendons tightened before a strike. When the creature advanced again, Min Luan didn't overcommit. He waited until the zombie's weight was fully committed to its forward step.
Now.
He swung the mace in a short, brutal arc. It didn't look like a martial art; it looked like a butcher at work. The iron head smashed into the zombie's temple, caving in the skull. The creature collapsed like a sack of stones.
Min Luan exhaled, his lungs burning. "…Still sloppy. Too much wasted movement in the shoulder."
He moved deeper. He wasn't interested in the pawns anymore. His objective was singular: The Hunter.
Inside the second Spectator Array, the crowd outside watched Lu Dong.
Lu Dong moved through the hall like he was on a stage. Even without his Internal Force, he insisted on holding his iron sword in a decorative Jade Wind salute before every engagement.
"Watch this," Lu Dong muttered to himself, unaware that a group of five rogue cultivators in the shop were currently placing bets on how long he'd last.
A Zombie Disciple shambled toward him. Lu Dong didn't evade. He wanted to test "Hard Force"—the ability to overpower an opponent through pure skeletal alignment. He met the zombie's strike head-on, blade against claw.
CLANG.
The impact reverberated through his bones, vibrating his teeth. His feet slid back four inches, his boots screaming against the stone floor.
"Aha! My alignment was off by a hair!" Lu Dong shouted.
The zombie, having no concept of a fair duel, immediately lunged for his throat while he was talking. Lu Dong let out a very un-young-master-like squeak and fell backward, his legs tangling in his robes. He scrambled away on all fours as the zombie snapped at his heels.
"HEY! NO BITING MY BOOTS! THESE ARE CLOUD-SILK!"
Outside in the shop, the crowd erupted into laughter.
"Look at the Lu family heir! He's doing the 'Cowering Crab' technique!" a mercenary roared.
Yuan Bi sipped his tea, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. He's getting better, though. His center of gravity stayed low even when he fell. He's learning to use the floor.
In the dungeon, Lu Dong finally regained his footing. He grew serious. He dropped the flashy salves and focused. He counter-attacked with a heavy overhead strike that drove the zombie to its knees, cracking its posture. It took three more exchanges, but he finally put the creature down.
"Efficiency is lacking," Lu Dong grunted, wiping sweat from his brow and checking his reflection in a shard of broken glass on the floor. "And my hair is a disaster. This dungeon is truly a place of suffering."
He continued deeper, the air growing colder, heavier, until he felt it—the sharp, piercing killing intent that felt like a needle pressing against his forehead.
The air tightened. A figure emerged from the shadows of the inner sanctum. It was the Corrupted Guardian, the leathery, obsidian-scaled beast that Yuan Bi had killed in his demonstration. In the "Normal" difficulty, it served as the gatekeeper.
Lu Dong lowered his center of gravity, his sword held in a two-handed grip. No more salutes.
The Hunter moved first. It didn't run; it exploded.
CLANG!
The collision was heavier than anything Lu Dong had ever faced in a sparring ring. His arms absorbed the shock, but the force was so great it nearly unseated his shoulders. He was forced back half a step, his heels clicking against the stone.
The Hunter didn't pause. It was a machine of death. It pressed forward, its claws moving in efficient, short-range arcs. It probed for openings, circling Lu Dong like a shark circling a wounded whale.
Then, a subtle shift occurred. Lu Dong's footing loosened on a patch of dried, slippery blood on the floor.
"…Unstable," the Hunter seemed to hiss, though it had no voice.
It sensed the opening instantly. It adjusted its trajectory and struck. Lu Dong reacted a millisecond late, the blow landing cleanly against his side. The phantom pain was excruciating, like a red-hot iron being pressed into his ribs. He staggered, the breath leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
But he didn't retreat in a panic like he used to. He stabilized his breathing, re-centered his weight, and prepared for a counter-strike. But the Hunter was a ghost; it retreated into the shadows of the rotting pillars before Lu Dong could capitalize.
