The Scion of Ruin

The well groaned with the same weariness that had seeped into Li Shen's bones. Ropes frayed from decades of use creaked under the strain as he hauled up another heavy bucket of water, sweat dripping from his chin in steady rivulets. His palms burned with calluses split anew, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him he was still alive. Still fighting.

The sun sat high and merciless over the far-flung fields of the Azure Cloud Sect, where even birds hesitated to linger. These overgrown vegetable patches were a punishment detail—out of sight, out of mind. Elder Guo had assigned it without ceremony, his cold eyes gleaming with veiled spite. But Li Shen didn't break. Not here. Not now.

He dumped the water along a cracked irrigation trench, watching the dry soil greedily drink its fill. Then, without hesitation, he stepped behind a crumbling tool shed, ensuring no one wandered near. The air was still, heavy with the scent of loam and wilted herbs. It was perfect.

From beneath a loose floorboard, he pulled out his weapon—a broken hoe handle, the splintered end worn smooth from constant use. Not elegant. Not even sharp. But it fit in his hands like it had always belonged there.

He breathed in, then moved.

A thrust. Tight and controlled. Then a pivot, guiding the faux blade into a wide arc. He followed it with a step and a turn, letting his body flow with the motion. His grip adjusted without thought, his feet shifting minutely to preserve perfect balance. Each movement corrected itself, as if a quiet voice murmured guidance in the back of his mind.

He didn't think anymore. He felt.

The blade wasn't metal, but his instincts treated it as if it were—weight, momentum, angles. Every motion revealed flaws, and every flaw adjusted almost immediately, like some inner force refused to let him repeat a mistake. His muscles ached from overwork, but they moved with growing precision. He parried an imagined strike, then stepped inside it, twisting into a counter that no one had ever taught him.

He panted hard, sweat trailing down his neck. For a moment, he just stood there, mop-handle in hand, staring at the empty field like it held the answers. This wasn't cultivation in the way the sect measured it—there was no Qi cycling through his meridians, no glow of spiritual energy. But it was progress. It was his.

A gust of wind brushed through the tall grass, carrying distant voices. Li Shen straightened, face blanking as he stashed the weapon and resumed his duties. There were always ears in the Azure Cloud Sect, and some listened more keenly than others.

—

Hours later, he wheeled a cart stacked with vegetables toward the kitchen halls, his arms quivering from effort. The wooden wheels clattered across uneven stone, every jolt sending sharp aches through his shoulders. But pain no longer held the same power over him. He had learned to quiet it, to let it pass through him like wind through a sieve.

Up ahead, near a moss-covered archway, a group of Outer Disciples stood chatting, their robes slightly cleaner, their stomachs slightly fuller, their lives unmeasurably easier than his.

"…near the Whispering Peaks," one said, voice too loud with pride. "They tried to ambush us. Demon-corrupted scum. Blackened veins, twisted limbs, the whole mess. Took three of us just to put one down."

Li Shen didn't look. He didn't need to.

The words echoed in his chest like a struck gong. Demon-corrupted. Even among seasoned disciples, such encounters were dangerous. But to Li Shen, they were something else entirely.

Food.

He kept his pace steady, gaze lowered, though every nerve in his body screamed to listen. To act.

"Something's off with the sect lately," another said. "Heard a Core Elder went missing up north. No trace but a bloodied talisman."

"Probably the demons again. Filthy things are spreading faster than anyone wants to admit."

The cart hit a stone with a jolt, and Li Shen used the moment to steal a glance. Their swords were sheathed but stained. One had a tear in his sleeve, a deep gash underneath hastily wrapped. The corruption had touched him. That meant the scent of it—that taste—still lingered.

His mouth went dry.

He guided the cart onward, forcing himself not to stare. He couldn't afford attention. Not yet. Elder Guo already watched him too closely, sniffing for signs of rebellion. If Guo suspected his hunger for demons, Li Shen would disappear by morning.

But he was learning patience. Observation. The kitchen halls weren't just a place of labor—they were a junction of gossip, information, weakness. Every whispered story, every injury poorly explained, every rumor of a "strange sickness" or "bandit attack" held possibilities.

He just needed the right one.

—

That night, as the stars blinked into view above the sect's shadowed courtyards, Li Shen crouched alone in a disused storeroom, mop-handle across his knees. He should've been sleeping, but sleep brought dreams. And dreams brought memories he couldn't yet survive.

His body hurt, but in a clean way—a forged way. The ache of strength being built, not stolen.

He closed his eyes.

He could feel something. Not in his Qi, but deeper—in his blood, in his bones. A faint, gnawing pull, as if something far away was calling to him. Something twisted. Something he was meant to destroy.

Or devour.

His Heaven Asura Destruction Body was still dormant, its power locked behind layers of suppression. But it was awakening. Slowly. He could feel its hunger growing each day. The faint black shimmer he'd seen once in a cracked spirit-jade. The odd resistance to pain when Elder Guo had struck him with a Qi-infused rod. The way his eyes lingered longer than they should on the scars of the wounded disciples.

He didn't fully understand it. But it understood him.

The sect called the demons a threat. A blight. And they were. But to him, they were also a promise—a path to the strength he could never gain through normal means. His blade did not seek justice.

It sought survival.

And blood.

—

Li Shen's eyes opened, sharp and cold in the dark.

He wasn't just a handyman.

He was a blade being sharpened in secret.

And soon, he would find something—or someone—to cut.

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