Li Yuan's consciousness drifted in wonder.
All around him stretched a hidden realm, glowing with colors that shimmered like jewels. Rows upon rows of spirit trees rose from the soil—most unknown to him, some faintly familiar. The few he recognized were at least centuries old, their value in spirit stones beyond imagining. A single trunk might fetch dozens—perhaps hundreds—of stones.
And yet, within the Qi Ling Sect, his monthly stipend amounted to no more than one spirit stone and half a pound of coarse-grade rice.
Beyond the grove, deeper still, the aura thickened. He could see even greater trees, older and more resplendent—treasures he could not hope to touch.
Not that it mattered. For standing before him, blocking his way, was a stone stele taller than a man. Radiant script blazed across its surface. The top line read:
The Myriad Wood Realm of Xuan Yuan.
Beneath, three cultivation manuals were inscribed, each with its name and brief description:
The Upper Yuan Ninefold Cavern Scripture
The Middle Yuan Earthly Yin Canon
The Lower Yuan Spirit-Communion Art
Li Yuan's breath caught. This was no ordinary artifact. He had stumbled upon the legacy-treasure of some ancient Daoist lineage.
For half a month he had kept this secret. Hidden in the stone table beneath his courtyard osmanthus tree lay a bead—discovered by chance—which transported him here when touched.
The three techniques were keys. To enter the Myriad Wood Realm, one had to choose.
For weeks, Li Yuan wavered. The first, the Upper Yuan Ninefold Cavern Scripture, was a supreme art—commanding the forces of heaven and earth, conferring unmatched power in every realm from Foundation to Nascent Soul. But it demanded an impossible price: the rare "Ninefold True Body," vast supplies of heavenly treasures, and centuries of effort. With his middling human-grade root, Li Yuan knew he would never advance far upon such a path.
The second, the Middle Yuan Earthly Yin Canon, required no unique body, but it favored the gifted—those with rare spiritual roots, powerful will, and wide knowledge. Mastery granted command of the earth's sacred powers and dominion over spirits of the underworld. But without at least an Earth-grade root, the scripture was nearly impassable.
Which left only the third.
The Lower Yuan Spirit-Communion Art.
The inscription was blunt: easy to learn, rapid in progress, suited even to the lowliest roots.The price—its practitioners would find all other techniques difficult, their magic shallow, their strength unimpressive among peers.
It was the weakest choice. And the only one available to him.
Li Yuan thought bitterly: if he had been born to a great clan, or blessed with extraordinary roots, he could dare the first or second. But with no background, no talent, and only himself to rely on, the lower path was the only path.
To live was to endure. To endure was to climb. Even if he crawled, one day he would still reach Foundation. And then—whether mocked or not—disciples would bow and call him Patriarch.
He pressed his hand against the glowing script.
At once, the words dissolved into streams of light, flowing like tadpoles into his palm. A vast power surged into his mind. Pain exploded in his skull, vision shattering into darkness. His consciousness sank, and he knew no more.
When at last he stirred, the sun was sinking. Golden blossoms from the osmanthus tree had fallen across his face. Their tickling scent dragged him back to waking.
Groggy, he poured himself a cup of tea and drank, clearing his thoughts.
The new art lay within him: The Lower Yuan Spirit-Communion Art. For now, only the Qi Refinement chapters revealed themselves. They included one exclusive technique, Mist Between Water and Cloud—a swift escape art, though it required the late Refinement stage.
More startling still, a second manual had imprinted itself into his mind: the True Scripture of Ten Thousand Puppets. Even now, he could glimpse methods for crafting puppet soldiers. At his level, only two:
A-Wood Puppet, built for battle.
B-Wood Puppet, master of splitting illusions and ranged attacks.
Together, they formed a deadly pairing.
Li Yuan sat quietly in the dimming courtyard. Birds wheeled homeward in the dusk, their calls sharp against the silence. His heart was heavy with realization.
Qi Ling Sect's renown, its very foundation, lay in the crafting of puppets. Of the five types known to the sect, two were precisely these. Coincidence could explain much—but not this.
He rose, gazing at the darkening horizon."Fate weaves stranger patterns than men can see," he murmured. "The path is long. But with this, perhaps even I may climb high enough to glimpse the world above."
That night, autumn rain pattered against the mountains.
Within his meditation chamber, Li Yuan sat cross-legged, breath steady. Threads of spiritual energy seeped from the heavens, flowing into his pores. His body glimmered faintly, as the new art guided the Qi through his veins.
He knew well the difficulty of cultivation. For most, Qi Refinement was a wall that lasted a lifetime. Two centuries of life, yes—but no hope of further ascent. Foundation, Golden Core, Nascent Soul—dreams beyond reach.
