***
The soft creak of aged wood echoed faintly through the stillness of the Scripture Pavilion.
Somewhere above the silent fourth floor—on a level so rarely visited it felt like the breath of time itself had forgotten it—a lone figure stirred from the shadows.
Wearing comfortable cloud-woven shoes, her footsteps rang out softly across the ancient floorboards. Each step was slow, unhurried, as if she wandered through a half-remembered dream. Moonlight filtered through the high lattice windows above, casting pale streaks of silver along the corridor's darkened length.
She walked without urgency, like every motion was a mild inconvenience, each step an effort she barely cared to offer.
Then, as she passed beneath a tall arched window, the moonlight finally poured over her figure.
Long, flowing black hair framed her face like strands of liquid ink, cascading down to brush against the small of her back with each step. Her golden eyes, half-lidded with a perpetual laziness, gave the impression that the world around her was barely worth staying awake for. Yet despite her sluggish demeanor, there was nothing careless in the way she moved—only a calm, unshakable assurance, the kind that belonged to someone with nothing to prove and no reason to hurry.
Her body was the very embodiment of mature femininity—voluptuous in a way that seemed effortless, with a natural softness that shimmered faintly beneath the moon's gentle glow. Her wide hips shifted subtly with every languid step, and her chest—immense and full—rose and fell in a slow rhythm with each tranquil breath. She wasn't dressed to entice, nor did she need to. Her presence alone—her figure and the almost bored sensuality in her every motion—was enough to make the air itself feel heavier.
She stopped before a bookshelf and slid the book into place with minimal care. Her fingers lingered for a moment longer than needed, then slowly withdrew. As she pulled her hand back, a faint frown tugged at her lips.
'Ugh… if those old coots knew I took this book out again, they'd start yapping about how it's "too rare" to leave the Scripture Pavilion, how "rules exist for a reason," and all their usual nonsense…'
Her golden eyes rolled lazily in her half-lidded gaze.
'And of course, they'd turn it into some half-hour sermon, rambling about preserving the sect's legacy and acting like I'm some reckless novice. As if I don't know exactly what I'm doing.'
A small, languid smile crept onto her lips then, laced with a trace of amusement.
'Anyway, there's no point thinking about those old men and women anymore. As long as they don't find out, I'll avoid their boring lectures and return to sleep in peace.'
With those comforting thoughts, the woman turned from the shelf and made her way toward a staircase leading downward. Her steps now carried a little less laziness, her body moving with slightly more purpose—clearly, the idea of returning to bed was far more motivating than anything else that night.
She "quickly" descended the stairs, reaching the fifth floor with ease. But just as she was about to continue toward the fourth floor, she suddenly halted mid-step.
Her gaze drifted forward and became lost in the air before her. 'I wonder how that old eccentric's new disciples are doing? Last time I saw one of them reading on the fourth floor…'
Driven by a passing curiosity, she altered her original plan. Instead of leaving the Scripture Pavillion, she stepped onto the fourth floor and stopped near the staircase leading to the third. There, she allowed her Divine Sense to expand effortlessly, spreading across the entirety of the floor.
'Oh!' Her eyes, previously half-lidded in fatigue, brightened slightly, a subtle gleam of interest flickering in their depths.
What she discovered through her Divine Sense was unexpected. The new disciple of old Jianhai—whose name she still didn't know—was once again on the fourth floor, engrossed in a deep session of reading.
'Has he been there for the last three weeks?' she wondered. For the first time in quite a while, a faint yet genuine spark of curiosity lit up within her. Compelled to investigate further, she focused her Divine Sense with greater precision, centering it around Mikael. He remained oblivious to the fact that someone was scanning not only him but also his surroundings.
After a few seconds of careful observation, she reached a conclusion. 'He really has been there for three whole weeks straight reading fourth floor books… and with only a 1st layer Spiritual Foundation Realm cultivation at that.' She lightly shook her head in disbelief. 'Looks like old Jianhai managed to get his hands on quite the promising disciple.'
Even her typically lazy and detached demeanor faltered, if only for a moment, as the absurdity of Mikael's feat sank in.
To the uninformed, what he had done might have seemed ordinary—perhaps admirable, but nothing too notable. But to her, it was a different story. She understood exactly what it meant. Simply reading for weeks on end wasn't impressive for a cultivator in and of itself. Had he done this on the first floor, she wouldn't have paid it much attention. It would've been somewhat admirable, sure, but ultimately forgettable.
But the key difference was that he did it on the fourth floor.
And the way the Scripture Pavilion had been structured made all the difference. With each ascending level, not only did the rarity and value of the books, Cultivation Methods, and Cultivation Techniques increase, but so did their difficulty of comprehension.
There was a reason why the fourth floor remained restricted to Core Elders and those of even higher standing. It wasn't solely due to the rarity of the manuals stored there, nor simply because they required a corresponding amount of merit and contribution to be accessed—though both were undeniably significant factors.
Another, equally important reason was that only cultivators at their level possessed the necessary foundation to even begin comprehending the profound knowledge recorded within those tomes without mentally overwhelming themselves.
It was a well-accepted truth in the cultivation world that the higher one's realm, the more their 'comprehension' grew. Of course, this wasn't entirely accurate. In reality, it wasn't comprehension itself that increased, but rather the expanded perspective and mental clarity afforded by a stronger cultivation base. This broader vision created an effect akin to heightened comprehension.
