Rise of the Forsaken Immortal

“Say it again.”

The command cracked across the stone courtyard like a whip. Ken remained on his knees. Rainwater slid down his bruised jaw, dripped from his chin, and stained the pale tiles of the Azure Sky Sect’s outer grounds.

Around him, more than a hundred disciples formed a circle, some curious, some amused, most indifferent. Above him stood Elder Mo Yan.

Thin lips. Hawk-like eyes. Robes of dark indigo stitched with silver cloud patterns, the mark of authority.

“I asked you,” Mo Yan repeated, voice smooth as polished steel, “to repeat what the Spirit Measuring Pillar declared.”

Ken’s fingers dug into the stone. Silence stretched. A kick landed against his ribs. “Speak, trash,” another disciple sneered.

Ken inhaled slowly. “…Broken spiritual roots,” he said.

“Louder.”

“Broken spiritual roots.”

“And?”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Ken raised his head. Their faces blurred together — smirks, pity, contempt. “…Dantian unstable.”

Mo Yan leaned closer. “And your cultivation future?”

Ken’s jaw tightened. “Nonexistent.”

The courtyard erupted. “Ha!”

“I knew it!”

“He’s been eating sect rice for nothing!”

“Even mortals are more useful!”

Mo Yan straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “Azure Sky Sect does not shelter uselessness. Yet you persist in breathing our air.”

Ken met his gaze. “You told me,” Ken said quietly, “that effort could mend talent.”

Mo Yan’s eyes sharpened. “Are you questioning this elder?”

“No.” Ken’s voice remained calm. “I am asking whether the sect’s teachings were a lie.”

Gasps. A disciple whispered, “He’s dead.”

Mo Yan smiled. “Effort,” the elder said softly, “cannot mend what Heaven itself has shattered.”

He gestured. Two inner disciples stepped forward. “Remove him from the outer ranks. Send him to the mines at Black Ridge. Let him at least contribute before he rots.”

A murmur of approval passed through the crowd. Ken’s pulse slowed—the mines. Spiritual slaves worked there until their meridians collapsed.

No one returned whole. One of the inner disciples grabbed Ken by the collar. “Should’ve known your place.”

Ken did not resist. “Elder,” he said suddenly.

Mo Yan paused. “Yes?”

“May I ask one final question?”

“You may beg.”

Ken’s dark eyes held steady. “If Heaven shattered my roots… why did it let me live?”

The courtyard fell silent. Mo Yan studied him for a moment. “Sometimes,” the elder replied, “Heaven leaves scraps behind to remind the world of its mercy.”

A few disciples chuckled. Ken felt something colder than rain settle inside him. “Take him.”

They dragged him across the courtyard. As they passed beneath the stone archway, a voice cut through the noise. “Wait.”

The crowd parted slightly. Lin Yue stood at the edge of the steps leading to the inner sect. Her white robes were immaculate despite the rain.

She did not look at Ken, only at Mo Yan. “Elder,” she said calmly, “the mines are short on spiritual laborers, but this one cannot circulate qi. He will die within days.”

Mo Yan arched a brow. “Your concern surprises me.”

“I am not concerned,” Lin Yue replied. “I am stating inefficiency.”

A few disciples snickered. Ken glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable. Mo Yan chuckled softly. “Then what would you suggest?”

“Strip him of resources,” she said. “Let him remain as a servant. If he survives a year, reconsider.”

Mo Yan’s gaze lingered on her, calculating. “Very well,” he said at last. “Ken will remain. As a servant.”

The grip on Ken’s collar loosened. A servant. Lower than the outer disciple. Lower than a guard dog. The crowd began to disperse. “Lucky trash.”

“Even servants need working meridians.”

“Won’t last the winter.”

Mo Yan turned away. “Remember this mercy,” he said without looking back. “It is the last you will receive.”

Ken remained kneeling long after the courtyard emptied. Rain soaked through his robes. Footsteps approached. Lin Yue stopped beside him. “You should not have spoken,” she said quietly.

Ken gave a faint laugh. “Would silence have changed the verdict?”

“No.”

“Then why regret it?”

