Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 134 – Footsteps on a Forgotten Grave

There are places where death forgets to close its eyes. Where the breath of the dead lingers in the soil, sighing through rusted bones, never quite fading.

Rin stood at the edge of such a place.

The Vale of Drowned Wills was not marked on maps. It was a scar between sect territories, avoided not because of beasts or formations, but because of what it remembered. Centuries ago, three rogue sects—Red Silence Hall, Thousand Pulse Maw, and the Verdant Bastard Clan—had clashed here in a three-day slaughter that ended with none surviving. Cultivation techniques torn from heaven and hell had devoured the soil, fractured space, and drowned the future in spectral rot.

They said the souls of those who died here had never reincarnated. They lingered—not as ghosts, but as conscious memories, stripped of bodies, chewing on their last moments like gristle stuck between the teeth of eternity.

The path was not guarded by talismans or wards. It was protected by memory itself.

And yet Rin stepped forward.

Each footfall echoed louder than the last, though the wind was still. The grass was black. The stones were smooth, veined with soul marrow. No birds flew above this place. The clouds circled like vultures with patient wings.

As he walked deeper, the land began to whisper.

Not aloud. Not in language. But in guilt.

At first, it was subtle. The wind tugged at his sleeve like a begging hand. A dying disciple's voice brushed his ear—"Why did you run?" The ground seemed to sag beneath his steps as if the earth itself mourned its weight.

Then it broke.

The hallucinations came like knives.

The battlefield warped. The skies turned pale with ash. The scent of damp blood permeated the air, but it was familiar—his own memory. He stumbled forward, clutching his chest, as visions ruptured across his vision like old scars splitting open.

He saw her.

His mother.

Not as he tried to remember her—but as he had buried her. Slender, sharp-eyed, always trembling. Dressed in beggar's robes dyed with patchwork illusions, pretending wealth before lesser cultivators. Her mouth curled with fear when she smiled. Rin remembered the way her fingers always smelled of crushed copper pills and decaying talismans.

And before her stood a figure cloaked in sable-gray robes, face hidden behind a white lacquer mask carved into a crying child. He was tall. Still. Smelled of dead stars and sleeping qi. His voice was not heard, but felt—like sickness.

Rin, age seven, knelt between them.

"This one?" the masked cultivator said. "Too frail."

"He'll grow. Please... I need—"

"Pills are not free."

"I'll give you my spirit contract. My father's ring. I'll bind my next three lives—"

The masked cultivator turned. "You've nothing worth what you ask."

Her face twisted. She looked down at Rin.

And then she said the words that tore something vital from his soul.

"Then take him."

Rin watched his younger self, lips pressed together, small hands clasped. He hadn't cried. Not then. Only later. Much later.

The masked cultivator stepped forward and reached out—

"No."

Rin's voice cracked across the illusion. His breath hitched. His body shook.

But the vision continued. The masked cultivator's hand touched the boy's head. Marked it with a sigil of devouring. The child slumped. The mother turned away, unable to look. And the masked figure whispered something only the soul could hear.

"Even the womb sells what it cannot keep."

The battlefield returned.

Rin dropped to his knees.

The cold soil did not welcome him. It judged. The weight of that one memory—one he had buried beneath years of pain and discipline—pressed down like a mountain of uncried screams.

He did not weep.

His eyes were dry. His breath, shallow. His fingers dug into the dirt, feeling the bones hidden beneath—phalanx, jaw, spine, horn. Each a fragment of another who had once wanted to live.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse. Fractured.

"I understand now."

He had hated his mother for years in silence. Loved her, too. Not because she deserved it, but because it was what a child did. He had crafted a thousand excuses for her cruelty, her fear, her trade. But in this cursed field of memory and resentment, there were no lies left to cling to.

"She was weak. She made her choice. And so will I."

He stood.

His Death Core began to spin—not violently, but with solemn gravity. The names etched into his Death Lotus shimmered, and a new petal unfolded. On it was carved only one word: Mother.

He would carry her.

Not to forgive her. Not to redeem her.

But to own the weight of his origin. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

Even familial chains could be broken. And if they could not—then he would drag them with him into his ascent, and refine them into nothing.

Above, the clouds cracked. A thin shaft of light spilled down—not golden, but grey and brittle, as if the heavens watched with indifference.

The field pulsed once beneath his feet.

The souls did not vanish. They lingered. Watching.

But they no longer accused.

He had faced his memory.

He left the battlefield with slower steps, but a cleaner core. The Hollow Heart pulsed within him like an empty bell, resonating with truths no longer denied.

Far in the distance, past the charred ridge of forgotten war, something ancient stirred.

A tomb opened—not in stone, but in name.

And Rin walked toward it.

To be continued...