For instance, if two cultivators possessed the same raw level of comprehension—one at the 1st layer of the Spiritual Foundation Realm and the other at the 9th—the latter would still progress far more rapidly if they studied the same Cultivation Technique. Their superior cultivation allowed them to see more, grasp more, and handle the mental toll with far greater ease.
Which was precisely why Mikael's feat stood out so sharply.
For him to remain on the fourth floor for three continuous weeks, fully immersed in the demanding tomes stored there, was a testament not only to an exceptionally high level of comprehension but also to a rare ability to recover swiftly from mental fatigue.
After all, no matter how sharp his mind was or how advanced his comprehension was, the truth remained that with his current cultivation realm, studying books that demanded such a profound foundation in both comprehension and cultivation would naturally drain him at a rapid pace. Without a remarkable capacity to quickly recover from that mental toll, such an extended and uninterrupted study session would have been utterly impossible.
The usually lazy-looking, mature woman allowed her Divine Sense to linger on the young disciple of old Jianhai for a while longer. Then, eventually, she retracted her gaze, her interest mildly piqued. 'Impressive... but what's his name?' she mused, only for the thought to fade away as she lazily shrugged her shoulders.
'Doesn't matter anyway. My bed is far more important.' With that final thought, she pivoted on her heels and leisurely made her way downstairs.
And so, Mikael remained completely unaware that, while he had been focused on his studies, he had briefly caught the attention of an extremely lazy woman.
***
"Haa…" Mikael let out a long breath as he slowly opened his eyes once more. 'I should stop for now. Even meditative rest is gradually becoming ineffective. A good night's sleep is probably the best way to fully recover from this mental fatigue.'
His gaze drifted to the array of precious books spread out across the table in front of him. 'I should call it here. In these past six weeks, I've absorbed more knowledge than I had even hoped for.'
A subtle glint of satisfaction lit up his eyes. 'And it was worth it. My efforts paid off. I can finally see the path ahead. It's still blurry—filled with twists and hidden dangers—but at least now it exists. I'm no longer stumbling through the fog, clinging to vague ideas. I've formed a concrete plan. It's still rough, still in its prototype stage, and plenty of adjustments will be needed to make it viable… but it's the first step toward turning the impossible into reality.'
Rising to his feet, Mikael stretched lightly and let out a small yawn. "Ahh…" 'Not that I'm going to complain,' he thought with a trace of amusement. 'After six full weeks buried in these books, I think I've officially had enough of them. My only breaks were when the headaches got too strong to bear—then I'd recover, and throw myself right back into it. Yeah… a break sounds good. Whether to dispel this heavy mental fatigue or just because I want to, I think I've earned it.'
With those thoughts in mind, Mikael carefully returned each precious tome to the shelf from which he had originally taken it. Once the last book was in place, he didn't waste a moment. Eager at the prospect of collapsing onto his bed, he stepped out of the building with quiet excitement.
Unbeknownst to him, his current mental state closely mirrored that of the mature beauty who had been watching him just hours earlier.
Without delay, Mikael flew straight back to his Cultivation Manor and entered his bedroom. He didn't even bother to remove his clothes before dropping face-first onto the bed. The softness of the mattress welcomed him like a long-lost friend
He was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
The relentless weight of the past weeks—six long ones filled with mental strain and ceaseless reading—lifted from his mind all at once. Muscles slackened, thoughts dissolved into the void, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Mikael surrendered completely to rest.
The sun rose and fell, twice, unnoticed.
Only when gentle morning light crept through the windows did he finally stir.
Two days had passed.
Mikael blinked, slowly returning to consciousness. The warmth of the sheets, the silence of the room, the fullness in his chest from uninterrupted sleep—it all felt foreign, and oddly luxurious.
He lay there for a moment, letting the stillness settle.
'I needed that more than I thought.'
Stretching out with a quiet exhale, he sat up and took in the peaceful atmosphere. There were no urgent tasks, no texts demanding to be read, no pressures looming over his shoulder.
And for the first time since entering the Wandering Sword Sect, his body ached for movement.
After six weeks without so much as a spar or even any physical activities, Mikael found himself craving action. His limbs, long dormant from days of stillness, practically buzzed with the need to move and there was no reason to resist.
He stepped into the courtyard, drew Sangrelia, and began practicing.
At first, his movements were stiff. The blade wavered slightly where once it had been sharp, and the rhythm of his strikes faltered. He misstepped. His arm overextended. Timing slipped through his fingers like sand.
It was to be expected.
After all, this was his first time wielding a sword since stepping into the Spiritual Foundation Realm. While he had trained his control in theory and trained to adapt to his strengthened body, practicing swordplay demanded something more—intimate familiarity with one's form, precise coordination, and real-time adjustment.
None of which came easily for him who still didn't have his strengthened body entirely under his control.
But Mikael did not falter.
Hour by hour, his body remembered. Muscle tension eased. The blade began to sing rather than stumble. Mistakes faded with repetition, and the clumsiness of early movements gave way to a smooth and measured cadence.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Mikael's strikes danced through the air with sharpened grace. Sangrelia moved as an extension of his will—silent, lethal, and beautiful.
A deadly performance, silent beneath the wide blue sky.
Once he reached that point, Mikael finally stopped, satisfied. He had 'vented' his 'annoyance' at having remained immobile for the past six weeks, and the 'rust' that clung to his new body had been thoroughly scraped away. His control over it had returned—precise, refined, absolute.
Author Note:
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