Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 121 — The Rootless Grave

The cold wind bit through the shattered walls of the ruins like a blade, whispering ancient laments of forgotten lives. Once a thriving sect that dared to defy the heavens, the grounds were now nothing but shattered stones and hollow echoes. The celestial purge had left no mercy for those who challenged the natural order, their legacies erased, their names lost beneath ash and ruin.

Rin crouched at the edge of a newly revealed crevice, a narrow fissure torn open by the restless earth. His Death Core thrummed faintly in his chest, an ominous pulse that urged caution. Around him, the remnants of the forsaken sect lay strewn — broken relics, faded banners, and the brittle bones of cultivators who had fought a hopeless war against fate itself.

The air smelled of damp earth and decay, but beneath that was something else — a faint scent of jade, like crushed stones long buried. His fingers brushed aside rubble until they found a carved stone slab, worn smooth by centuries yet still etched with the faint outlines of ancient runes. A tomb.

The slab shifted with effort, revealing a narrow stair descending deep below the ruins. Darkness beckoned, swallowed by the scent of old death and forgotten defiance.

Rin's heart, cold and numbed by countless betrayals and deaths, felt a whisper of something else — a flicker of reverence. He descended.

The tomb was vast, a subterranean crypt carved from bedrock, its walls lined with niches housing the skeletal remains of cultivators — men, women, elders, and children alike. Each skeleton was accompanied by a jade core, cracked, shattered, or in some cases, missing altogether.

The walls were etched with countless names and dates, a ledger of the sect's fallen. But these were no ordinary records. They were chronicles of failure, of defiance crushed beneath the unyielding hand of heaven.

The more Rin read, the clearer the story became. These cultivators had sought to sever their bonds to mortality by unorthodox means—using forbidden death refinement techniques, weaving death qi in ways that twisted their fates. They had hoped to transcend, but instead, they had become relics in this rootless grave.

Among the niches, something caught Rin's eye — a small, child-sized skeleton clutching an empty jade core, its fingers frozen in a grasp that reached for something lost. The child's name, faintly carved on the stone above, was smudged almost beyond recognition, but enough remained: Ling'er. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

The child's hollow eye sockets seemed to stare into Rin's soul, a silent accusation and plea all at once.

Rin knelt before the child's resting place, the weight of countless failed lives pressing down like suffocating stone. Ling'er's jade core was gone. Whatever fragment of life, hope, or soul the child had once held had been stripped away — extinguished or stolen. A death beyond death.

His mind flashed to the countless innocents he had seen perish in his journey, to the faces of those he wished he could save but never did. To the mothers, fathers, friends crushed beneath the cold indifference of the heavens, and the weak discarded by the strong.

And yet here was proof — saving others was a path laden with torment, a seed of weakness sown into his own soul.

Rin's fingers tightened around the dirt beside the tomb, gathering handfuls of earth, his movements slow, deliberate. He buried the child's remains with the reverence owed to all forgotten souls, whispering a vow beneath the cold stone:

I will not save those who become chains to bind me.

The words tasted bitter but true. To save others was to carry their burdens, to invite suffering into his own path. The heavens had shown him repeatedly that mercy was a lie—hope a trap.

From this rootless grave, Rin resolved to sever every tie that might weaken him. No more will he be the savior of the fallen. No more will he shoulder their deaths as his own.

The tomb held one last secret.

Behind a hidden panel, Rin discovered an ancient scroll, brittle with age but intact. Its script was dense with forbidden knowledge — the final rites of death refinement techniques once practiced by the sect's leaders, their efforts to break the cycle of celestial dominion.

The words spoke of death as both a prison and a gateway, of refining the jade core by embracing emotional death and severing attachments.

Rin's pulse quickened. This was the key he had sought — the wisdom to deepen his Death Core's power, to refine himself beyond mortal constraints.

But the cost was clear. To walk this path was to embrace coldness, to forsake all connection, to die emotionally even as his body grew stronger.

He folded the scroll carefully, tucking it into his robes. A new Chapter of cultivation awaited — one that would demand sacrifice far greater than physical death.

Emerging from the tomb, the first light of dawn broke over the ruined sect, illuminating the jagged stones and shattered banners.

Rin paused, gazing once more at the rootless grave beneath his feet. These cultivators had fought against the heavens and lost, their souls scattered like leaves in a storm.

He swallowed the bitter truth.

No longer would he be tethered by the weight of others' fates.

He would become the death that devours fate itself.

To be continued...