Cain lingered in the shadowed hall, listening to the distant murmur of disciples gathering outside the main hall for the sect's quarterly ceremony. The ritual drew almost every member of the sect, from the novices to the elders. It was a rare occasion when the library, along with most of the sect grounds, would be nearly deserted. Today, with practiced caution, Cain had made his way here, his every movement calculated and deliberate.
He took a steadying breath, casting a last, careful glance down the empty corridor. The flickering torches on the walls cast long shadows, their flames twisting as if in warning, but no movement disturbed the silence. The path was clear.
He slipped through the library's entrance, his steps muffled on the stone floor. Inside, a low, eerie quiet settled around him, the absence of the usual murmurs and footsteps making the vast hall feel even more cavernous. His gaze drifted over the familiar rows of scrolls and shelves, a strange energy pressing down on him with each step. It was as if the library itself could sense his intentions, the ancient tomes and scrolls guarding their secrets jealously.
At the far end of the library stood the restricted section, a faint glow from the wards illuminating the dusty scrolls and cracked leather-bound tomes that lined the forbidden shelves. As he drew closer, the temperature seemed to drop, and an unsettling energy prickled along his skin. This wasn't merely a guarded area of the library—it felt as though he approached a boundary of forbidden power, something ancient and protective woven into the very air. Cain swallowed, the chill intensifying his pulse.
He moved quickly, each step bringing him closer to the enchantments that guarded the restricted texts. He'd studied the wards from a distance, observing the rhythmic pulse in their glow, the subtle shifts that hinted at their vulnerabilities. His mind raced as he recalled every detail he had memorized, knowing there would be no margin for error.
As he approached the first ward, he stopped, reaching into his robe to retrieve a small vial he had prepared the previous night. Inside was a powdered mixture he'd created from herbs he'd gathered during training—a blend meant to disrupt low-level enchantments, weakening them just enough to slip through without triggering an alarm. The vial itself was wrapped in cloth to muffle any sound, his movements precise and calculated.
He sprinkled a thin layer of the powder around the base of the ward, watching as the soft glow flickered, dimming slightly. The powder was hardly potent enough to dismantle the enchantment entirely, but it would buy him a few precious seconds.
Cain waited, his breath shallow, until the glow faded to a faint shimmer. He slipped past, moving deeper into the restricted section, his eyes scanning the rows of ancient scrolls, their titles inscribed in an ancient, flowing script. The air grew thicker, filled with the scent of old parchment and the faint tang of metallic energy—remnants, perhaps, of past practitioners who had dared to explore these forbidden arts.
He knew he couldn't linger, couldn't waste time searching aimlessly. He needed something valuable, something that would justify this risk.
His gaze settled on a shelf labeled in archaic script, a series of scrolls bound with red thread—a sign he'd noticed marked dangerous or high-level techniques. He reached for the nearest one, his fingers brushing over the rough parchment. The scroll felt cold under his touch, an unnatural chill that sent a faint shiver up his spine. The texture was rougher, thicker than the common scrolls he'd handled, and as he unbound the thread, his heart pounded in his chest, each beat loud in the silence.
He unrolled the first inch of the scroll, just enough to glimpse its contents, and his eyes widened. The technique detailed within was known as the Eclipse Devouring Art, an ancient method of cultivation that harnessed Qi by absorbing the life essence of living beings. Unlike other techniques that used pure Qi, this art seized the very vitality of its target, converting it into a refined, potent form that could grant unmatched strength.
Cain's breath caught as he continued reading. The description laid out three stages, each leading to terrifying power but warning of dire risks. The first stage allowed him to draw Qi from lesser life forms—plants, small animals—serving as a way to ease his body into the foreign energy. But the later stages hinted at something far darker, something that would involve seizing energy from stronger sources—other cultivators, even powerful beasts, if he dared. And at its peak, the Eclipse Devouring Art spoke of a ritual under a lunar eclipse, an event that would allow the user to absorb life essence at an even more volatile and powerful level, granting godlike strength if survived.
