My System Devours Immortals

Cris felt his ribs crack before he saw the boot coming.

The third kick lifted him off the ground. He landed face-first in the mud, tasting blood and dirt. Around him, outer disciples laughed. Some watched from the training yard. None moved to help.

Zhao Kun crouched beside him. The inner-sect genius was seventeen, handsome, and cruel in the way only the talented could afford to be.

"You broke my cousin's arm last month," Zhao Kun said. "Did you think I'd forget?"

Cris spat blood. "He tried to steal my ration."

"Your ration." Zhao Kun laughed. "A cripple with a shattered spiritual root doesn't deserve rations. You deserve a grave."

He grabbed Cris by the collar and dragged him toward the cliff's edge. Beyond it, the Beast Pit yawned—a dark scar in the mountain where the sect dumped its failures. Disciples who entered rarely came out.

Cris struggled. His meridians were useless. Three years ago, they had shattered during a sect assessment. No elder could explain why. No healer could fix it. He had been trash ever since.

"Please," Cris said. Not begging. Stalling.

Zhao Kun stopped at the edge. Below, something growled in the darkness. Something large.

"Please what?" Zhao Kun asked.

Cris looked him in the eye. "Please remember this moment. When I come back, I want you to remember how you smiled."

Zhao Kun's face twisted. He threw Cris over the edge.

The fall lasted three seconds. Cris hit stone, rolled, and slammed into a wall. Pain exploded through his body. He lay there, broken, listening to the growls grow closer.

The pit smelled of rot and old blood. Bones littered the ground. Some human. Some not.

Cris tried to move. His leg was bent wrong. His arm wouldn't respond. He was going to die here, in the dark, forgotten.

Then his hand touched something cold.

A ring. Worn on a severed finger. The corpse it belonged to had been dead for a long time—armor rusted, face eaten away. But the ring was untouched. Black metal. Ancient symbols.

Cris pulled it free. The moment it touched his palm, heat surged through him.

"Devour."

The word wasn't spoken. It appeared in his mind. A voice like grinding stone. Old. Hungry.

"You are broken. I can fix you. But you must feed me."

Cris's breath caught. "What are you?"

"A furnace. A spirit. A system. Call me what you wish. I devour. I grow. I make the weak strong."

The growling stopped. A shadow moved in the darkness. Two eyes, glowing red, fixed on Cris.

A Flame Wolf. Injured. Dying. It had been thrown into the pit days ago, barely clinging to life. But even a dying beast could kill a cripple.

"Kill it. Devour it. Become more."

Cris couldn't fight. His body was broken. But the wolf was slow. Weak. It limped toward him, jaws snapping.

Cris grabbed a sharpened bone from the ground. When the wolf lunged, he jammed it into the creature's throat.

Blood sprayed. The wolf collapsed. Its body twitched once, then went still.

"Devour."

Cris didn't understand. But he felt the ring pulse. Felt something reach out from his hand and sink into the wolf's corpse. Heat flooded his body. His ribs shifted. His leg snapped back into place. His shattered meridians—broken for three years—began to glow.

"One percent repaired. You are still weak. But now you can grow."

Cris stood. His body screamed, but it held. He looked at his hands. The ring sat on his finger like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting.

The system spoke again.

"Kill. Devour. Ascend. That is your path. The heavens will tremble."

Cris looked up. The pit walls were steep, but not impossible. He could climb. He could escape. He could find Zhao Kun.

He smiled.