Chapter 6 The Strong Devour the Weak
1207 Words
"Mars," the white-armored commander's voice cut through the air like winter's first frost, his glacial stare pinning the guard in place. "You've crossed a line."
Without even a visible movement, the whip lashing toward Henry jerked to a halt mid-air, as if striking an invisible barrier. The sheer authority radiating from the armored man marked him as someone high-ranking within the War Tomb's hierarchy.
Mars merely smirked, his eyes dripping with contempt. "Spare me the theatrics, Commander. These newcomers are wild dogs needing taming. I was just... assisting the Punishment Division with their duties."
The Punishment Division—a feared branch of the War Tomb garrison specializing in disciplining prisoners.
Commander Ophir's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. A mere flick of his wrist sent Mars flying backward like a leaf in a storm, blood erupting from his mouth as if struck by qi deviation. The guard stumbled over a dozen steps, clutching his chest as his legs nearly buckled from the overwhelming weakness.
"Don't think I can't see through your schemes, Mars?" Ophir's voice carried the finality of a executioner's blade, his white armor gleaming like hoarfrost. "You're in the War Tomb now—a disgraced man. Remember your place. Whether you're from the Nathan family's collateral branches or their precious direct lineage, my rules reign supreme here. Test me again, and I'll sever those grasping hands myself. Have grievances? Let your patriarch come say it to my face!"
With that, Ophir ignored Mars's thunderous expression, turning to a gravedigger gawking behind Henry. "You. Three days to teach this rookie the rules. Fail, and you'll both taste thirty lashes."
Then, defying gravity itself, the commander shot upward, vanishing amid the clouds in three breaths' time.
Publicly humiliated with his background exposed, Mars's gaze clung to Henry like a curse-seal. He wavered—then slunk away, his retreating scowl promising vengeance. Every ounce of his fury now had a single target: Henry.
Henry barely registered the glare. His attention remained fixed where Ophir had stood. So this is aerial flight... Which means that commander's at least at the Nascent Soul realm?
Only when he sensed that venomous glare did Henry meet Mars's eyes with a dismissive sneer.
Brainless young masters who relied solely on their family's influence? He'd encountered countless such arrogant fools in his past life.
Just as he turned to leave, a weary voice called out from beside him.
"Ahem... this brother here, I'm Jackie. Might I ask your name?"
Henry turned to see a square-jawed man in his forties with thick eyebrows, his furrowed brow betraying reluctance. This was the unfortunate soul Lawrence had assigned to teach him the rules—caught in the crossfire through no fault of his own.
With that in mind, Henry offered a polite smile.
"My name is Henry. My apologies for involving you in this, Mr. Gavin."
Jackie blinked in surprise. The defiant stance Henry had shown against Mars moments ago contrasted sharply with this sudden courtesy.
Shrugging, Henry chuckled self-deprecatingly. "As you see, newcomers who don't show teeth get devoured here. My apologies for the inconvenience."
Henry was no fool. Showing respect to seniors upon arrival was basic survival. His past life had taught him how arrogant newcomers who acted invincible inevitably met bitter ends.
Having spent twenty years in the War Tomb, Jackie recognized wisdom. Henry's repeated gestures of goodwill dissolved his lingering resentment. If anything, he felt relieved this newcomer possessed actual wit.
"You flatter me, Mr. Turner," Jackie waved a hand. "With my mere Foundation Establishment cultivation, I hardly merit the 'venerable' title. Body cultivators of your caliber are rare these days—let's speak as peers."
As for body cultivation—the path of tempering flesh beyond mortal limits.
A look of understanding flashed across Henry's face. Of course they'd assume that! How else would an "ordinary" man withstand Mars's brutal Lash?
He didn't correct the assumption. Some misunderstandings... were better left undisturbed.
After exchanging pleasantries, Jackie cut straight to the chase. "You heard Commander Ophir's orders, Henry. The rules here in the War Tomb aren't complicated, but they're not easy to follow either. Trust me, you don't want to taste those thirty lashes!"
Henry nodded. "I get it. Mind giving me the rundown, Jackie?"
"The War Tomb is the Sanctuary's sacred ground for fallen heroes. Tomb-tenders like us? Most are prisoners," Jackie explained without hesitation.
After their conversation, Henry had a clearer picture of the place. Most inmates here weren't ruthless criminals—some were even prisoners of war. The rules were simple: properly bury a hundred warriors to atone, laying their restless spirits to peace would shave ten years off your sentence.
Beyond that, it was mostly about obedience. The worst offenses? Challenging the Soldiers of the War Tomb or desecrating the honored dead. The first earned you a whipping. The second, a beheading.
As for escape? The entire tomb was locked down by formations. In Jackie's words: "If you've got a death wish, at least pick a decent ditch."
Seeing Henry's humble attitude, Jackie couldn't help but offer extra advice. "Listen, kid. Here in the War Tomb, never provoke the guards again. Commander Ophir plays fair, but most past commanders turned a blind eye. Too many prisoners have died at the guards' hands—remember that."
"Second, if you can, try to smooth things over with that guard from the Nathan clan. Even their collateral branches aren't people like us can mess with!"
Playing the obedient novice, Henry seized the chance to ask, "Jackie, just how powerful is the Nathan family?"
Jackie only shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable...
Meanwhile, in his private tent, Ophir—leader of the War Tomb garrison—gestured midair as his brush danced across the scroll. Before him hovered a gilded token emblazoned with a Radiant Phoenix in flight. This Phoenix Token was worn only by the Immortal Emperor's personal guard—the Phoenix Vanguard.
A holographic display shimmered above the golden insignia, densely chronicling Henry's every move—including his scathing remark: "What gives you the right, when even your master dares not touch me?" Every syllable was preserved with eerie precision.
As a shadow battalion operative of the Radiant Phoenix's elite guard, Ophir understood the implications instantly. Such meticulous surveillance meant Henry's background was undoubtedly extraordinary. His orders were clear: report everything with clinical objectivity.
The encounter left Henry shaken. The ruthless survival-of-the-strongest principle of the Cultivation World had never felt more raw. Ophir's dismissal of Mars—despite the latter's influential connections—proved one immutable truth: cultivation level trumped all.
"Power becomes my singular obsession..." Henry muttered through gritted teeth. The War Tomb's veneer of solemnity couldn't mask the merciless realm beneath, where might made right. To prevent another humiliation, he needed strength—now.
His focus sharpened on the flickering ember of Nether Mausoleum Force pulsing in his mind's eye—still weak, but thrumming with potential.
Three grueling months crawled by in soul-cleansing rites. Though still imprisoned, this was heavenly respite after the nightmare of the Wraithrealm. Frost-kissed leaves whispered beneath howling winds in this deceptively peaceful cemetery, where emerald life defied the eternal winter's grasp. If only Mars' unending persecution would cease, it might even become bearable.
- Writer
