Authors note.
(Took just too much time guys amd is the longest chapter till now,so enjoy)
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The next morning.
In the training ground, disciples moved through their forms with disciplined precision, their breaths forming fleeting clouds in the chill morning air.
Fu Yang, seated in his sparse room, was roused from his morning meditation by the sharp rap of knuckles on his door. A guard, clad in the dark robes of the Xiang faction, stood in the doorway—his face impassive but his voice firm.
"Fu Yang, Master Wan summons you to his courtyard."
Fu Yang's heart quickened. He rose, smoothing his plain robes, and nodded to the guard. "Thank you. I will go at once."
His mind churned with possibilities as he stepped into the crisp morning. Had Master Wan uncovered more about Shin Tian? Which would deepen the master's favor—a step further in his carefully woven scheme?
The thought of Shin Tian, languishing in chains, brought a flicker of satisfaction. The prisoner's disgrace was a tool for him.
When Fu Yang reached Master Wan's courtyard, he saw his master standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. His presence was like a mountain—unyielding, yet tempered by quiet strength.
Fu Yang approached with measured steps and bowed deeply. "Disciple Fu Yang greets Master Wan," he said, his voice steady, laced with the deference expected of a junior.
Master Wan turned, and a rare, caring smile softened his stern features. "Fu Yang," he said, his voice warm yet carrying the weight of authority, "how fares your cultivation? Are you encountering any difficulties? If so, you need only seek me out. I am your master, after all."
(Hehe, it really worked out.) Fu Yang thought.
Master Wan's concern was exactly what he had hoped to cultivate—a crack in the master's stoic exterior that he could exploit.
He returned a practiced smile, his eyes bright with feigned sincerity. "Thank you, Master. My cultivation progresses slowly, but I am diligent. Your guidance is my greatest fortune."
Master Wan nodded, approval evident in the slight incline of his head. From his sleeve, he produced two spiritual stones, their surfaces shimmering with a faint, translucent jade.
"Take these," he said, placing them in Fu Yang's outstretched hands. "They will aid your cultivation. Use them wisely, and continue your efforts."
Fu Yang's fingers closed around the stones, their warmth seeping into his palms. He bowed again, his voice thick with gratitude. "This disciple is unworthy of such generosity. Thank you, Master Wan."
"Go now," Master Wan said, waving a hand dismissively, though his eyes lingered on the boy with a trace of fondness. "Focus on your path. The road of cultivation is long, but you have potential."
Fu Yang bowed once more and retreated, the spiritual stones tucked safely into his robe. As he walked away, his mind raced.
Shin Tian, hehehe... he thought, a sly grin flickering in his mind. Your disgrace is my ladder. Master Wan's trust grows, and I'll climb higher yet.
---
As he made his way toward the canteen, the sect buzzed with life. Disciples sparred in the training grounds, their wooden swords clashing with rhythmic precision.
After a simple meal of rice porridge and pickled vegetables, Fu Yang headed back to the training field, his mind still alight with schemes.
As he approached, a commotion reached his ears—a clamor of excited voices and laughter.
From a distance, he saw Cin Yan's group gathered in a loose circle, their faces flushed with triumph. At their center stood Cin Yan, a proud expression lighting her face.
Shin Tian—released from confinement, it seemed—boasted loudly, his voice carrying over the crowd.
"Another brown boar! That makes four!" Shin Tian declared, his tone brimming with pride. "Cin Yan's leadership is unmatched. Who else could have tracked such a beast through the Beast Forest?"
The other disciples cheered, their voices blending into a chorus of congratulations.
Fu Yang, however, turned away—uninterested in their fleeting glory—and made his way to a secluded corner of the training grounds.
There, he began his strength training. He donned weighted vests that pressed heavily against his shoulders and ran laps around the field. His breath stayed steady despite the strain, his muscles burning as he pushed his body to its limits.
After an hour, he transitioned to the chair stance—his back straight, his thighs parallel to the ground—holding the position until his legs trembled and sweat rolled down his temples. Two hours passed in this manner, every ache a testament to his determination, every moment another step toward power.
Exhausted but resolute, Fu Yang returned to his chamber. He washed himself with cold water from a basin, the chill grounding his thoughts, and then settled onto his mat to cultivate.
The spiritual stones rested beside him, their faint glow illuminating the dim room. Closing his eyes, he sensed the impurities within him—reduced to fifty-eight percent—but the process had slowed, and would slow further as he neared the end stage at fifty percent.
---
Days passed in this rhythm of relentless cultivation.
Mornings began with meditation, followed by training on the grounds where Fu Yang honed both body and will. Afternoons were spent in the canteen, where he ate sparingly, conserving energy for the long hours of cultivation that followed. Nights were devoted entirely to his practice.
Cin Yan's group continued their hunts, their boasts growing louder with each victory. Shin Tian, restored to some measure of favor, strutted through the grounds with arrogance undimmed by his recent disgrace.