"…I'll break through eventually," Lu Dong muttered, his voice hoarse. There was no frustration. Only an grim acknowledgment of the gap between them.
Wu Feng had entered last, and as usual, he was the most efficient.
The Spectator Array above his chair was the most popular. There was no shouting, no drama, and no vanity. Wu Feng moved through the pavilion with measured steps, his mind a quiet lake. He was no longer fighting the Dungeon's suppression; he was flowing with it.
When a Zombie Disciple emerged, Wu Feng didn't immediately engage in a flurry of blows. He shifted slightly to the side, aligning his body so the zombie had to turn its hips to reach him. In that split second of the zombie's adjustment, Wu Feng struck once.
A single, clean thrust of a scavenged iron spear through the eye socket.
The motion was minimal. The result was immediate. The zombie collapsed without a sound.
He repeated the pattern like a machine. Observe. Position. Strike. No hesitation. No excess force. He was a student of Yuan Bi's demonstration, trying to replicate that surgical lethality.
Eventually, he reached the inner courtyard. The clearing was silent, save for the wind whistling through the shattered roof.
The Corrupted Guardian stood waiting in the center of the courtyard. It had been observing Wu Feng just as Wu Feng had been observing the hall. A brief, heavy silence formed between them—the kind of silence that precedes a thunderclap.
Then, the Hunter attacked.
Its movement was a direct, terrifying line. Wu Feng didn't retreat; he stepped slightly off-line—a precise, four-inch shift that was just enough to avoid the direct path of the beast's obsidian claws.
CLASH.
Their weapons met, but Wu Feng's angle was perfect. He didn't try to block the force; he neutralized it by letting the claws slide along the shaft of his spear.
The exchange continued for what felt like hours, though only minutes passed in the real world. Wu Feng didn't attempt to overpower the monster; he redirected, adjusted, and countered. Every time the Hunter accelerated, Wu Feng's breathing slowed.
The Hunter's angles became sharper. Its sequences became faster. It was learning Wu Feng's rhythm.
Wu Feng adapted. His posture remained a mirror of the Hunter's own lethality. Clash after clash, they traded measured blows in a dance of death. Neither side overcommitted. Neither side revealed a flaw.
Eventually, the Hunter disengaged. It backflipped into the shadows of the inner sanctum, melting away on its own terms. It had decided that this prey was too troublesome for now.
Wu Feng lowered his spear, his body trembling from the sheer mental strain of maintaining that level of focus.
"…Not enough," he whispered into the dark. "My reaction is still tied to my sight. I need to react to the air pressure."
As dusk settled over Pyradine City, the Origins Dungeon Hall gradually emptied.
Min Luan emerged first, his eyes glazed over as he replayed his shoulder movements in his mind, his fingers twitching as if holding a mace.
Lu Dong walked out next, hobbling slightly from a phantom rib injury. He was currently arguing with a customer about whether or not the Hunter "cheated" by using the shadows.
Wu Feng exited silently, his presence so still that people instinctively moved out of his way. He was already calculating the adjustments for the next dawn.
Each had improved. Each had pushed further than any manual, any safe sect sparring, or any meditation could have ever allowed. They were becoming something different—something harder and colder than the other "geniuses" of the city.
But the conclusion remained unchanged.
The Hunter remained undefeated, a silent, obsidian wall standing between them and the true, deeper secrets of the Origins Dungeon Hall.
Yuan Bi watched them leave, his spatial ring heavy with spiritual stones and his dantian roaring with newly converted power.
[Shop Level Progress: 4100/5000 to Level 3.]
He stood up, stretching his back, and looked at the three young masters as they bickered on the street.
"Hey, shopkeeper!" Lu Dong yelled back from the door. "Tomorrow! I'm bringing a heavy shield! Let's see that beast bite through six inches of iron!"
Yuan Bi smiled faintly, the reflection of the setting sun in his eyes. "The Dungeon doesn't care about your shield, Lu Dong. It only cares about your soul."
He slammed the doors shut and bolted them.
"But please," Yuan Bi whispered to the empty shop, "do bring the stones."