She hesitated. “You looked at him,” she said, “as if you were measuring his coffin.”

Ken stood slowly. “And if I was?”

Lin Yue finally looked at him. “You cannot fight Heaven,” she said.

Ken’s gaze drifted toward the distant mountain peaks shrouded in mist. “I have no intention of fighting Heaven.”

A pause. “I intend to outlive it.”

Her expression shifted, not to mockery. To something like unease. “You’re delusional.”

“Probably.”

He began walking toward the servant quarters. “Ken,” she called.

He stopped. “If you find yourself at the edge,” she said, “choose survival over pride.”

He didn’t turn around. “I don’t have pride,” he said.

“Only memory.”

That night, the servant quarters were silent. Ken sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his small room—no spiritual lamps. No incense. Only darkness.

He removed the cracked jade pendant from beneath his robe. It was dull. Lifeless. His mother had pressed it into his hand the night their estate burned.

“Whatever happens,” she had whispered, blood at the corner of her mouth, “never let them measure your worth.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m tired,” he murmured to the empty room.

His meridians ached. When he tried to circulate qi, it scattered like sand through broken glass. He placed the pendant on the floor. “If Heaven shattered my roots,” he said softly, “then I’ll carve new ones.”

Silence answered him. Then, A pulse. Ken’s eyes snapped open. The pendant glowed faintly. Cracks along its surface lit like veins. A whisper filled the room. “…Finally.”

Ken froze. “Who’s there?”

Laughter, ancient, distant, layered. “Not who,” the voice corrected. “What?”

The room darkened. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls. Ken’s heartbeat thundered. “State your name,” he demanded.

“Names are shackles,” the voice replied. “But you may call me… the Remnant.”

The pendant rose into the air. Ken staggered back. “You carry broken roots,” the Remnant continued. “A shattered dantian. A fate thread thinner than dust.”

“You mock me?”

“I chose you.”

The words struck harder than Mo Yan’s kick. “Choose?” Ken’s voice sharpened. “I am a servant.”

“You are unclaimed.”

The glow intensified. Ken felt something pierce his chest — not flesh. Something deeper. He gasped. Images flooded his mind. Threads. Countless silver threads stretching across darkness.

Some bright. Some severed. One thread his frayed and nearly gone. “This,” the Remnant whispered, “is destiny.”

Ken trembled. “Why show me this?”

“Because,” the voice said softly, “you are one of the few who can devour it.”

Pain exploded through him. His chest burned. Meridians screamed. He collapsed, convulsing. “Your spiritual roots are not broken,” the Remnant said. “They were sealed.”

Ken’s vision blurred. “By who?”

Silence. Then “By the Heavenly Dao.”

The room shook. Ken coughed up blood. “Why?”

“Because your lineage once fractured the heavens.”

The silver threads surged toward him. They pierced his dantian. Instead of scattering, they dissolved. Absorbed. Ken’s scream tore through the darkness.

Outside, lightning split the sky. Inside, something ancient awakened. The Remnant’s voice lowered. “The Heavenfall Spiritual Root… reopens.”

Ken’s body lifted from the floor. Spiritual energy rushed toward him from every direction — not gently. Violently. Hungry. His frayed thread thickened. Darkened.

Began consuming nearby strands. In the depths of the sect, an alarm bell rang. Elder Mo Yan looked up from meditation. “What is that fluctuation?”

High above the clouds, unseen eyes stirred. A whisper echoed across the Nine Heavens. “…He has awakened.”

Back in the servant quarters, Ken opened his eyes. They were no longer merely dark. They reflected threads. Endless threads.

The Remnant spoke one final time before fading. “Child of the erased clan… welcome back to fate.”

Ken rose unsteadily. His meridians no longer felt shattered. They felt starving. He stepped outside. Rain fell harder.

Across the courtyard, a nearby outer disciple suddenly screamed as his cultivation aura flickered. Ken stared. A thin strand of silver drifted from the disciple’s body, toward him.

He felt it enter his dantian. Warm. Addictive. The disciple collapsed. Ken’s breath hitched. “What… did I just do?”

From the darkness, thunder answered. And somewhere beyond the clouds, Heaven watched.