The silence of the small cottage was a heavy blanket. Now that the chaos of the day—the lecture, the Elder, the unexpected gifts—had settled, Damian was left alone with his thoughts. And his thoughts were terrifying.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the bag of treasures from Roan lying beside him, and replayed the two most disturbing events of the day.
First, there was the cold, invasive feeling in the lecture hall, a subtle whisper in the back of his mind that seemed to be actively pushing him toward reckless, self-destructive behavior. It had felt alien, a parasitic dread that went beyond his own fear.
The second event was far worse. The complete and utter loss of control, the horrifying sensation of being a prisoner in his own body.
He had watched, helpless, as his own mouth spoke words of impossible arrogance, challenging hundreds of disciples and painting a target on his back so large it could be seen from the heavens.
"Why is this happening?" he whispered to the empty room. He needed a pattern, a reason. 'It can't be linked to my death count,' he reasoned, his mind working like the diligent student it once was.
'I've died four times since arriving here, but this has only happened twice. Unless…' A new, chilling thought emerged. 'What if it's a delayed effect? What if for every two deaths, I lose control once? If it happens two more times… then I'll know. It's a feature, not a bug, of my rebirth ability.' The idea offered a sliver of logic in a sea of madness, but it did little to comfort him.
He pushed the disturbing thoughts aside. Worrying about the unknowable was a waste of energy. He had a tangible path to power right in front of him. He focused his mind on the training method Thoran had demonstrated: the 'Foundation Breathing Technique'.
He dove into the original Damian's memories, searching for every scrap of information about the technique. He found what he was looking for, along with a rather sinister detail.
The Foundation Breathing Technique was a staple of every sect, but each one used a slightly modified version. This technique didn't just help a disciple absorb Qi; it subtly altered their Qi veins, preparing them for the sect's signature skills.
It was also a loyalty mechanism. A disciple trained in the Green Valley Sect's method would find it nearly impossible to learn techniques from another sect, their own body rejecting the foreign energy pathways.
The only way to reverse it was to break through to a realm, so that their veins would be reforged back to their original state.
Still if any disciple tried to walk away from the sect after breaking through to the Qi refining stage or foundation building stage, or anything above, the sect wouldn't just let you go, you need to pay them spirit stones as compensation according to your strength.
The Green Valley Sect was known for its mastery over the five basic elements: earth, fire, water, wood, and wind.
This technique would mold his very being to be compatible with them. 'But I don't have any elemental roots,' he thought, a familiar spike of anxiety piercing his focus.
'Can I even learn these techniques?' He quickly shook his head. The sect wouldn't have accepted him if his cultivation was doomed from the start. They had to have a way.
With a newfound resolve, he stood in the center of the small room and began to perform the technique. He moved, his limbs flowing through the sequence of stances and stretches as instructed by Thoran.
His breathing synced perfectly with his movements, rising and falling in a steady, powerful rhythm.
He was amazed. He had only seen the demonstration once, yet every intricate detail was seared into his memory.
Back on Earth, he had been a top student, acing every exam, but his memory had never been this photogenic, this perfect.
It was another mystery to add to the growing pile. He didn't let it distract him. He finished the first full set, his body moving with a precision that surprised him. It took him a full twenty minutes.
Even knowing the exact movements, his weak body couldn't match Thoran's speed. It was the best he could physically manage.
'One done, three more to go,' Damian thought, and without a moment's rest, he began the second set.
The experience was magical. He could feel the spiritual energy of the world, a tangible and vibrant force, being drawn into his body with every breath.
Each precise movement seemed to open his pores, inviting the energy in. It swirled through him, a warm, tingling current that washed away his fatigue and filled him with a new vigor.
Instead of growing tired, he felt more refreshed, more alive than ever before.
After completing the second set, a thought struck him. The pill. The Body Tempering Pill was designed to maximize energy absorption during training. He walked over to the bed and opened one of the bottles gifted by Roan.
A rich, potent medicinal aroma instantly filled the entire cottage. It was a scent so pure and concentrated with life force that every breath felt like fuel being poured on a fire.
Inside the bottle, twelve shimmering, pearl-like pills rested. He carefully tipped one out and quickly sealed the bottle, not wanting to waste a single wisp of its precious essence.
Without a second thought, he placed the pill in his mouth and swallowed it.
A furnace ignited in his stomach. An intense wave of heat spread through his entire body, so powerful it made him gasp.
His skin flushed red, and he felt like he could perform the technique all night without ever needing to sleep.
He harnessed the explosive surge of energy and began his third set, then the fourth.
His movements became faster, stronger, more fluid. He continued, losing track of time, driven by the intoxicating rush of power.
He was on his tenth set when it happened. A loud CRACK echoed from deep within his bones.
A jolt of raw power erupted from his core, spreading to every inch of his body. His legs felt like solid pillars of granite, capable of running a marathon with ease.
His arms felt like they could lift boulders, like he could have carried Roan across a whole city if he'd needed to.
His senses exploded. He could hear the faint chirping of a cricket outside, the whisper of the wind through the trees.
The world seemed to have shifted into a higher resolution. It was a breakthrough. He had reached the second stage of the Body Refining Realm.
'A breakthrough on the very first day? Am I a genius?' he thought, a surge of pride swelling in his chest. But then his gaze fell on the pill bottle, and he shook his head, forcing the ego down.
'I'm just a disciple with mediocre talent. Without this pill, this would have taken me weeks.' He understood his own limitations. He couldn't let this one success cloud his mind.
He remembered Thoran's warning: after a breakthrough, a cultivator must get accustomed to their new strength. Uncontrolled power was a danger to oneself and everyone nearby.
Though the energy still coursed through him, begging to be used, he forced himself to stop. He needed control. And for that, he needed practice.
Even though the thought of going outside terrified him, he knew what he had to do. He would go to the beast mountain—a training forest created by the sect's ancestors.
He would stick to the absolute outermost edge of the outer zone, where the beasts were weakest, and learn to master this newfound power.
He took a step towards the door.
CRACK!
He looked down in shock. The wooden floorboard beneath his foot had splintered, a web of cracks spreading out from his footprint. "Okay," he sighed, "I need to learn to control this. Quickly."
He focused, trying to walk with the lightness he was used to. He took another, more careful step, then another. He reached the door and grasped the handle.
He intended to pull it gently, but his fingers, now possessing a strength he couldn't comprehend, sank into the old wood as if it were soft clay.
He tried to pull the door open with a delicate touch, but instead, he ripped the entire thing off its rusted hinges.
The heavy wooden door crashed down, burying him beneath it with a loud thud.
'What bad luck,' Damian thought, his voice muffled from under the fallen door.