Spiritual strength.
It was not mana or spellwork. Not even Qi in its rawest, most primal form.
It was the weight behind will—the hidden core of self that most never touched, never trained, never truly understood. It was the thread that tied consciousness to command, thought to impact, intention to reality.
A cultivator's domain.
Mages—brilliant as they were, with their runes and circles and latticework of arcane theorems—rarely trained it. Not because they couldn't, but because they didn't have to.
Mana obeyed formulas. Spirits obeyed contracts. Enchantments obeyed structure. And so they grew powerful, yes—but like lords locked in ivory towers, their strength lay in the external.
But cultivators?
They bled for strength.
They broke themselves to find truth.
They turned inward, again and again, grinding the soul against fire until it shone like steel.