A faint tremor of excitement raced through him. He read on, his eyes absorbing every line, unable to tear himself away. This Eclipse Devouring Art promised what few techniques dared—a path to immediate power, brutal and consuming. The text even hinted that practitioners of the highest mastery could not only absorb life essence but imprint the memories and instincts of their victims, gaining flashes of knowledge that would stay with them in combat.
Yet the technique's warnings were as numerous as its promises. The user would be subjected to side effects: disturbing memories, invasive emotions, and even hallucinations from the creatures he absorbed. For weaker practitioners, the technique could corrupt their mind, leaving them prone to madness. And for those who attempted the ritual of the final stage, the price could be irreversible—a warping of the spirit, twisting it with the foreign essence they had dared to consume.
Cain's mind raced, his curiosity battling with an instinctive sense of danger. His rational side, the part of him that had once been a scientist, recognized the risks. This was power, but it came with a price he couldn't yet calculate. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. Could he really wield such a technique without losing himself?
But the allure was too strong. This was exactly what he'd hoped to find—a technique that defied the sect's rigid teachings, a path that led beyond the boundaries of ordinary cultivation. Mastering such a method would set him apart from the other disciples, giving him an edge they couldn't comprehend. He folded the scroll, binding it tightly, and slipped it into his robe.
A faint sound reached his ears—a distant footstep echoing through the library's stone hall. Cain froze, his senses sharpening as he strained to listen. He'd calculated this moment carefully, ensured that the hall was nearly empty. But it seemed he wasn't alone after all.
He moved quickly, slipping behind a nearby shelf and pressing himself into the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. The footsteps grew louder, steady and unhurried, as if whoever approached knew exactly where they were going. Cain held his breath, resisting the urge to move as the figure neared.
The footsteps stopped just a few shelves away. Cain's pulse thundered in his ears, his mind racing as he considered his options. He couldn't be discovered here, not with the forbidden scroll hidden in his robe. He waited, his body tense, as the silence stretched.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, the footsteps retreated, fading into the distance. Cain exhaled slowly, his muscles unclenching as he eased out of his hiding place. He'd been lucky, but he knew his time was running out. He needed to leave, now.
He made his way back toward the main hall, his movements swift but cautious. Each step brought him closer to freedom, the thrill of his success mingling with a deep-seated unease. He could feel the weight of the scroll against his chest, a reminder of the forbidden knowledge he had claimed. But he pushed aside the warning flickers in his mind, his ambition burning brighter than any doubt.
As he slipped out of the library, the distant sound of chanting from the ceremony drifted through the air. The sect was still lost in ritual, blissfully unaware of his trespass. Cain allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a brief indulgence in the victory he had earned.
But even as he returned to his quarters, a strange sensation lingered, an unsettling sense that something had changed. The scroll's warnings echoed in his mind, the promises of power tempered by the shadows of its cost. He knew that mastering this technique would require him to tread carefully, to approach each step with precision.
Yet he couldn't deny the thrill, the heady rush of having crossed the threshold into forbidden territory. This was what he'd come here for—to challenge the limits, to seize power that others shunned.
Later, alone in the dim light of his quarters, he unrolled the scroll once more, his eyes devouring the script as he committed each line to memory. He would study it, understand its nuances, and master it. This technique would be his weapon, his advantage.
As he read, he felt the faintest prickling at the back of his mind, a sensation that reminded him of his encounter with the Deadwood. It was as if something watched from the edges of his consciousness, a presence that seemed to linger, observing him from beyond the words on the page. Shadows seemed to flicker at the edge of his vision, darkening the room.
Cain shook off the feeling, his focus unyielding. Whatever the cost, he would see this path through. The sect's rules were boundaries meant to be broken, and he intended to shatter every one.
He closed the scroll, the weight of his ambition settling over him like a cloak. There was no turning back now. The path he had chosen was one few would dare to tread, but he had never been one to follow.