Yet Fu Yang paid them no mind. His focus was singular—only cultivation.
---
In the quiet of his chamber, as the moon hung high and the village slept, Fu Yang meditated on his path. The impurities in his body dwindled with each session, but it was still not enough.
"Haaah... only two percent left, and I will reach the end stage," he muttered softly.
His gaze drifted to the Pure Dew Lotus, still untouched, its bluish essence shimmering faintly under the moonlight. Not a single leaf was missing.
"Oh, tomorrow is the last day of the year. Time really passes like running water."
With a faint sigh, he closed the window and went to sleep.
---
The day came—the last day of December.
The entire village lay cloaked in a mantle of snow, the world transformed into a realm of pristine white. The air was sharp with winter's bite, yet the village thrummed with life, for today was the Festival of the New Dawn—a sacred day when everyone celebrated the turning of the year and offered prayers to the God of Mercy.
Fu Yang stood at the edge of the bustling market, his plain robes dusted with snow, his breath forming faint clouds in the chill air. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the scene with quiet intensity.
The market square was alive with color and sound: crimson lanterns swayed in the breeze, their warm glow cutting through the wintry haze; merchants hawked their wares, their voices rising above the chatter of disciples and elders; and the scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine mingled with the crisp tang of snow.
At the heart of the square stood a towering statue of a man—its stone surface weathered yet majestic—adorned with garlands of evergreen and offerings of jade and incense. This was the God of Mercy, the divine patron of the festival.
Fu Yang's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
In his past life—a secret he guarded like a hidden blade—he had uncovered truths veiled from most mortals.
The God of Mercy was no mere deity but a man who had shattered the boundaries of cultivation, ascending to the immortal realm.
Seven such figures had achieved that feat, their names etched into the annals of history: six who ruled the heavens and earth with unmatched power, and one whose fate remained a mystery even to the sages.
The God of Mercy, Fu Yang knew, was one of those six rulers—a figure whose compassion had once tempered his dominion over the mortal world. He was merciful, and never harmed anyone.
Fu Yang's thoughts churned as he wove through the market.
Around him, the sect's elders and disciples were distracted by rituals and revelry. Ignoring them, he searched for resources to fuel his cultivation.
The market was teeming with rare herbs, talismans, and artifacts, but none drew his attention. His gaze drifted across tables filled with common herbs, spiritual plants, and even spiritual insects—yet all were meant for agriculture or mundane chores.
Merchants called out when they noticed his black robe marked with the insignia of an Inner Disciple. Their voices grew honeyed with persuasion, but nothing caught his eye.
"Why are there such useless things... Mmm," he muttered under his breath.
Then, his attention was caught by a humble shop selling agricultural tools. A thought struck him like a spark.
(Hah... yes. The clan won't grant me a sword, and others already have theirs from their families. So why not make my own?)
With this thought, he bought a large sickle, its blade heavy and forged with strong iron. Then he looked up at the shopkeeper and spoke in a calm but authoritative tone.
"Yes, I'll take this. Also, tell me where it was made."
The shopkeeper, recognizing the robes of an Inner Disciple, did not dare underestimate him. He quickly explained that the tools were made in his own workshop.
"Mmm... then why not let me use it?" Fu Yang asked.
The shopkeeper hesitated, uncertain, until Fu Yang drew out a single spiritual stone. The man's eyes widened. For someone who dealt in copper, silver, and gold, a spiritual stone was an unimaginable treasure.
Eagerly, he accepted and handed over the key to his workshop.
Fu Yang caught the key and said evenly, "I'll return it after a month."
The shopkeeper hesitated again but eventually nodded in agreement.
Fu Yang didn't head to the workshop immediately. Instead, he returned to the heart of the square, where the statue of the God of Mercy loomed.
The area was crowded now. Disciples and elders stood in reverence while priests chanted sutras, their voices low and resonant.
Fu Yang settled on a stone bench, posture relaxed. Among the gathered, he spotted familiar faces—Cin Yan beside her grandfather, Elder Rion Yan. Beside them stood the Tian brothers and Mo Rian, chatting among themselves.
"Ha ha, your physique is strong, Shi Tian," Rion Yan said with a chuckle. "You only need to cultivate. But remember, strength without technique is like a bull without horns. Even though the bull has strength, what can it do before another bull with horns?"
"Thank you for your teachings, sir," Shi Tian replied respectfully, bowing low.
Then Rion Yan turned his gaze toward the statue, and the others followed.
An elder stepped forward, his silver beard flowing like a river, his embroidered robes glinting faintly in the lantern light. He raised a hand, and the crowd fell silent.
"On this day," the elder intoned, his voice carrying the weight of years, "we honor the God of Mercy, whose benevolence guides us toward the Dao. Let us offer our prayers for prosperity, strength, and enlightenment in the coming year."
The disciples bowed in unison, their movements synchronized, and began their prayers.
Fu Yang watched silently, eyes half-lidded, mind already weaving plans within plans.