I stood at the top of the dark stairway, an eerie silence hanging in the air, broken only by the steady sound of my footsteps as I descended. With each step, the faint but unmistakable sound of gears shifting echoed around me, barely audible yet persistent, like an invisible clock ticking. Soon enough, my steps began syncing with the rhythmic clicking.

When I was a couple of dozen steps from the entrance, another sound pierced the monotony—the grinding noise of two massive stones rubbing together as the entrance closed behind me.

I was in complete darkness; the moonlight that had once reflected off the stone was gone. Even with my enhanced vision, I couldn't see a thing.

Thankfully, I didn't stumble; my other senses were enough to "see" what I was doing.

Despite being underground, there was no dampness in the air—one of the usual signs that accompanied places like this.

After what felt like an endless descent, I finally reached the bottom of the stairway, stepping into a vast, circular chamber. The room was dimly lit by flickering torches mounted above sixteen identical doors, their wavering light casting long, eerie shadows across the stone floor. Each door was accompanied by a coffin standing beside it, ominous and silent, their dark surfaces worn with age.

Though my vision had adjusted to the faint light, there was little to distinguish between the doors—each one was nearly identical, their ancient wood and iron fittings blending together in the gloom. The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the torches, as if the space itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to stir.

At least the Silent Harvest Sect lived up to its name.

Then, the third door from the right creaked open, and a tall, elderly man with long, salt-colored hair stepped through. He wore a dark robe similar to mine, the fabric rustling softly as he moved. His face, lined with age, was unreadable, and he barely acknowledged me, offering only a brief, indifferent glance before walking past.

Not wanting to appear strange for standing around, I entered and chose a random door—the fifth from the left.

Beyond the door was a long hallway lit by flickering torches mounted on one side. The distance between them was so great that I would have spent long stretches in darkness if I weren't a cultivator.

After a while, I heard voices—some talking, others muttering curses under their breath. I was nearing the end of the hallway.

The passage abruptly ended with a sharp turn to the left, revealing a massive underground colosseum. The place was bathed in a dim, ethereal light, casting long shadows across the stone floor. There were no spectators here, only individuals practicing their moves.

Scattered across the ground were coffins—not just resting places but makeshift benches for those taking a break from their training. Some disciples sat casually on the edges of their coffins, leaning back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

A handful of them had clasped their hands in prayer-like gestures, attempting to guide the Qi around them into the corpses. To do that without being a Qi Gathering Cultivator took remarkable talent. It was a shame they would likely never become actual cultivators.

There were corpses scattered across the ground—some appeared freshly buried, still carrying the scent of earth and grass. In contrast, others emitted a foul stench, resembling decaying zombies. The disciples didn't seem bothered, likely having grown accustomed to the smell.

Occasionally, one of the corpses twitched as the disciples made minor progress with their techniques, but nothing more.

It seemed I had wandered into some sort of disciple training zone. Most people here looked young, probably in their late teens or early twenties.

Well, time to play my part.

"Damn, this technique is impossible to master," I muttered under my breath as I walked around the arena, observing the others.

One of the disciples frowned, and after a few laps of me grumbling, he finally spoke up. "Hey, cut it with the negativity. If you're going to keep acting like that, just leave. You're demotivating us all."

"Yeah, yeah," I waved off his complaint. "I'll go read the technique book again, in case I missed some secret notes or advice for sluggish progress. Anyone want to come with me?"

"Sure," said a young guy in the corner, the beginnings of a whisker-thin mustache growing on his upper lip. "My friend and I could use a break. We don't have the stamina to keep drawing in Qi."

"We've been at this all day. It feels like my spiritual roots are about to snap," joked the other guy, who sported the faintest outline of a handlebar beard.

"At least I'm not the only one struggling with this pain-in-the-ass work," I said as we walked toward the hallway I had just come from. I fell a step behind them, as I had no idea where something like the library might be.

After some small talk, we soon found ourselves back in the circular room with its many doors and coffins.

"If we could just get a look at the founder's book, we'd be able to master the technique easily," said the guy with the weak mustache.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

I followed them nonchalantly, pretending to be part of their group.

"Tough luck on that," I said, inserting myself into the conversation. "We'll probably never even touch something like that."

"Speak for yourself. You must be new here," the guy with the handlebar beard chimed in. "Getting our hands on the book is possible as long as you survive the winter's beast waves."

Oh? Really? I had assumed there'd be more corruption here. But maybe the lack of power to guarantee survival during winter made everyone willing to share ways to get stronger. They needed all the help they could get.

"Well, even if we learn to control the corpses, surviving winter is mostly luck," I countered, standing my ground.

The mustache guy chuckled. "You're pretty negative, huh? You bring down the mood as easily as snapping your fingers."

