Cold wind swept across the stone courtyard of the Ren Clan. Tall braziers flickered along the edges of the ritual ground, their flames bending like frightened servants under the night breeze. Shadows stretched across the carved stone floor, long and crooked, as if the darkness itself had come to witness the ceremony.
At the center of the courtyard stood a black altar, ancient and cracked, its surface engraved with the names of every member of the clan. It was the stone that recorded honor, lineage, and belonging.
Tonight, one name was about to disappear.
Arka Ren knelt before the altar, his breathing shallow and uneven. His robes—once pure white with silver patterns—were stained with dirt and blood. A thin trickle of red ran from the corner of his lips, dripping onto the stone beneath him.
Only a few hours ago, he had still been the pride of the Ren Clan.
The brightest genius in a generation.
The heir everyone believed would lead the clan to glory.
Now he was nothing.
"His spiritual core is completely shattered."
The voice of the Third Elder cut through the air like a blade. He stood to the side, his long beard trembling as he spoke. There was no pity in his eyes, only cold calculation.
"This is not a simple loss of strength," the Fifth Elder added. "Even a cripple would retain traces of Qi. But he… has nothing. Not a single strand of spiritual energy remains in his body."
Murmurs spread through the gathered disciples.
"That's impossible."
"He reached the third stage of Core Formation last month."
"How could he fall this far overnight?"
"He must have offended the heavens…"
Each whisper felt heavier than the last.
Arka lowered his head. Inside his chest, where a brilliant spiritual core once pulsed like a miniature sun, there was now only emptiness. It felt like reaching into a furnace and finding cold ash.
He clenched his fists.
"I… I can recover," he said hoarsely. "Give me time. I'll restore my cultivation."
A few disciples laughed quietly. One of the elders scoffed.
"Recover?"
"You don't even have a core left. What exactly are you planning to restore?"
Arka bit his lip until he tasted iron. He wanted to argue, to shout, to demand an explanation—but deep down, he could feel the truth. His body was hollow. The spiritual pathways he had spent years refining were now dry and lifeless.
The Grand Elder stepped forward. His white robes flowed behind him, and the pressure of his presence made the air feel heavier.
"Arka Ren," he said, his voice calm but absolute. "You were once the pride of this clan. But now, you have become a disgrace."
The word hung in the air.
Disgrace.
Arka's chest tightened. "Grand Elder, please—"
"Silence."
The single word struck like thunder.
"Your sudden fall is an ill omen," the Grand Elder continued. "A genius who collapses overnight… this is not natural. The clan cannot afford to keep such a burden."
Arka's heart pounded. "Burden…?"
The Grand Elder raised his hand.
"From this moment forward, the name Arka Ren will be erased from the clan records. All titles and privileges are revoked. You are no longer a member of the Ren Clan."
For a moment, the world seemed to go quiet. Even the wind felt distant.
Arka stared at him. "You're… expelling me?"
"Correct."
Before he could say anything else, two clan guards stepped forward and grabbed his arms. Their grip was firm, almost eager.
"By decision of the elders," the Grand Elder said, "Arka will be exiled to the Valley of Bones beyond the clan's borders."
Gasps spread through the crowd.
"The Valley of Bones?"
"No one survives there."
"That's not exile. That's a death sentence."
Arka's body stiffened. He had heard the stories. A land filled with twisted beasts, wandering spirits, and ruins older than the clan itself. A place where even seasoned cultivators refused to tread.
This wasn't punishment.
It was execution without bloodshed.
Before the guards dragged him away, a young man stepped forward from the crowd.
He was handsome, with sharp eyes and neatly tied hair. His robes were flawless, his posture confident. A faint smile rested on his lips.
Rivan Ren.
Arka's cousin.
The second genius of the clan.
"Brother Arka," Rivan said softly, his tone gentle enough to fool anyone listening. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of the clan in your absence."
Their eyes met.
For the first time, Arka noticed something behind Rivan's calm expression. Not sorrow. Not concern.
Satisfaction.
Like a man watching a door close behind someone he never wanted to see again.
Before Arka could react, a ritual blade was pressed against his finger. The sharp edge sliced his skin, and a drop of blood fell onto the altar.
The stone glowed faintly.
The name Arka Ren, carved among generations of ancestors, began to fade. The letters blurred, dissolved, and vanished as if they had never existed.
Within seconds, the space where his name once stood was empty.
No one spoke.
The guards dragged him across the courtyard, past the disciples who once admired him. Some avoided his gaze. Others looked at him with open mockery.
The massive gates of the clan opened with a deep rumble.
Without ceremony, without farewell, Arka was thrown outside. The gates slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing boom.
It sounded like the lid of a coffin.
Rain began to fall.
Arka stood alone on the muddy path, staring at the towering walls that had once been his home. Water soaked through his clothes, mixing with the blood on his face.
He didn't move for a long time.
Why?
Why had his power vanished?
Why had the clan cast him out so quickly?
Why did Rivan look… relieved?
The questions circled his mind like vultures.
Eventually, he turned and began walking toward the Valley of Bones. He had no supplies, no weapons, and no spiritual energy left in his body.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
The forest around the valley was silent, as if the land itself had died long ago. Pale mist drifted between the trees, and the air carried a faint smell of decay.
Strange noises echoed in the distance—low growls, the scraping of bone, whispers that might have been wind… or something else.
Arka stumbled over a cracked stone and fell among a field of ancient ruins. Moss-covered pillars leaned like broken teeth from the earth. The sky above was a dull, endless gray.
He lay there, too exhausted to stand.
"So this… is the end," he murmured.
Rain mixed with the mist, blurring his vision. His body felt cold and empty. For the first time in his life, he truly felt powerless.
Then, suddenly—
A faint glow flickered inside his chest.
His body trembled.
A strange, mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Shadow Inheritance System detected…]
[Host condition: critical.]
[Initiating awakening protocol.]
Arka's eyes snapped open.
"What… is that?"
Symbols formed in the air before him, like a translucent screen made of dark light.
[Soul synchronization: 14%… 46%… 82%…]
[Synchronization complete.]
A cool sensation spread from his chest to his limbs. It wasn't painful. It felt like sinking into a deep, quiet night.
[Welcome, Shadow Heir.]
[First mission: Survive until dawn.]
[Reward: Cultivation Technique – Formless Shadow.]
In the fog ahead, two red lights appeared.
Eyes.
A skeletal wolf emerged from the mist, its jaws clattering softly as bone struck bone. Dark energy seeped from the cracks in its body.
Arka swallowed hard.
Just hours ago, he had been the greatest genius of his clan.
Now, he wasn't even sure he could survive the night.
But deep inside his chest, something stirred.
Not despair.
Not fear.
A small, stubborn spark that refused to go out.
"If the world wants to throw me away…" he whispered, slowly pushing himself to his feet, "…then I'll become the shadow that devours it."
The bone wolf lunged.
And the first night of Arka's exile… began.