Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 127 – Heaven-Hating Scripture Fragment

The Black Bone Monastery's bones lay long-dead, but not empty.

After the duel, after the silence of the ghost-eater's retreat into the endless shadows, Rin remained. He stood among the cracked foundations and rust-bleeding pillars, eyes half-lidded, senses peeled outward like skin flensed from muscle. He could still feel the residue of spirits clinging to the air, and beneath it—a deeper presence. Not a soul, but a whisper burned into the stone.

Not all ruins decay equally. Some rot slowly, others are devoured in an instant, and a rare few fester into sanctums of occult memory.

Rin descended.

Through a crumbled prayer hall half-swallowed by vines of withered ghostwort, past a mosaic of shattered bone tiles that formed a sigil of inverted light. He followed the ache in his Death Core—a subtle pulse that led him down, through darknesses older than words, until he came upon a hidden crypt carved into the earth like a wound.

It was silent here. Not even the ghosts wept. freeweɓnøvel.com

The chamber was circular, windowless, and lined with deathless ash. At its center lay a stone plinth, cracked open by time and talon, revealing a single object resting inside. A tattered scroll fragment, charred at the edges, etched in ink made from crushed bones and divine ichor. Its script shimmered not with light, but with the absence of it—negative luminescence that drank all it touched.

Rin did not reach for it. Not immediately.

He read the fragment as a priest reads blasphemy, line by line, heart by heart.

To resist death is to affirm the will of the gods. But to accept it—truly accept it, as the first breath accepts the last—is to unmake the Divine Order itself.

The Heavens do not fear hatred, nor vengeance, nor wrath. They fear peace. The peace of a mortal who dies without resistance. A cultivator who embraces dissolution.

The path to Nirvana Through Oblivion begins with the Severing of the Self. When desire is burned, when fear is drowned, when identity is undone—then the gate shall open.

Kill thyself, not in body, but in mind. Breathe as the dead do. And be reborn without form.

He inhaled.

The air here was stale, but thick with meaning.

The implications were heresy. Not merely defiance of the cultivation orthodoxy, but a reversal. Not rising through accumulation, but descending through abandonment. A method that did not cultivate power, but unmake the soul until something truer remained.

This was not Death Refinement—it was something colder, starker, more primal.

Nirvana Through Oblivion.

It was incomplete. A mere fragment. Yet the insight struck Rin like a silent thunderclap behind the eyes.

He seated himself cross-legged upon the stone floor, surrounded by dust that had once been monks, saints, and murderers. He unfurled the fragment beside him and began the experiment. Not blindly, but with a deliberate caution sharpened by a hundred brushes with annihilation.

He turned inward.

His mind, a fortress of memories and sharpened scars, resisted. Of course it did. Identity was not something easily discarded.

The technique had no structured method. It was principle, not form. Insight, not instruction.

So Rin began with Fear.

He peeled it away.

He found it clinging beneath the layers of discipline and rage—fear of failure, of being consumed by greater beings, of walking the path of death only to become death's slave. He took this fear, grasped it with the full might of his Death Core, and killed it.

Not erased. Not denied. Killed.

A ritual murder of emotion. A small death.

Something in his chest went cold. The familiar tension that clutched his spine in moments of peril faded. Not gone—dead. As though fear had been a parasite and its corpse now floated in his mind, inert.

Next, he hunted Desire.

This was more difficult.

Desire was a maze. Woven through his choices like rot in rootwood. Desire for power, for revenge, for meaning. Even his grief held desire—a longing for what could not be restored. He could not kill all of it. Not yet. But he severed a piece.

The part of him that wanted to be understood. That secret hope that someone, someday, might look upon his path and not flinch.

He slaughtered that hope.

And then, for a moment, he breathed.

Not with his lungs, but with something deeper. A stillness filled him, vast and absolute. A breath not drawn in, but released. It felt as though the very concept of "Rin Xie" had paused—like a name erased from a book mid-sentence.

Ego Death Breathing.

A rhythm not of life, but of absence. Each breath emptied him. Each exhale peeled a layer of identity. For the first time since he stepped onto the path of cultivation, Rin Xie was no one.

And in that no-one-ness, he saw something.

A crack.

A narrow breach in the foundation of the world.

He saw, for an instant, how the Heavens were constructed—threaded together by belief, bound by will, fed by resistance. The more mortals struggled to defy death, the stronger the Divine Order grew.

But when one died willingly, without fear, without desire—the system unraveled.

This was why the gods feared the scripture. Why this fragment had been buried in a crypt no soul could find. Because it was not a weapon. It was a silence that deafened the world.

Rin opened his eyes.

He was still Rin Xie. But quieter. Sharper. Less.

The fragment was more than a heresy. It was a seed. And like all seeds, it could be refined.

He rose from the crypt, taking the fragment with him. Not hidden. Not sealed. But folded and placed within the inner fold of his robes, where it burned against his skin like frozen steel.

Outside, the world had changed.

Not physically. The ruins remained the same. The sky still bled rust. But Rin's perception had shifted. He saw ghosts not as echoes, but as memory-sheaths. Identity husks. He breathed once more, just to feel the absence of self tug at his ribs.

A pair of scavenger cultivators were picking through the monastery ruins. They paused when they saw him, bodies tensing with the instinct of prey sensing a predator cloaked in stillness.

He walked past them.

They did not speak. Something in him had become untouchable.

Not through threat. Through stillness.

Like a grave too deep to fall into.

That night, Rin did not meditate in the usual fashion. He did not cycle his core. He lay upon the cold stone, and simply breathed.

Ego Death Breathing.

In. Out. Not to nourish the body, but to drain the self.

He dreamed. But the dream was not his. He saw a monk in a forgotten age, kneeling before an empty altar, whispering prayers to a god that never answered. And when no salvation came, the monk walked into fire and emerged without a name. The gods trembled at his passing.

Rin awoke before dawn. A sliver of moonlight cut through the broken temple's ribs, casting his shadow long and thin against the ground.

He tested the technique.

When he thought of his past—of his mother's death, of the betrayal at the orphan sect, of the cursed core he bore—he felt nothing.

Not numbness. Not apathy. Simply... stillness. The reactions had been killed. And in their place, clarity reigned.

He was not empty. He was precise.

That day, he refined a new death into his core: The Death of the Self That Craved Meaning.

His Death Core pulsed, and a new layer formed—a void-shaped spiral, delicate and endless.

Ability Gained: Ego Death Breathing.

Each breath erodes ego. Each death sharpens truth. While active, cultivator becomes immune to fear-based mental techniques and spiritual illusions. Side effect: temporary dissociation from identity.

Rin smiled.

It was not a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had found a blade too beautiful not to wield.

As the sun crested the shattered mountains, Rin left the ruins. The ghost-eater's trail was long gone, but the scripture remained.

A whisper.

A war cry.

A question.

What if death was not the end—but the truest beginning?

To be continued...