Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 150 – Cinder’s First Kill

The streets of Rotroot were a maze of decay and desperation — a festering wound beneath the city's polished surface. The air was thick with the stench of rot, smoke, and forgotten dreams. Here, in the underbelly, merchants hawked contraband, rogues whispered deals in shadowed alleys, and the desperate clawed at any chance of survival.

Cinder stumbled through the narrow lanes, breath ragged, eyes darting. His small frame was no match for the brutal slavers who stalked him like wolves scenting prey. They had recognized the value of a child like him — raw potential, no ties, perfect for the Flesh Tribunal's auction block.

"Don't run, boy," snarled the tallest slaver, his hooked blade gleaming wickedly. "You'll fetch a high price. The Flesh Tribunal pays well for fresh flesh. Especially those with... unusual talent."

Cinder's heart pounded. His hands trembled, but his face was a mask of calm. Years of hardship had carved a hollow space inside him — fear no longer ruled here.

The slavers closed in, their footsteps echoing in the confined alleys. There was no place to run.

The first blow came swift — a crude strike meant to incapacitate. But something snapped inside Cinder.

The blade hung in the air, halted not by fear, but by raw instinct.

He reacted with cold precision, twisting beneath the slaver's strike. His small hands found a weak spot under the arm, fingers digging in hard, crushing ribs with a sickening crack.

The slaver's eyes widened, the breath escaping in a painful hiss.

Cinder didn't hesitate. With a ferocity born from years of silence and suffering, he grabbed a jagged shard of rusted metal from the ground — a discarded relic from some forgotten ruin — and plunged it deep into the slaver's throat.

Blood spattered, dark and thick, staining Cinder's hands, face, and clothes.

The other slavers froze, shocked by the sudden violence, but only for a heartbeat.

They lunged.

Cinder moved like a shadow, every motion sharp, desperate, lethal. He struck, grappled, and killed without hesitation or remorse.

In the blink of an eye, the alley fell silent.

Cinder stood amidst the broken bodies, chest heaving, blood slick on his skin. The scent of iron filled his nostrils — a brutal baptism.

He knelt, fingers brushing a pool of dark blood, eyes wide and blank.

"It doesn't hurt," he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper.

His words hung in the air, a confession and a revelation.

The underbelly of Rotroot was a dangerous place, but Rin waited in the shadow of a crumbling stone archway, the faint glow of his Death Refinement Core pulsing beneath his skin like a heartbeat.

When Cinder emerged, stained in crimson and trembling, Rin's cold gaze softened imperceptibly.

"You've crossed a line today," Rin said quietly, voice low but steady. "But good. You'll need to feel nothing where we're going next."

Cinder looked up, confusion flickering behind his dark eyes.

"We walk the path of death," Rin continued. "Not just the death of flesh, but the death of pain, fear, and hesitation. You must be unbroken."

Cinder nodded, swallowing hard, the first ember of resolve kindling inside him.

The city above roared with indifferent life, but below, in the underbelly of Rotroot, the true power lay hidden.

Rin and Cinder moved swiftly, shadows among shadows, weaving through forgotten tunnels and damp catacombs that few dared to enter. The air grew colder, thicker with the weight of ancient secrets.

Their destination was a whispered legend — a hidden death formation buried deep beneath Rotroot, said to be the key, the map, the living sigil pointing to the Death-Forged Portal. This portal was more than a passage; it was the crucible of transcendence, the gateway beyond mortal limitation.

Only the Death Gods themselves knew its true location and power. Many had sought it, and many had been consumed.

But Rin's Death Refinement Core pulsed stronger with every step, attuned to the echoes of death that lingered in the stones.

The chamber that greeted them was vast and ancient, carved from black stone etched with glowing runes that writhed like living veins. The death formation hummed with latent energy — a complex lattice of death sigils intertwined with ancient curses.

Rin stepped forward, tracing the sigils with reverence and purpose.

"This formation," Rin said, voice heavy with awe, "is the map and the lock. To open the Death-Forged Portal, one must first unlock the language of death itself. This is where the gods whispered secrets, where death was forged into power."

Cinder watched, silent but attentive.

Rin's eyes narrowed. "It will not be easy. The formation will test us — flesh, spirit, and will."

As they stood in the pulsating heart of the death formation, Rin and Cinder exchanged a glance — unspoken but profound.

Their journey was no longer just survival or vengeance. It was a war against the heavens and the cycle of immortal torment.

For Cinder, the first kill had forged a new path — one where pain was a tool, and death was a doorway.

For Rin, the Death Refinement Core thrummed with renewed purpose, the next stage of their journey unfolding like a shadow over the mortal realm.

Together, they stepped forward into the darkness, their footsteps swallowed by the silent promise of death's embrace.

Rotroot was infamous across the mortal realms as a hub for slave trading — particularly those captured for the Flesh Tribunal, a ruthless institution where bodies were commodities and pain was currency.

Slavers were brutal and cunning, blending intimidation with corruption. They worked in tightly knit gangs, armed with cruel weapons forged in the fires of desperation and cruelty.

The Flesh Tribunal's auctions were secretive, held in subterranean chambers where bidders included nobles, rogue sects, and even some executioners from the Flesh Trial itself.

Cinder's capture was a narrow escape from a fate worse than death — sold into flesh-eating refinement and mutilation.

Cinder's first kill was not just a physical act but a psychological rupture.

He had been a frightened child, but the necessity to survive forced a coldness into his soul. The blood on his face was not only from his enemies but also a mark of crossing from innocence to ruthless survival.

His whispered words — "It doesn't hurt" — were both a lie and a truth, a shield against the emotional pain that had long since dulled.

Rin's reply was a dark promise — a warning and a preparation. In the realms they aimed to conquer, feeling pain or hesitation would be fatal.

The death formation beneath Rotroot was a relic from a forgotten age, constructed by cultists who had worshipped the Death Gods.

It was said to contain encrypted pathways — coded through the language of death sigils — leading directly to the Death-Forged Portal.

Those who understood the formation could manipulate death itself, bending the cycle of life and decay to their will. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Rin's knowledge of death refinement allowed him to sense the formation's pulse, making him uniquely capable of unlocking its secrets.

The night swallowed Rin and Cinder as they disappeared deeper into the underworld of Rotroot.

Cinder's first kill was not just a survival act — it was the crucible forging a killer, a weapon to be wielded without remorse.

Rin's path was clear — to walk through death itself and emerge transcendent, breaking the shackles of mortal fear and limitation.

Together, in the shadows of the forgotten city, they stepped into a world where death was not an end, but the ultimate beginning.

To be continued...