Cultivator of the End: I Refine My Own Death-Chapter 155: Tombs That Breathe

Beneath the shattered stone plains where screams once seeded the soil, Rin Xie descended.

The passageway was not made, but remembered—etched into the bedrock by the desperate will of ancients who had feared death so deeply that they swallowed themselves into the earth. Here, no lantern held flame, and no spirit dared linger. There was no echo, only the damp hush of ancient breath being exhaled long after lungs had collapsed.

The Death Core inside Rin thrummed, sensing the density of latent death qi thickening with every step. Not violent, not fresh—but aged, soaked into the marrow of the world. It tasted like resignation. It tasted like surrender. He pressed a hand against the wall.

Bone.

He traced the edge. Countless ribcages had been mortared into the stone, fused by forgotten rituals. These walls were not carved—they had been formed by the cultivators who became them. Their wills, their fears, their incomplete insights bled through the stone like mold.

"This place... it doesn't guard death. It hides from it."

Rin moved deeper. The tunnels narrowed, grew pulseless and dark. His breathing slowed. Not from fatigue, but from instinct. The air grew denser with each breath, until even his lungs began to tremble.

And then the tunnel ended.

A gate of kneeling skeletons blocked the path. Their skulls faced inward, jaws broken from screams caught in eternity. Their robes had long rotted away, but seals were still etched into their spinal columns. Each seal bore a character: 拒死 — Resist Death.

"Cowards' scripture," Rin murmured, brushing the bone. "You feared the end so greatly that you made it your god."

He stepped through. The gate did not resist. The skeletons bowed deeper, as if recognizing a true inheritor—not of their faith, but of death itself.

The chamber beyond could not be described by mortal means. It was a necropolis-womb, where death was not a terminus, but an atmosphere. Great tombs shaped like open mouths lined the cavern walls, and from each exhaled a wheezing breath.

Huuuuhhh... Haaaahhh...

An entire ecosystem of decay. Thousands of ancient cultivators had buried themselves alive in these stone lungs, seeking an answer that would never come. The air was thick, noxious, made of slow exhalations from bodies that refused to rot entirely. Spirit roots had grown in their lungs, fungi feasting on what remained of their qi. Some even twitched.

Rin walked the aisle of failure.

Names carved into sarcophagi, but every single epitaph ended the same:

"Awaiting Transcendence."

He crouched beside a cracked tomb. Inside, the corpse's face was worn away, but the bones were pristine—too pristine. Protected by an internal sealing technique. A half-broken jade slip was embedded in the corpse's throat.

Rin retrieved it.

The technique unfolded directly into his mind—its structure primitive, designed to suppress cellular death and simulate vitality by swallowing micro-death pulses around the cultivator. It used the death aura of the environment to trick the body into delaying death.

But it was incomplete. Fundamentally flawed.

It refused death.

He moved to the next tomb. Another technique. Another variation. Some tried to replace blood with qi. Others fossilized their flesh into stone matrices. One technique even trapped the soul in a rhythm of reincarnated tissue—regrowing the same moment again and again, like a heartbeat caught in a scream.

All failed.

All feared the final breath.

And that fear had ripened over centuries into something tangible.

Rin stood. He inhaled deeply—not through lungs, but through his Death Core.

The stagnant aura of ancient despair flooded into him. His core didn't reject it. It embraced the rot, kissed the despair, and whispered:

"You have feared me long enough."

And so Rin sat, among the tombs, and began to breathe.

But not through the technique of the cowards. He rewrote their failure. Where they had hidden from death, he opened his heart to it. Where they had sealed themselves away, he made himself open.

Tomb Pulse Breathing.

He aligned his body with the rhythm of death itself.

Huuuuhhh... Haaaahhh...

Every exhalation from the tombs became part of his breathing cycle. His Death Core resonated. Not just absorbing death qi—but refining the despair of centuries into healing.

His broken spirit veins, torn in the last battle, stitched themselves. His flesh grew denser. His soul, once scarred by divine backlash, hummed with a new stillness.

But something changed.

As his breathing aligned fully with the tombs, the air around him began to shift.

The aura of death became more than just a field. It turned to atmosphere.

The chamber's air was no longer safe for life.

A bat hanging from the ceiling shrieked and fell dead. Its lungs ruptured. A moth, drawn by ancient warmth, flew too close to Rin's breath—and disintegrated.

Death was no longer passive. It was environmental.

A new phenomenon had emerged:

The Deathfield Pulse.

Rin opened his eyes. The tombs shivered. One by one, they began to breathe back. Their long-inert formations had found resonance in his cultivation.

The dead—those who had sealed themselves to sleep forever—began to stir.

But they did not awaken.

Instead, their final regrets seeped into the air, feeding the Tomb Pulse Breathing. Not malevolent. Not benevolent. Just... surrendered.

And yet, as Rin stood and walked toward the heart of the necropolis, one tomb resisted.

It was sealed by bone-iron and stitched with red jade. An ancient sigil pulsed: 死神门徒 – Disciple of the Death God.

This one had not feared death. He had pursued it, as Rin did.

Rin pressed his palm to the lid. Instantly, his core jolted. Recognition. This was no failed coward.

The tomb cracked.

Inside lay not bone—but ash. Pure, refined, essence-level ash.

And in the center floated a single relic: A ribcage-shaped pendant, forged from hollowed bone marrow and run through with black veins of death-qi crystal.

It pulsed.

Not like life—but like something pretending to forget it had died.

Rin took the pendant. At once, a voice whispered.

"You who breathes where none should—

The pulse is not life.

It is a beating grave.

Wear me, and bury the world in breathlessness."

The pendant melted into Rin's skin, vanishing beneath his collarbone.

[You have acquired: Relic of the Breathing Tomb]

Effect: Your death aura becomes an ambient field. All who breathe near you begin to asphyxiate unless shielded by death-aligned qi. Those with weak constitutions will die instantly.

Rin exhaled.

The cavern shuddered.

The tombs no longer groaned—they sighed, relieved. They had waited for someone who could finish what they had failed to even begin.

He left the tomb behind. But its breath followed him.

As he ascended, he passed a pair of rogue cultivators who had followed his trail, hoping to scavenge relics from his kill-site above. They saw him emerge, bloodless, calm, and cloaked in the dark.

They didn't even speak.

They just died.

Their lungs exploded. Their veins turned black. The blood in their eyes boiled. Rin didn't flinch. His body breathed, and the world suffocated.

He looked at their corpses with calm.

"If you cannot survive where death lives, then you do not deserve to live at all."

Outside the tomb, the world had grown slightly colder.

The air shimmered with invisible death pulses. Birds flew lower, unwilling to soar above a place now resonating with anti-life. The ground grew pale. Insects avoided the path he walked.

The world had begun to reject breath where Rin walked.

But he did not feel alone.

He heard it now.

The Tomb Pulse.

A rhythm, a truth, a grave-beat.

Huuuuhhh... Haaaahhh...

And he breathed with it.

Not to avoid death.

Not to delay it.

But to become the breath between its silence.

To be continued...