Spells Grinding: From Basic Sparks to Divine Arts

Chapter 287: The Dilapidated Temple

The sky was choked with leaden clouds, hanging so low they seemed to press the breath from the world. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the thick mist swallowed the remaining light, bringing nightfall faster than usual.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A figure staggered out of the dense forest. His footsteps were heavy and erratic. With a sudden lurch, his foot caught on a root, sending him crashing into the roadside dirt.

He scrambled back to his feet instantly, biting back a groan, and continued forward in silence.

He was a young man in tattered robes, the left side of his body dyed crimson with fresh blood. His silver boots were shredded, and his long hair was matted with gore. His eyes were unfocused and wild, like a soldier fleeing a massacre.

Hanging at his waist was a golden saber. The blade was a spiderweb of cracks, notched and dull from a brutal engagement.

As he trudged on, a flicker of hope lit up his weary eyes.

Ahead, through the gloom, stood the silhouette of a dilapidated temple.

The youth clutched his bleeding right shoulder, glancing up at the oppressive sky. Muttering a silent prayer, he stumbled toward the sanctuary.

The temple was small and long abandoned to the elements. The walls were cracked, but the roof tiles held firm enough to promise shelter from the coming storm.

In the center sat a weathered statue of Maitreya Buddha, his smile chipped but eternal.

The temple was not empty.

Two groups of travelers had already claimed spots for the night.

On one side was a family of three—a sturdy-looking man, his wife, and their young child, huddled around a small fire where a pot of porridge bubbled. Their bundles sat close by.

On the other side, leaning against the far wall, was a man in gray robes. He appeared unarmed and was ostensibly asleep, arms crossed over his chest, breathing evenly.

The arrival of the blood-soaked youth shattered the quiet atmosphere.

The family jumped. The father immediately positioned himself between the stranger and his wife and child, grabbing a thick wooden staff from the firewood pile. His face was pale but set in grim determination.

The youth ignored the hostile gesture. He didn’t even look at them. His eyes swept the temple’s interior, checking the corners and shadows. Satisfied, he limped to an unoccupied corner, slumped against the wall, and crossed his legs.

Seeing that the stranger had no intention of attacking, the father slowly lowered his staff, though his muscles remained tense. The family huddled closer together, watching him with fearful eyes as they returned to their cooking.

The porridge was simple fare, but the smell of warm grain soon filled the damp air.

The youth’s stomach growled violently. He swallowed hard, forcing the hunger down.

He looked at his shoulder. The fabric of his robe had fused with the dried blood. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the cloth and ripped it away.

Hiss—!

The sound of tearing fabric was accompanied by a sharp intake of breath as the movement pulled at his torn flesh. A low, guttural groan escaped his lips.

The sound startled the child, who burrowed deeper into his mother’s arms, staring at the bloody stranger with wide, terrified eyes.

The youth ignored the pain. With practiced movements, he retrieved a small porcelain bottle from his robes. He popped the cork and liberally dusted the wound with a pale yellow powder.

Tss…

The medicine sizzled on contact. The youth’s body convulsed, a violent shiver running through him, but he made no sound.

After bandaging himself with strips torn from his sleeves, he leaned back against the cold stone wall, gasping for breath. He stared up at the darkened rafters, his mind adrift.

Ten years in the cultivation world. Ten years of clawing his way up from nothing, surviving by caution and grit. And yet, one mistake had nearly cost him everything.

“Ai…” He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

Fatigue and blood loss finally overtook his adrenaline. His eyelids grew heavy, and within moments, he slipped into a restless, pain-filled sleep.

“Dad… he’s asleep,” the child whispered, peeking out from his mother’s embrace.

“Shh!” The father pressed a finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “That man is a cultivator, involved in some vendetta. We do not get involved. We leave at first light. Understood?”

“Okay…” The mother nodded, clutching her child tighter.

They finished their porridge quickly, cleaning the pot in silence. The family curled up on a pile of dry straw in the corner furthest from the bloody youth.

Subconsciously, they positioned themselves closer to the sleeping gray-robed man. Even in sleep, he seemed safer than the walking corpse with the golden saber.

KRAKOOM—!

A blinding fork of silver lightning tore the sky apart, illuminating the forest in a stark, strobe-light flash.

Moments later, the heavens opened. Rain hammered against the roof tiles, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out all other sounds.

“It’s raining. Let’s sleep,” the father murmured.

“Come here, little one,” the mother whispered, wrapping her cloak around the boy.

Silence returned to the temple, broken only by the roar of the storm outside. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, making the old structure groan.

The injured youth slept fitfully. Pain and cold kept him on the edge of consciousness.

Some time later.

…Hmm?

The youth’s eyes snapped open.

His pupils constricted. In a blur of motion, he grabbed his saber and vaulted to his feet, crouching low like a leopard ready to spring.

The sudden movement startled the father awake.

He scrambled up, brandishing his wooden staff with trembling hands. “You… what are you doing?!”

The fear in his voice was palpable, but the youth ignored him completely.

His gaze was fixed on the temple doors, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his saber. Veins bulged on his neck.

“Are you deaf?!” the youth roared, his voice cutting through the damp air.

“The rain stopped!”

The shout jolted the father. He froze, listening.

Silence.

Absolute, unnatural silence.

A second ago, the storm had been raging. Now, there was nothing. No wind. No thunder. No patter of droplets falling from the eaves.

The rain hadn’t tapered off. It had been severed.

“W-what… what is going on?” the father stammered, looking around wildly.

A suffocating pressure began to fill the temple, thick and heavy like oil.

In the corner, the gray-robed man, who had been sleeping peacefully through the chaos, twitched a single eyebrow.