Upon the cursed lands beyond the Valley’s embrace, all souls dwelling were consumed by the folk of the Vale, becoming one with their kin. Even the Grey-robed Elder, a figure of considerable years, bowed his head in resignation, offering no resistance to this fate.

Many now turned to the dark art of Soul炼 (Refinement), a practice that even piqued the interest of the Elder himself.

The tribe swelled in number, bolstered by captives taken in raids led by Ouyang Hua and others against neighboring clans. The number of men of fighting age now surpassed five hundred, granting the settlement a place of moderate power amongst the nearby tribes.

This burgeoning populace, cramped within and without the Valley, necessitated expansion. Thus, Wang Lin, with arcane skill, wove a powerful ward. He blended the ancient magics of the Valley’s own defenses with a protective barrier that once stretched across ten miles, creating a potent enchantment.

This new barrier encompassed a region of twenty miles in all directions, easing the burden of overpopulation.

With the rise of a new tribe, a name was needed. After repeated queries from Ouyang Hua, Wang Lin decreed that they would be known as the 炼魂 (Refiners of Souls).

At the heart of this twenty-mile domain lay the Valley itself. Now, all its former inhabitants resided outside, and the Valley was declared a forbidden place, accessible only to Wang Lin and those he summoned. Guards, chosen from among the Refiners of Souls, stood watch at the Valley’s mouth, like sentinels of old.

The Valley became the sacred heart of the Refiners of Souls, a symbol of their power and the pinnacle of their authority. Wang Lin, dwelling within, was revered and feared by all his people.

The laws he established remained unchanged: to unlock the next stage of the dark art, one had to fulfill one of the three trials.

The Refiners of Souls dedicated themselves to their training, seizing every moment to hone their skills. Aside from those on patrol, few were seen abroad; most remained secluded in their dwellings, practicing the arts of soul and spirit.

The Refiners of Souls were now unlike any tribe in the Blighted Lands. They resembled, instead, a nascent order of dark sorcerers.

Wang Lin found himself once more amidst tranquility. Within the Valley, his magic had transformed the old dwellings into a place of verdant beauty, a haven of songbirds and blooming flowers.

There, amidst this enchanted landscape, he built a simple wooden hut. Yet, within its simplicity lay the essence of the Way. Any who possessed the Sight would perceive that, though each plank of wood was of different size, their weight was exactly the same.

This hut was Wang Lin’s abode, where he sat in meditation, absorbing not the celestial energies of the heavens, but the dark, tainted power of the Blighted Lands.

Time passed, and winter descended. The Blighted Lands offered no reprieve from its icy grip. White flakes fell from the heavens, blanketing the world in a shimmering shroud.

Wang Lin stirred from his meditations, stepping out of his hut as the snow descended. He watched its silent dance, lost in thought.

After a time, he lifted his gaze to the sky and whispered, “Two years.”

Nearly two years had passed since his arrival in the Blighted Lands. Only this winter remained until the second year’s end.

He held out his hand, catching a single snowflake. A fleeting chill touched his palm, then the flake dissolved, and a trace of tainted energy flowed into his body.

“The Blighted Lands…all things are imbued with its power,” Wang Lin murmured. He sat cross-legged on the ground, closing his eyes.

The snow fell softly, accumulating upon his form until he became a snow-covered effigy.

He remained motionless, drawing in the tainted energy from the falling snow. In these two years, the crystal of tainted energy within him had grown from five 甲 to thirty-four!

The greater his power grew, the harder it became to increase it. Three 甲 of tainted energy were equal to Foundation Building, and tenfold that was equivalent to Core Formation. The same tenfold progression applied to each subsequent stage.

Wang Lin sought this power because he knew it could be melded with celestial energy to enhance it.

To reach the Late Stage of Soul Transformation, he needed more celestial jade, even with the vast quantity he had gathered over the centuries. Ascension to Ascendant was an even more distant dream.

Therefore, he sought a shortcut to power, and the conversion of tainted energy was one path he envisioned.

What Wang Lin could conceive, others could as well. Now, it was a matter of who could amass the greatest stores of tainted energy.

To Wang Lin, this power was a twisted form of celestial jade, capable of elevating his cultivation.

In these two years, the Refiners of Souls had advanced greatly. Driven by their desire for the next stage of the dark art, more and more of them ventured from the Valley to test their skills. Nearly every month, raiding parties went forth to conquer smaller tribes, seizing captives and whatever tainted crystals they could find.

It was observed that the wards meant to keep out intruders seemed ineffective against the natives of the Blighted Lands. Their sole purpose appeared to be to deter the tide of creatures unleashed during the Night of the妖灵 (Demon Spirits) and to repel outsiders.

As time passed, the population of the Refiners of Souls grew, and the twenty-mile domain once again felt cramped.

