The cliffs parted at noon.
Beyond the narrow pass, the valley opened into a quiet clearing, almost serene—if not for the broken stone pillars jutting from the earth like rotting bones. The remnants of a once-grand complex lay buried beneath vines, shattered statues, and moss-coated tiles.
Fang Xi slowed his steps.
This was it.
The Falling Rain Ruins — an ancient sect destroyed during one of the earliest righteous–demonic wars. Few records survived, but one rumor persisted:
They had once mastered a unique path of soul cultivation… then vanished overnight.
Now, the Ironwood Sect wanted him to explore it. Or more precisely, test him within it.
He would not play their game blindly.
Entering the Ruins
Wei Lian scouted the perimeter in silence.
Jiang Ping shivered visibly. "This place… it doesn't feel right."
Lu Shuwei agreed, eyes darting between the statues. "It's not just residual Qi. Something here is still active."
Lin Yao remained calm, but his hand rested near his sword at all times.
Fang Xi knelt before one of the cracked stone lions that flanked the entry path. He touched the base gently. His brows furrowed.
Old runes — soul-sealing glyphs.
Faded, but still humming faintly.
"These weren't meant to protect the ruins. They were meant to trap something inside."
He didn't speak it aloud.
Instead, he turned to the others. "We go in. Standard formation. Defensive spells active at all times."
The Descent
Beneath the collapsed temple, they found a spiral staircase descending into blackness.
Each step deeper grew colder. Not physically—but spiritually.
Fang Xi felt the pressure of lingering souls brushing against his own. Murmurs. Whispers. Regrets sealed into stone.
By the time they reached the underground antechamber, Jiang Ping's face was pale and sweating. Lu Shuwei kept muttering a protective chant under his breath. Wei Lian's expression was unreadable.
Lin Yao cracked a glowstone.
The chamber ahead was vast — lined with skeletal remains still seated in meditation.
They had not been buried.
They had chosen to die here, sealing their knowledge with them.
The Hall of Silent Oaths
At the center stood a wide stone table, its surface engraved with nine concentric rings and a faded inscription.
Fang Xi stepped closer, brushing away dust. The ancient characters shifted slightly under his touch, reforming into something legible only to him:
Those who feed the Echo with memory… shall drink from the wells of loss.
Suddenly, the rune on his wrist flared.
Not in hunger. Not in pain.
In resonance.
One of the skeletons stirred.
Not physically—but spiritually.
A fractured soul shard remained inside it.
And it was reacting.
The Echo Answers
Fang Xi reached out instinctively.
The mark pulsed once.
The fragment of soul drifted toward him — faint, barely coherent, but filled with images. Memories.
He saw flickers of the man's final days.
Of experiments on soul-bound weapons.
Of betrayal by a rival sect.
Of a secret chamber sealed beneath even this room.
As the echo faded into his mark, knowledge settled into Fang Xi's mind.
Not full techniques — not yet. But names, locations, and one phrase:
"Drink from the Soul Well, and your own soul shall sharpen."
Aftermath
Fang Xi opened his eyes. He had been kneeling. The others had stepped back.
Wei Lian was watching him intently. Lu Shuwei looked nervous. Lin Yao's grip on his sword was tighter than before.
"What did you see?" Lin Yao asked.
Fang Xi gave a faint smile. "I saw a ghost. And he left me a key."
He stood, brushing the dust from his robes.
"We're not done here. There's another layer below this one. That's where the true legacy lies."