Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death

The first sign came as a shadow without source.

Rin stood at the edge of the Hollow Plateau, a windless height carved by ancient battles. The ground was pitted with graves too shallow to forget. Broken banners twitched where no breeze stirred, and rusted weapons protruded like ribs from the corpse of history.

Yet above it all—light fell. Cold, silver. Too pure.

Moonlight.

He narrowed his eyes.

Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs novel-fire.ɴet

A pale luminescence bled across the plateau like spilled frost. His death aura recoiled as if burned, retreating into his marrow. His breath stuttered. His blood shivered.

Lunar Suppression.

They were here.

The Pale Creed, servants of the Nameless Moon.

Moon-attribute cultivators were rare. Not because the moon was weak, but because it refused remembrance. The Celestial Path of Lunar Enlightenment demanded that its followers discard names, emotions, and even reflections. They became reflections of light, not light itself—ritual fragments of the moon's eternal aloofness.

Their techniques disrupted death.