Expansion was necessary. After three days of study, Wang Lin extended the barrier by another twenty miles. The Refiners of Souls, now possessing a forty-mile domain, transformed into one of the most powerful tribes for thousands of miles around!

With the increase in population came an increase in those practicing the art of Soul炼 (Refinement). Wang Lin understood that the spirits contained within the soul banners required repeated rites to unleash their full potential.
He guarded the secrets of the Soul-Nourishing Rite, loath to entrust it to these simple folk. Instead, he unfurled the Revered Soul Banner. By his command, the banner swelled, darkening, until it became a swirling shroud of ebony mist that devoured the skies within a forty-league radius.

The sudden emergence of this black fog sent tremors of awe and alarm through the Soulforger Tribe. Tribesmen spilled from their abodes, their eyes wide with wonder and apprehension. Those skilled in the ways of soul-weaving seized their own banners, enveloping themselves within their tattered embrace, and soared towards the heart of the encroaching darkness, seeking to unravel its mysteries.

Then, from the heart of the valley, the voice of Wang Lin echoed, resonant and commanding, across the fog-laden lands. “Place your souls within the cauldrons! Immerse them within the black fog at appointed hours. Thus shall their power be magnified!”

The moment his words ceased, every soul within the forty leagues bowed low, prostrating themselves upon the very earth. Their eyes, filled with an almost feverish devotion, were fixed upon the valley where Wang Lin dwelt.

From that day forward, the ebony mist became a constant presence, swirling and eddying around the Soulforger lands. Within its depths, countless souls of men and beasts howled and writhed in perpetual, arcane exercise.

The Soulforger Tribe grew accustomed to the daily ritual, releasing their souls into the fog’s embrace. The black mist became their mark, their distinguishing emblem in the harsh and unforgiving lands.

Yet, not all within the Soulforger Tribe followed the path of the Soul-Nourisher. Some lacked the inherent talent, the mystical resonance, and were relegated to the role of hunter, venturing forth to provide sustenance for the tribe.

Thirteen was one such hunter.

Since the day his power was stripped, he had spoken no word. He was a shadow, a mere shell of a man, devoid of spark and filled with a haunting emptiness.

Only in the dead of night, as he tirelessly practiced the breathing exercises he once mastered, would a flicker of emotion cross his face. It was not joy, nor contentment, but a profound and agonizing bitterness.

He was consumed by a deep-seated resentment. Others now walked the path he had once blazed. Many had ascended to the Fourth Stage of soul cultivation, wielding more than ten soul banners. A handful of prodigious talents had even surpassed him, usurping his former glory and becoming the rising stars of the tribe, second only to Ouyang Hua himself.

Each accomplishment, each display of newfound power, was a dagger twisting in his heart.

Driven by this torment, he threw himself into the hunt with reckless abandon, courting death with every beast he faced. More than once, he had been brought back from the brink, saved only by the compassion of his fellow hunters.

Among those who tended to his wounds, there were those who remembered his former status, his lost prestige. Seeing him reduced to this broken state filled their hearts with pity and regret.

One day, Wang Lin sat within his valley, his gaze fixed upon a strip of wood, dark as midnight and radiating a subtle, ethereal glow.

The wood had been offered to him by a tribesman. During a raid on a minor settlement, they found no prized demon crystals, but discovered this strange piece of wood lying at the heart of the village’s sacred place. Intrigued, the tribesman had taken it and presented it to Wang Lin.

As he examined it, Wang Lin abruptly looked up, his gaze piercing the veil of the valley. A moment later, the aged voice of Ouyang Hua echoed from without.

“I, your humble servant, seek audience with the Old Ancestor!” The title, “Old Ancestor,” had arisen organically among the tribe, and Wang Lin, with tacit acceptance, had allowed it to stand.

“Enter,” Wang Lin replied, his eyes returning to the dark wood in his hand.

Ouyang Hua strode into the valley, his arms cradling a figure limp and bleeding, the color drained from his face.

Reaching Wang Lin, Ouyang Hua knelt, gently laying his burden upon the ground. “Old Ancestor,” he murmured, his voice filled with concern, “Thirteen encountered a rare demon-mutated beast during the hunt. I arrived as soon as I sensed the disturbance, but alas, it was too late.” In the Land of Spirited Demons, any creature that accumulated an excess of demonic energy could undergo a terrifying transformation. Once mutated, its strength was magnified tenfold.

Wang Lin placed the wooden strip beside him and looked down at Thirteen.

The passage of the year had aged Thirteen beyond his years. He resembled not a youth, but a man nearing his twilight.

“You may leave,” Wang Lin said, his voice low and measured.

Ouyang Hua rose, bowed respectfully, and withdrew.

As he departed the valley, he sighed heavily, casting one last look at the valley’s entrance. “Thirteen,” he murmured to himself, “your fate rests in his hands.” Wang Lin, his gaze still fixed on Thirteen, fell into deep contemplation.