Lu Tian returned to Bone-Wash Hall with a plan forming in his mind.
He didn't trust the Left Hand Division. He knew their kindness was a leash. But he also knew something else—they were right about one thing.
Power wasn't just about cultivation.
It was about having leverage.
And to hold leverage, he needed more than scar-skills.
He needed a weapon.
Not a sword. Not something made of metal and spirit ore.
He needed a weapon that belonged to his path.
A scar-weapon. Born from the Abyss. Forged from memory.
He waited until the midnight hour, when the workers were asleep and the vats had cooled. Then he sat cross-legged in the center of the room and focused inward.
He looked at his Spiral. The rings turned slowly in his soul, glowing faintly.
His fingers trembled as he reached into the Bearing Path.
The scroll Elder Yi Qing had given him said this was possible.
If a memory was deep enough and clear enough, if it held pain, rage, or guilt strong enough, it could shape form, not just skill.
Lu Tian chose his next scar carefully.
It wasn't the death of his mother.
It wasn't the loss of his sister's song.
It was the time he stood in the street as a child, holding a blood-soaked envelope, while people walked past and didn't look at him.
The day his father had been stabbed for gambling debts. The blood had soaked through the paper. No one helped. Everyone turned away.
Lu Tian remembered the smell. The weight of the letter. The way his hand shook as he dropped it.
He focused on that.
And whispered its truth.
"Neglected blade. Forged by shame. Forged by silence. Forged by being seen... and ignored."
The Spiral shook.
The memory ripped open like a wound.
Pain exploded through his chest, but he kept going.
He fed it everything.
The moment the blood touched his shoes.
The way the wind carried the sound of sirens too late.
The sick fear in his throat when he realized no one would come for him.
Then, the Abyss answered.
It always answered.
The air in the chamber grew heavy. Cold. The floor cracked beneath him.
Black smoke poured from his chest, twisting and stretching into shape.
And then-
It solidified.
A short blade, jagged and dark, like it had been broken and glued back together with shadow.
It wasn't made of metal. It was made of emotion, hardened by will.
He could feel the truth inside it.
[Scar-Weapon Forged: Memory Blade – "Street of Bystanders"]
• A blade that feeds on ignored pain.
• Cuts deeper the less the target respects you.
• Gains power when unseen.
• Each use slightly erodes personal presence.
Lu Tian reached out and touched it.
It was cold. Real. Alive with something that was both him and not him.
He picked it up and felt his breath catch.
It fit his hand like a secret.
Not flashy. Not grand. But sharp enough to change a future.
He stood up, hiding the blade in his robe.
No one saw. No one noticed.
And that made it stronger.
The next day, a worker named Lian Feng, who had beaten another laborer half to death for fun, came for Lu Tian.
"You think you're something now?" Lian sneered, swinging a rusted hook. "Think that weird cult technique makes you untouchable?"
Lu Tian didn't answer.
He stepped to the side.
Let the hook scrape past.
Then drew the blade.
He didn't aim for the heart. Or the throat.
He slashed across the stomach. Not deep. But enough.
Lian laughed, then stopped.
Because the wound wouldn't close.
Blood kept spilling.
Lu Tian whispered as the blade drank.
"You saw others suffer. And laughed. Now your blood remembers what your heart forgot."
Lian screamed, dropping to his knees.
No one helped.
The workers watched in silence.
And the blade in Lu Tian's hand pulsed with quiet hunger.
The blade didn't leave his side.
Lu Tian wrapped it in dark cloth and hid it beneath his sleeping mat. But even when it was out of sight, he could feel it.
A faint throb behind his ribs.
A cold weight in his spine.
It wasn't just a weapon. It was a memory given form, and memory does not rest.
That night, while the others slept, he dreamed.
Not of his mother, or his sister, or the street soaked with blood.
He dreamed of silence.
A hallway filled with closed doors.
No voices. No light. Just the feeling of being forgotten by something large and invisible.
When he woke, his hands were clenched tight.
And the blade was sitting at his side, unwrapped.
He hadn't moved it.
He stared at it.
Its surface rippled slightly, like black water frozen mid-motion.
Then it spoke.
Not with words. Not out loud.
But he felt it. A pulse inside his mind.
Use me.
His breath caught.
The Abyss Root Method was never safe. That was the price. Cultivators who advanced too fast, without proper anchoring, sometimes developed Scar Echo, a phenomenon where scar-weapons or skills started pulling thoughts back toward their source trauma.
Lu Tian knew the signs.
He just didn't expect it to happen so soon.
Still, he wasn't afraid.
He had already chosen this path.
He sat up, reached out, and touched the blade.
It was cold, yes, but no colder than the memories that had created it.
"Not yet," he whispered.
The pulse faded.
But he knew something now.
This weapon, like every scar-skill, had hunger.
Not for food or power.
But for meaning.
It needed to be used in a way that fit its memory.
Otherwise, it would turn against him. Slowly. Quietly. Shifting his thoughts. Changing how he felt about others. About himself.
He couldn't let that happen.
He needed a target.
Someone who had power. Who saw others suffer and ignored it.
The blade craved that kind of blood.
He didn't have to wait long.
Later that day, word spread through the Bone-Wash Hall. An inner disciple named Yin Zhi would be passing through to test experimental soul-suppressing elixirs on workers.
No reason. Just sect practice.
It wasn't forbidden. It was routine.
Lu Tian had read about Yin Zhi in the novel.
Cruel. Vain. Untouchable.
He would choose two laborers, inject them with soul-rot, and leave them to die so he could record the results.
The others whispered. Hid. Tried to make themselves look small.
Lu Tian stood at the center of the room.
When Yin Zhi arrived, smiling behind silk robes and gold-laced gloves, he pointed at Lu Tian immediately.
"You," he said. "You've got the look I like. Strong soul. Let's see how much it takes to crack it."
Lu Tian didn't move.
Yin Zhi reached into his pouch.
Lu Tian moved faster.
The blade was already in his hand.
The cloth fell away.
The moment it touched air, the room grew cold.
Yin Zhi froze.
"What-?"
Lu Tian slashed once.
Not wide. Not flashy.
Just a clean cut across the wrist.
The glove fell.
Blood followed.
Yin Zhi screamed.
But the real pain came a moment later.
The blade's power kicked in.
It remembered. It remembered the silence of the bystanders. The sound of footsteps walking away.
And it forced that silence into the wound.
Yin Zhi couldn't call for help. No voice. No Qi flare. Only silence.
He stumbled back, eyes wide, clutching his wrist.
Lu Tian stepped forward and whispered:
"You've made others bleed in silence for years. Now bleed the same way."
Yin Zhi collapsed.
Not dead. But silenced.
Lu Tian wrapped the blade again.
No one stopped him. No one even moved. The fear had shifted.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was becoming a problem.
And in the Crimson Soul Sect, problems were only tolerated for one reason:
Because they were useful.