The first thing he saw… was the moon.
Not the one he remembered from a thousand lifetimes ago, pale and warm and full of distant peace.
No—this moon was wrong.
It hung over the graveyard like an unblinking eye, white as bone, bleeding at the edges. It looked down on him not with silence, but expectation. As if it had waited this entire time to see what would crawl back into the world.
And crawl he did.
One bloodstained hand reached up and gripped the shattered edge of his tombstone. Dirt and old blood caked his flesh like armor. The moment air touched his lungs again, he didn't breathe.
He devoured.
Every molecule. Every scent of rot. Every trace of life or death in the wind.
"The surface," he rasped. His voice sounded like stone grinding against bone.
He didn't remember what year it was.
He didn't care.
Because in the distance, barely visible beyond the hill of tombstones, there stood a girl.
She was small. No older than ten. A lantern hung from her hand, flickering wildly.
But it wasn't the child that made his eyes narrow.
It was what clung to her shadow.
A ghost.
Thin. Twisted. All ribs and jagged hunger. Its face wasn't a face—it was a mouth without skin. It clung to the girl's back like a parasite, whispering venom into her ear.
"Die for me.""Suffer for me.""They forgot me, so you must remember."
The girl was crying. Silent, exhausted tears. But she stood motionless.
He could hear it. The ghost wasn't just feeding on her fear—it was burying itself inside her soul.
Ten thousand years ago, he wouldn't have cared.
But ten thousand years in the grave changes a man.
He stood. Towered. Dirt slid from his skin like a shroud. Bones cracked and aligned. Cultivation surged through his soul—not golden, not holy, but primordial.
He walked toward them.
The ghost turned—and it screamed.
Flashback (One Week Ago) – Grand Midnight Sky Sect
"Elder, another death. That makes thirteen this month."
The Grand Elder slammed his jade table with a trembling palm. "All from the outer sect?"
The disciple nodded. "Every one. They were children, mostly. All spoke of nightmares. Graveyards. A man with no skin. And… bones. Always bones."
The Elder closed his eyes.
"He's returned."
Present — Graveyard Edge
The ghost lunged.
It wasn't slow. It wasn't stupid. This thing had fed. It had taken lives. Cultivators. Mortals. It was clever.
But what it wasn't—was prepared.
He caught it by the throat.
Its body writhed like smoke, like shadows, like memory—but none of that mattered. His hands didn't grasp flesh. They grasped spirit.
Because the Bone Scripture didn't cultivate energy.
It cultivated death.
"I remember you," he said. "You haunted me in the dark once."
The ghost shivered.
"Now let me show you what the dark taught me."
He crushed it. Not physically—but existentially. He unraveled its being with bone chants spoken not with his mouth, but his marrow.
"Ash to fang. Bone to chain. Return what you stole."
The spirit screamed until it was no longer a spirit. Until it was dust.
And in its place… a shard of soul floated down into his palm. Silver-white. Fragile. Powerful.
He pressed it into his chest.
The girl gasped. "You… you saved me."
He turned.
His skin still flaked like ash. His spine still glowed faintly from forbidden runes. He looked like a man buried inside a monster.
She didn't run.
That surprised him.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The girl sniffled. "Meimei."
"…You shouldn't be here, Meimei."
She looked down. "They say this is where evil things sleep. But I don't believe in evil."
He arched a brow. "You should."
"Are you evil?"
He paused. "I don't know yet."
Elsewhere — Sect of Sacred Burial
"They sensed it," said the hooded elder.
A bone mirror glowed between them. The reflection showed not the man—but the tomb. The cracked lid. The broken earth. And the red eyes glowing beneath the moon.
"The Bone Scripture walks again."
The other elders didn't speak. One of them simply raised a blade.
"He cannot be allowed to reach the mountain."
But they were too late.
Because he was already walking.
Graveyard to City
The walk from the graveyard to the outer city took two days.
He didn't rush. He didn't hide.
He observed.
And what he saw made him angry.
This was not the world he had left behind.
The great sects ruled everything now—land, law, life. Mortals bowed like insects. Cultivators no longer sought truth—they hoarded it.
The skies were still full of flying swords, but now they bore banners. Flags of clans and alliances and empires.
The world had forgotten the old paths. Forgotten the wild ones. The forbidden ones. The broken ones.
"Good," he muttered.
Because if they had forgotten him… they wouldn't see him coming.
Arrival — The City of Falling Leaves
The gate guards laughed when he arrived.
"Hah! Look at this beggar. Dressed like a corpse. Smells worse."
One spat at his feet. "You from the old tombs? Fuck off. No ghosts allowed."
He raised his hand.
Just once.
And the man exploded.
Not from heat. Not from cold. But from pressure.
Bone weight. Soul-density. Ten thousand years of hunger crashing down in an instant.
The other guard pissed himself.
He didn't say a word.
He just walked through the gates.
And no one stopped him.
Inside the city — Red Pavilion Sect Outpost
They noticed him immediately.
Not because of his aura. He'd learned to wrap that tight, coil it like a dead thing in his gut.
They noticed him because of his eyes.
Dead things don't walk with purpose. But this man? He looked like he knew exactly where he was going—and what he would do once he got there.
A beautiful young cultivator in red stepped into his path.
"Excuse me," she said, tone polite but firm. "This is sect territory. State your business or—"
He held up a bone. Just one. Small. Clean.
"I'm looking for someone."
She frowned. "Who?"
"The one who buried me alive."
Scene Cut — The Inner Sanctum
Back in the Grand Midnight Sky Sect, an ancient cultivator opened a scroll.
Inside it was a list of forbidden names.
Only one was not crossed out.
Ren Zhe — Traitor. Deceased. Tomb sealed.
He stared at it. And he began to shake.
"It's not possible. We saw him die. We buried him ourselves."
But then…
A crow burst through the window.
It had no eyes.
In its mouth was a bone.
And carved into that bone was a single word:
REMEMBER.