Qi Refinement itself was split into stages: early, middle, late. Some whispered of a "peak" beyond late. Early Refinement cleansed the body of filth, making it fit to hold Qi. Middle Refinement transformed mortal blood into spirit-blood. Late Refinement was said to suffuse even the bones with spiritual essence, birthing the immortal skeleton needed to attempt Foundation.
Li Yuan was only at the beginning. His body had barely begun its cleansing. But the new art—it drank in the Qi of heaven and earth twice as swiftly as before.
At this pace, he thought, he could reach mid-Refinement before thirty. Nearly ten years faster than he had once dared hope.
For half a month he practiced without pause. His progress delighted him, but duty pulled him from meditation.
Qi Ling disciples had no outer sect to bear chores. Until one reached late Refinement, all must serve. Each season, for one month, they performed sect duties.
Li Yuan had no patron to shield him. He donned his robe, gathered his things, and set out for Ling Peak's great hall.
He summoned the Light Body Art to hasten his steps, channeling Qi into the acupoints of his legs. But to his dismay, the familiar technique faltered. His footing was clumsy, his control unsteady.
His heart sank. The art had warned him: Spirit-Communion crippled affinity for common techniques. Without spells and talismans, how could a low-level cultivator fight? Artifacts cost dozens, even hundreds, of spirit stones—far beyond his reach.
He had mastered only six minor spells: Light Body, Water Purification, Fire Bolt, Concealment, Object Control, Water Ring—and a half-working Sand Flow. That was all.
Now, even these would fade. He was already among the weakest of Refinement disciples. Now he would be weaker still.
The thought soured his mood. But he persisted, step by step, until by noon he reached the terraces of Ling Peak. Palatial halls rose through drifting clouds.
Inside the main hall, a dozen disciples stood waiting, gathered for duty. Li Yuan kept to the back, silent. Low strength left no room for boldness.
"Li Yuan, brother!"
The voice boomed like thunder. A burly, dark-skinned youth waved broadly. Everyone turned at once; cultivators' hearing was sharp, and the greeting might as well have been shouted through a horn.
Li Yuan forced a thin smile. "Brother Ruan. You're on duty as well?"
"Hah! Once in seven or eight turns, and here we are together." Ruan Jinghu strode over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The blow nearly sent Li Yuan staggering.
A ripple of laughter passed among the others. One sneered, "Our Brother Li seems frail. Perhaps he needs more rest, eh?"
Another added, "Frail indeed. After all, even a mortal swordsman nearly ended him. What sort of 'immortal' is that?"
Snickers spread.
Ruan's face darkened. He turned on the speaker. "What, you think you can take my Luo Geng Palm?"
The smirk vanished. The disciple bowed hastily, slapping his own cheeks. "Forgive me, Brother Ruan—my tongue slipped!"
Silence fell. Few dared meet Ruan's gaze. For all his bluntness, he was already mid-Refinement, a step from becoming a hall steward.
Li Yuan bowed. "My thanks, Brother Ruan, for stepping in."
"Nonsense," Ruan boomed, grinning. "We grew up under the same roof. If anyone dares trouble you again, call me. I'll make them regret it."
Li Yuan remembered their childhood in the sect's study halls, before formal cultivation began. Ruan was crude, fond of wrestling rather than reading. Many a time he had begged Li Yuan to complete his assignments for him. But he was loyal, if nothing else.
"I appreciate it," Li Yuan said lightly.
Ruan laughed, puffing out his chest. "Wait until next year—I'll be steward then. You'll have no worries with me around!"
Before Li Yuan could reply, a sharp cough echoed through the hall. Conversation died at once.
A woman in azure robes had appeared at the front, her expression cold as a winter lake. The disciples bowed deeply.
"Elder Yun."
She swept her gaze over them, counting. Then she spoke. "This will be the last season of three-month rotations. By command of the two Patriarchs, from now on, duties shall rotate every two months."
Shock rippled through the hall.
"Every two months?""That's four months of duty each year!""But the three-month rule has stood for centuries—"
"Silence."
A flick of her sleeve conjured a wind that stung their faces, snuffing protest.
"This is the will of the Patriarchs. None may disobey. Yet know this: along with heavier duty, rations increase. Each of you will receive half a pound more of spirit rice each month. And the True Commentary on Puppet Arts in the Scripture Pavilion will no longer require spirit stones for borrowing. Study freely. Betray the sect, however, and your cultivation will be abolished."
Relief replaced dismay. Extra rations meant faster progress. Access to the puppet scripture was priceless.
Voices rose in gratitude: "Our thanks to the Patriarchs' mercy!"
Li Yuan bowed with the rest, blending into the tide. In truth, Qi Ling Sect's generosity was unmatched in the surrounding regions. Private dwellings, monthly stipends, even free storage bags—other sects offered far less.
And now, for him, a door had opened—one leading toward the very heart of the sect's secret strength.
(End of Chapter 2)