He was nothing more than a number in the servants’ quarters: Ding Two Hundred Ninety-Seven.
Each lash drew blood, each brand cost a life. His father was dragged away, his mother died on a snowy night. His sixteen years of life were written with two words: worthless wretch.
But he refused to be a slave, refused to bow his head, refused to hand his life over to heaven, the authorities, or those who climbed to power by stepping on his back.
During a desperate escape on a snowy night, he fell into a fire cavern, found a fragment of an ancient text, drew on earthfire, and forged his bones into blades. With blood for a lamp, he defied heaven and set foot on the path of cultivation.
From a lone ghost in the wild forest to a servant in a sect, he wears wolf-gray as clothing and wolf claws as proof. He fights his way forward, step by bloody step, determined to tear the word “fate” from the Book of Life and Death and slap it across the faces of those who look down from on high!
In this life, he seeks not immortality, only the freedom to live as he pleases.
His enemies’ blood is still warm, and his sword has not returned to its sheath.
His family’s souls have yet to find peace, and he will not stop.
Cultivation? No, what he cultivates is...
A life crushed beneath him for sixteen long years!
