Cultivation Nerd

I stood at the top of the dark stairway, an eerie silence hanging in the air, broken only by the steady sound of my footsteps as I descended. With each step, the faint but unmistakable sound of gears shifting echoed around me, barely audible yet persistent, like an invisible clock ticking. Soon enough, my steps began syncing with the rhythmic clicking.

When I was a couple of dozen steps from the entrance, another sound pierced the monotony—the grinding noise of two massive stones rubbing together as the entrance closed behind me.

I was in complete darkness; the moonlight that had once reflected off the stone was gone. Even with my enhanced vision, I couldn't see a thing.

Thankfully, I didn't stumble; my other senses were enough to "see" what I was doing.

Despite being underground, there was no dampness in the air—one of the usual signs that accompanied places like this.

After what felt like an endless descent, I finally reached the bottom of the stairway, stepping into a vast, circular chamber. The room was dimly lit by flickering torches mounted above sixteen identical doors, their wavering light casting long, eerie shadows across the stone floor. Each door was accompanied by a coffin standing beside it, ominous and silent, their dark surfaces worn with age.

Though my vision had adjusted to the faint light, there was little to distinguish between the doors—each one was nearly identical, their ancient wood and iron fittings blending together in the gloom. The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the torches, as if the space itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to stir.

At least the Silent Harvest Sect lived up to its name.

Then, the third door from the right creaked open, and a tall, elderly man with long, salt-colored hair stepped through. He wore a dark robe similar to mine, the fabric rustling softly as he moved. His face, lined with age, was unreadable, and he barely acknowledged me, offering only a brief, indifferent glance before walking past.