"Hey, I'm just being realistic," I said. "If you want to live on hope and dreams, be my guest."

"How long have you even been around here to be this depressing?" the handlebar guy asked.

"Let me tell you this," I said, thinking up an excuse. "I've been trying to control a corpse for eight months, and it hasn't been working at all!"

"Wow, then you're our senior," said the mustache guy. "We've only been at this for six months. But keep your head up—you don't have to fight the monstrous beasts until you've got your technique down."

We walked through the sixth door from the right, and the guys continued to encourage me. They were good people.

As we made our way down yet another long hallway, the first thing I noticed at the end was a thin brown shelf attached to the wall, lined with black books. My heart leaped with excitement, purely on instinct.

The "library" was about the size of a small apartment, with shelves attached to the walls. Every book had a black cover; none of them stood out. There weren't even any titles on the spines.

I randomly pulled a book from the shelf while my new friends did the same, though they seemed to know exactly what they were looking for.

The book I picked up happened to be a biography of sorts about the Silent Harvest Sect's founder. It detailed how he discovered a certain book and developed a cultivation technique from it.

A little over a hundred years ago, the founder had stumbled upon a fortunate encounter. According to legend, a god descended from the heavens and handed him a book on life and death. The story sounded like nonsense, and even this biography seemed to imply as much—though in more elegant terms.

As I flipped through the pages, reading at a speed most couldn't fathom, the mustache guy nudged me with another book.

The two chuckled, and the guy with the handlebar beard said, "No wonder you haven't learned the Sect's technique if you let yourself get distracted so easily."

I smiled. "Good thing I've got you guys around to keep me on track."

I returned the history book to the shelf and took the book the mustache guy had handed me. This one was more detailed—it focused on the cultivation technique the Sect founder had developed.

Even before I got past the first page, the core flaw in the technique was evident. It was the same issue as the fake goddess. They didn't train their bodies or undergo Body Tempering to absorb and use Qi. Instead, they relied on corpses, turning them into fake cultivators.

No wonder the guy at the graveyard was so easy to hypnotize. Even a simple confusion array could mess them up. They had no Qi within their bodies to resist such things. Essentially, they were just normal humans using Qi—the necromancer equivalent of xianxia.

Despite the crude nature of the technique, one thing was clear: the founder of the Silent Harvest Sect must have been a genius.

The technique book contained notes about the notebook the Sect founder had found. It seemed he had come across research notes, not an actual technique.

To develop a way to cultivate based solely on notes... He was both intelligent and incredibly talented in cultivation. If this guy had been raised in the Blazing Sun Sect, there was a good chance he could have become a Nascent Soul cultivator.

It was a strange thought to consider—the next potential Nascent Soul powerhouse could be out there right now, living as a farmer, their only concern being when the next meal would come. Of course, they would never know about their talent as they had no time to worry about silly things like cultivation.

"When will we even get to see the original text?" I asked. "I haven't really been keeping track of dates lately."

It was a bit of a suspicious question on my part, but the guys didn't seem to pick up on it. Maybe they'd never had to worry about someone sneaking in here before.

"Probably during the next beast wave, like always. We'll be at the end of the list even if we have enough contributions. Might get to borrow it for a week during the summer if we're lucky," said the whisker mustache guy.

"Not like your slow, honey-filled brain could comprehend anything in it anyway, Hu Zi," the other guy teased.

Hu Zi—so that was his name—shrugged.

I nodded and started heading for the library exit. As I walked, I discreetly stored a few books in my storage ring, all while pulling out a bottle of ink.

"Hey, where are you going?" Hu Zi asked.

"I forgot something," I said, continuing to walk away. They didn't follow, and soon enough, I was back in the empty circular room with all the doors.

I poured the ink onto the ground, some splashing onto my dark clothes. After emptying the bottle, I returned it to my storage ring, crouched down, and placed my hand on the floor.

Qi seeped from my hand into the ground as I began a low, whispering chant:

Let the threads of your mind unravel.

Clarity dissolves like mist before dawn.

Lost in the endless void, your purpose fades.

Confusion now binds you, as all paths become shadows.

It was a long chant that made me cringe, and I poured as much Qi as possible into the ink, causing it to sizzle. Sparks flickered as the ink began to move on its own, shooting forward like a bullet, guided by pulses of Qi. At the same time, I used my finger like a brush, drawing dark symbols on the ground.

Confusion Array!

I winced, feeling almost half of my Qi drain into the array. Usually, the Confusion Array didn't require so much Qi, but I needed it to be larger, with a much stronger effect. I'd gained some inspiration from the owl.

Now, it was time to explore. With such little preparation, the array would last no more than an hour.

The only question was—could anyone in this Sect resist the effects?