West of Cangzhou lay the Hengduan Mountain Range, known globally for its majesty, peril, and brutality. Its main spine stretched north to south for over 380,000 li, its ridge connecting heaven and earth, so high that even birds would exhaust themselves before reaching it. Its peril lay in the millions of subsidiary peaks and towering ranges; cliffs that dropped for thousands of ren and chasms thousands of zhang deep were commonplace, impossible even for mountain apes to scale.

Its brutality stemmed from countless miasmal valleys, poisonous pools, ferocious marshes, and evil ridges, teeming with tyrannical demonic beasts and rampant specters—even accomplished cultivators, should they venture in, could easily leave behind nothing but bleached bones if careless for a moment. Slightly nearer the southern end was a spur range called the Yinsha (Gloomy Evil) Mountains. This range stabbed out obliquely toward the northeast for over 30,000 li.

Within the angle formed by this spur and the main range lay a vast expanse of territory. The warm southeast monsoon was blocked, and the searing southwest wind could not penetrate. This area was constantly battered by howling northern gales, which, due to the unique topography, were forced to circle and churn within this specific corner.

Consequently, the region experienced year-round chilling, malevolent gusts—a perpetual season of eerie wind and malevolent gusts. Legend also tells that countless years ago, the mighty Great Shang Empire, having suffered a crushing defeat, retreated with the Emperor guarded by several million troops, along with the retinues of over a million noble families. In their desperate flight, they inadvertently steered into this seemingly spacious gorge, only to find themselves trapped in a dead end.

Naturally, these nearly four to five million people, along with their pursuers, engaged in a cataclysmic final battle right there. Afterward, the ground was strewn with corpses, and countless wronged souls lingered. Time has passed, and that Great Shang Empire vanished countless years ago.

And the victorious Great Chen Empire, after millennia of glory, too, dissipated over thirty thousand years prior. Now, this vast region, known as the Yinsha Valley, had grown progressively colder, more sinister, and saturated with ghostly energy. It was nighttime; black clouds obscured the sun, rendering the darkness absolute.

Between the valleys and hills, malevolent winds shrieked, spectral howls echoed, and wraiths gathered in dense formations. The mere sound of it was enough to shatter the courage of ordinary men. Yet, precisely at this hour when all manner of demons and specters emerged, the very center of the Yinsha Valley—a mountain whose peak had been violently sheared off—was strangely bustling.

This mountain, originally spanning several hundred li in circumference, had its upper half seemingly removed by some unimaginably potent divine ability. Upon this massive platform stood imposing grand halls and countless exquisitely detailed pavilions. Though the halls were magnificent, they exuded an aura of chilling solemnity and heavy negative energy.

Though the pavilions were ingenious, their fine carvings depicted nothing but skeletal fiends or ferocious demons. Most striking was the main entrance's monumental gate structure, hundreds of zhang tall, which seemed constructed entirely of countless white bones. Within them, grotesque, wronged spirits were brutally nailed, their silent howls, cries, struggles, and curses eternally displayed.

Anyone approaching was often snared and pulled in by these myriad lingering souls, reduced to nothing within mere breaths. At the very apex of the gate structure, three massive characters were etched with an oppressive chill: “Yinsha Sect.” If one looked closely, each character seemed alive, subtly writhing, and occasionally a blurry, ferocious human face would manifest, perpetually radiating a staggering wave of resentment. These were, in fact, the Primordial Spirits of the patriarchs from several righteous sects annihilated by the Yinsha Sect, subsequently refined for years in the Myriad Evil Array to form Ghost Infants.

These Ghost Infants suffered the torment of the Yinsha refining process ceaselessly, and whenever the sect came under attack, they were forced to fight desperately against the invaders. Truly, existence was a living hell. Scene after scene unfolded, creating a complete tableau of earthly purgatory.

The fourteenth day of the seventh month. This specific day, occurring once every decade, was a grand occasion for the Yinsha Sect. Normally, the Ancestors from every peak, grotto, and valley would convene to exchange insights and trade treasures.

However, the most crucial event remained the decennial disciple allocation ceremony. No sect, regardless of whether it was orthodox or wicked, could ensure perpetual continuation and expansion based on just one or two supreme experts. The succession of the lineage was treated as a solemn rite by every single faction.

Cultivation, the path of immortality, was not open to all. To cultivate, one had to possess a Spiritual Root. Yet, among ordinary people, those with Spiritual Roots were less than one in ten thousand.

Of those who did possess roots, nine out of ten were deemed ‘Waste Roots,’ incapable of development. Among the remainder, quality varied widely. Thus, the Yinsha Sect maintained a massive organization dedicated, without pause, to scouring the areas within and beyond their sphere of influence for children possessing Spiritual Roots.

Within their dominion, they could collect them openly. Outside their control, however, they resorted to stealth, kidnapping, and every conceivable method to bring them in. The Yinsha Sect controlled three or four large kingdoms and six or seven smaller ones within their territory, encompassing a total population of one billion.

Yet, even from this massive populace, they could only secure six or seven hundred children deemed trainable every ten years, supplementing this with clansmen presented by their affiliated branches and those abducted from outside their influence. According to recorded history, the highest number they ever amassed was slightly over nine hundred. This time, the total count was seven hundred and sixteen.

