The days following the caravan escort blurred into a rhythm of steel, sweat, and stone.
Li Wei rose with the dawn, his blade already in motion before the first bells rang across Heavenly Dragon's mountains. The Tempest Fang Slash, newly etched into his body, demanded precision. Each swing was a balance of breath and intent, qi coiled tight within his dantian before spilling forth in layered arcs. The courtyard walls bore silent witness to his progress, their surfaces nicked and scarred by the force of his strikes.
Yet where most disciples drilled until exhaustion, Li Wei trained until the technique sang. By the third week, his blade no longer whistled airlessly — it roared. The arcs of his sword carried faint afterimages, like claws of wind lashing out from steel. Small Success. Soon after, Great Success.
Even Whirlwind Slash, the mortal-grade technique he had long since polished to perfection, felt pale beside the hunger of his new art. The Tempest Fang Slash was sharper, heavier, truer to the path that stirred faintly within him. The path of wind.
But cultivation was not training alone.
He returned to the mission boards often, seeking not just contribution points but experience in the field.
One week, he hunted through the Western Gorges, where shadow panthers stalked beneath broken cliffs. Their bodies blurred with unnatural speed, striking from darkness with claws that could shear stone. Li Wei cut them down in silence, his Tempest Fang Slash carving arcs bright enough to scatter their camouflage.
Another mission sent him northward, where miners had unearthed a nest of rock-scaled serpents. Their hides turned aside blades, but not the layered strikes of his sword, which pierced scale and bone alike. When the final serpent fell, its core glowed faintly in his palm — his first spirit core claimed by his own strength.
Each mission earned him points, yes, but more than that, they hardened his instincts. Danger came sudden, chaotic, without the predictability of training drills. Against beasts, there was no pride, no restraint, only survival.
By the end of a month, his token balance had swelled back to over two hundred. Not enough for another Earth-grade treasure, but sufficient to begin considering his next step.
That step came in the form of movement.
Li Wei knew it as soon as he replayed the caravan battle in his mind. His sword had struck true, but there were moments — brief, razor-thin — where a sharper step, a swifter turn, would have saved him effort. Against stronger foes, such lapses would cost him more than sweat.
And so, he returned to the Treasury Hall.
This time, he did not linger at the cultivation manuals. His eyes turned instead to the martial boards marked "Movement Techniques."
Cloudstep Drift (Low Profound) — 60 contribution
Seven Petal Steps (Mid Profound) — 90 contribution
Flowing Cloud Steps (High Profound) — 130 contribution
Earthshadow Escape (Low Earth) — 420 contribution
His gaze settled on Flowing Cloud Steps.
Light as drifting clouds, swift as coursing wind. Movements become unpredictable, balance unbroken even on shattered ground. At great mastery, allows momentary bursts of speed beyond natural limits.
The words pulled at him like a tide. Wind again. Not by accident, but by design.
He touched his token to the board.
210 → 80
The slip floated into his palm, cool and faintly luminous. A new edge — not of steel this time, but of speed.
---
Training began anew.
Flowing Cloud Steps was no simple art. Where sword techniques demanded strength and intent, movement techniques demanded balance. Misplace even a thread of qi, and his steps faltered. At first he stumbled, his feet skidding across stone, body jolting forward awkwardly.
But repetition bred instinct. Each morning, he traced the pavilion courtyards in endless circuits, weaving between training disciples until his form blurred faintly, steps light yet controlled. By the end of a fortnight, he could cross the length of the compound in a breath, vanishing like mist only to reappear with his blade already drawn.
The whispers began soon after.
"That's Li Wei, isn't it? The Xianglong champion."
"I thought he was just living off his stipend."
"Does that look like someone resting on coin?"
Li Wei ignored them. Praise and doubt were equal distractions. His focus was his blade, his breath, his path.
---
The seasons shifted. Leaves turned gold, then fell, blanketing Heavenly Dragon's courtyards in brittle layers. Snow capped the distant peaks, though within the sect, qi formations kept the cold at bay.
And with the passing weeks, Li Wei's cultivation surged.
The Azure Wind Scripture proved its worth. Where once his qi had flowed sluggish, pooling like water in shallow streams, now it coursed swift and clean. His dantian expanded, refined energy compressing tighter with every cycle.
Mornings were spent cycling qi until it roared through his meridians like a storm. Afternoons bled into sword practice, Tempest Fang Slash carving wind from steel. Nights ended in silent meditation, the Azure Wind Scripture guiding him deeper still.
Bit by bit, he climbed, pushing his late stage cultivation further and further.
Early Refinement gave way to Middle. Middle refined itself into Late. And now—
One evening, as the bells tolled across the peaks, Li Wei's eyes opened from meditation, his breath sharp, his qi burning fierce within.
Peak Qi Refinement.
The edge of Foundation Establishment loomed before him, a wall that both daunted and beckoned.
Yet Li Wei did not rush. He knew well the folly of breaking through without preparation. Foundation was not a wall to be battered—it was a bridge to be built, stone by stone. Without resources, without stability, the risk of failure loomed heavy.
Qi condensation pills, auxiliary herbs, protective arrays… all demanded contribution points. And points were earned through battle, missions, or victory on the stele.
His gaze drifted toward the peaks where the Stele of Names stood, its light faint even from afar. Thousands of disciples vied beneath it, their rankings a living testament to strength.
To reach Foundation Establishment, he needed more than pills. He needed recognition. Points. Proof.
And the stele offered all three.
Li Wei rose, tucking his sword into his belt. His decision had been made.
The missions had hardened him. His scripture had deepened his cultivation. His techniques were honed, his steps sharpened.
Now, before pushing through the veil of Foundation, he would etch his name into the stone that ruled the outer sect.
The Stele of Names awaited.