The path out of the Valley of the Unhewn Spirit led in only one direction: up. The gentle slopes gave way to sheer, jagged cliffs that pierced the dense blanket of mist like the broken teeth of a primordial giant. This was the Misty Cliffs, a natural barrier that separated the outer trials from the mountain's true heart.
Wang Chen pressed his back against the cold, damp stone. The wind here was a different beast—a howling, knife-sharp force that tore at his loose sleeves and threatened to pluck him from the narrow ledge. Below, the valley was completely swallowed by the fog, a distant memory.
He began to climb. His fingers, now calloused and strong, found purchase in tiny cracks and on thin, resilient vines. The Flowing Mountain Step technique merged seamlessly with his movements, allowing him to shift his weight with an almost preternatural grace. Each placement of his hand and foot was a deliberate act, a silent conversation with the mountain.
A loose stone gave way under his foot.
His heart lurched. Instinct, honed by the system and countless trials, took over. Qi flared in his legs, and the Thai Ghost Step activated for a mere fraction of a second, just enough to push him sideways onto a more secure outcrop. He clung there, chest heaving, the echo of the falling stone vanishing into the abyss below.
"Not enough to stop me," he hissed into the rock, the words swallowed by the wind.
He was learning. The mountain was no longer just testing his strength or his spirit root; it was testing his very will to ascend. And he would.