... Lei Dong’s face was dreadfully pale. In truth, any thirteen-year-old child would likely fare worse than him when surrounded by flickering, sickly green flames, the howls of ten thousand ghosts, in a place resembling the very pit of hell.

Among the other children, some had already collapsed into uncontrollable sobs. However, after the child crying the loudest had his head cleanly cleaved off by a single sword strike, the several hundred remaining youths either froze in shock or were sobered by the gruesome warning. They all fell silent.

Lei Dong’s paleness stemmed from two sources: first, he was genuinely terrified by the sinister, horrific environment. Second, it was born of profound disappointment. Since transmigrating into this ancient-seeming world, he had fantasized about truly living, about experiencing a vibrant, storied life like other transmigration protagonists.

To this end, from the moment he could walk, he had never stopped conditioning his body, aiming to carve out a name for himself through martial prowess on the battlefield. Though his family wasn't extravagantly wealthy, they were comfortable enough to provide necessities. Consequently, despite his young age, he had developed into a tall, broad figure resembling a young man of sixteen or seventeen.

When the sudden opportunity to cultivate arrived, and his Spiritual Root was detected, Lei Dong had been ecstatically overjoyed, barely able to contain himself. He had initially assumed this world was one of warring ancient states. He never imagined that the Immortals spoken of only in legends truly existed.

He couldn't help but be captivated. Even with the advantage of being a transmigrator, his best luck might yield him a wealthy merchant’s life, slightly better luck might earn him a noble title, and the absolute pinnacle of luck would make him Emperor. A century of life passed in a blink.

But once he knew this world contained cultivators, and he had fortunately qualified, Lei Dong’s imagination naturally ran wild. Handsome and distinguished, clad in flowing white robes, hands clasped behind his back, riding a flying sword—slaying monsters, leveling up, wooing beautiful maidens, and most importantly, attaining eternal life. It sounded like the pinnacle of enjoyment.

However, he never expected that after two years of concentrated training, he would be brought to this damned place today. Yinsha Sect—the name alone suggested it was no reputable orthodox school. Looking around at the environment, the attire of the people—either bizarrely eccentric or fiendishly menacing—and the red-and-black uniforms emblazoned with sinister Yinsha ghosts, it was obvious this was an evil sect.

He recalled that novels always stated evil could never ultimately overcome the righteous, and those seemingly powerful demon cultivators would eventually perish at the hands of orthodox masters. While he could dismiss the novels for now, the thought of the fair, ethereal fairy sisters he had secretly admired for two years gave him pause. If they saw him in this evil sect, they certainly wouldn't let him court them.

He might instead hear, "Demon, behold my sword!" followed by a barrage of sword lights stabbing toward him. The mere thought made Lei Dong’s mouth turn bitter. What tasted even more bitter were the seven hundred-plus boys and girls arranged in a circle, enclosing a combat arena roughly dozens of zhang across.

It was fitting for an evil sect; even the dueling platform was crafted with sinister strangeness, inlaid with countless desiccated bones, glowing faintly green, the ghostly wind sighing mournfully. On the platform, two disciples around twenty years old were engaged in a fierce exchange of spells. One, a tall disciple, held a sword art seal, commanding a small sword emitting a faint green radiance as it chased its target relentlessly around the arena, targeting a shorter disciple.

As he fought, the tall youth cackled sinisterly, "Junior Brother, surrender quickly, lest my Nether Fire Sword pierces your heart and refines your soul to death!" The tall disciple’s Nether Fire Sword was exceptionally agile, moving like a soaring bird or a swimming fish. This flying sword was sharp enough to effortlessly cleave metal. Its most malicious trait was that it had been tempered with nether fire; it did not burn the flesh but specifically seared the soul.

The pain inflicted on the soul was ten times greater than any physical agony. A mere touch could instantly kill an ordinary person from sheer agony, leaving their face contorted and their body torn to shreds by their own hands—truly vicious. The Nether Fire Sword was one of the Yinsha Sect’s signature flying artifacts, chosen by many disciples due to its immense power.

Naturally, the strength varied depending on the smithing skill and material quality. The short disciple also possessed a Nether Fire Sword, but shortly before, during their duel, it had been cleaved in two and fell to the ground like a dead fish. After a few final struggles, its green light entirely faded.

It was clear there was a significant disparity in the quality of their swords. Now, the short disciple darted across the arena in a desperate attempt to evade. His movement technique was nimble enough to dodge most passes by the Nether Fire Sword.

However, on the few occasions he couldn't escape, a silver shield, embossed with terrifyingly demonic carvings, would suddenly materialize to block a blow. Alas, after blocking several attacks, the silver shield was already crisscrossed with cracks and was clearly unusable. Most people feel sympathy for the weak, especially among children and youths.

Lei Dong and the others, forced to watch, felt a surge of pity for the clearly disadvantaged short disciple after a stiff-faced man explained the purpose of the arena fight. However, Lei Dong held a slightly different view. While the short disciple’s evasions looked frantic, his expression remained composed, betraying no hint of fear; he seemed to be holding something in reserve.

Otherwise, in a duel where surrender was permitted, continuing the fight served no purpose and might even cost him his life.