Zhao Yan
Age: 15
Cultivation: None (+)
Techniques: Phantom Step Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Plum Sword Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Sword Breathing Technique - Not Initiated (+), Heavenly Sword Strike - Not Initiated (+), Nurturing Sword - Not Initiated (+)
Revulsion Points: 8850
Pity Points: 23
Zhao Yan's gaze lingered on the three newly appeared techniques shimmering across the status window.
A quiet sigh of relief slipped past his lips.
"So, it did appear after all," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"For a moment, I thought the Sword Breathing Technique wouldn't show up… just like that Swallow Heaven Technique."
His smile faded slightly as the memory resurfaced.
Something about that technique had always felt off, unsettling even. The diagrams and notes never seemed to align with what true cultivation should feel like.
Now, standing here, he finally sensed why.
Zhao Yan crossed his legs again and steadied his breathing. As he inhaled slowly, the Sword Breathing Technique began to take form within him.
The rhythm was deliberate—each breath guiding the spiritual energy toward his core, each exhale releasing the impurities that clouded his body.
The air around him seemed to come alive. Fine threads of spiritual energy shimmered faintly, like dust caught in sunlight, before swirling toward him.
They pressed gently against his skin, seeped into his pores, and wound their way through his meridians.
It was a tranquil, harmonious process—refinement, not force.
Within minutes, Zhao Yan could feel the transformation taking root. The gathered energy condensed, becoming a faint, steady current of spiritual energy that was undeniably his own.
He realized now how different this was from the Swallow Heaven Technique.
That one had been wild—a torrent that threatened to drown him rather than nourish him.
Practicing it felt like plunging headfirst into an ocean, letting the waves crush his lungs and bones.
The Sword Breathing Technique, on the other hand, was the ocean's whisper—a slow and deliberate tide that shaped the shore, patient and unrelenting.
The Sword Breathing Technique drew in spiritual energy like a calm tide, refining it little by little until it became pure spiritual energy—energy that truly belonged to the cultivator.
In contrast, the Swallow Heaven Technique was reckless, almost savage.
It forcefully pulled wild Qi straight from the air and stuffed it into the body like a storm trying to fill a cup.
Containing that much unrefined energy was a death wish; one wrong breath, and the body could explode from within. That's why its practitioners resorted to dual cultivation—to push the excess Qi into another person before it tore them apart.
A chill ran down Zhao Yan's spine as the realization settled in.
His eyes snapped open, and he muttered under his breath, "It's a miracle I left that place when I did… otherwise, I probably wouldn't have even known how I died trying to practice that technique."
He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the status window hovering before him.
Twenty-three Pity Points glowed faintly in one corner.
"Better to save these for now," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
"A disciple of the Heavenly Sword Sect can't go around begging for money, can he?"
Then he paused, tapping his chin with a faint smirk.
Well… maybe I could, he thought, before shaking the idea away with a half-laugh.
Slapping his cheeks lightly, Zhao Yan muttered, "Focus, idiot."
"Cultivation first."
He crossed his legs once more, spine straightening as he inhaled deeply.
The rhythm of the Sword Breathing Technique filled the room again, and the faint hum of spiritual energy began to swirl around him, sinking into his flesh and bones.
...
A year slipped by like sand through open fingers.
Inside Room No. 7, Zhao Yan's body pulsed with spiritual energy that shimmered faintly around him.
The air was alive with his breath, steady and refined, as if every inhale and exhale carried the rhythm of a tempered blade.
He rose to his feet, unsheathing the basic sword the sect had given him, and began to flow through the Plum Sword Technique.
Whoosh!
Each arc of his blade carved through the air with a crisp, clean sound.
The motion was fluid—sharp yet elegant—and every swing seemed to carry the echo of growth, of progress earned through sweat and silence.
Zhao Yan's lips curved into a satisfied grin. "I must be the best this year… right?" he murmured, the thought almost making him laugh.
Spiritual energy coursed through him from head to toe, filling his limbs with lightness and power.
When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, even he had to pause. His features seemed sharper, more defined, his eyes brighter.
He wasn't bulkier, but there was a quiet strength in his stance, a weight that hadn't been there a year ago.
He reached into his pouch and retrieved the last fasting pill, popping it into his mouth as he exhaled contentedly.
"Elder Gao will come tomorrow," he reminded himself, his reflection smirking back with the same quiet confidence.
A small chuckle escaped him.
"Looks like I really am a genius."
...
The next morning, the courtyard buzzed with energy.
Dozens of young disciples—those who had joined the Heavenly Sword Sect a year ago—stood gathered beneath the clear sky, faces lit with excitement and nervous pride.
Whispers rippled through the crowd as they waited for Elder Gao's arrival.
Near the front stood a young man whose presence drew every eye—Zhao Yan.
His bearing was calm, his robes immaculate, his features sharper than most remembered.
There was an effortless confidence about him, the kind that made others instinctively step aside.
"Who is he?" someone whispered. "Is he… glowing?"
Before the murmurs could grow louder, a familiar aura swept across the courtyard.
Elder Gao appeared, descending with the authority of a mountain. His cold gaze cut through the crowd like a blade.
"One by one," he ordered, his tone brisk and devoid of warmth. "Step forward."
Zhao Yan moved first, his steps measured, pride gleaming in his eyes.
He bowed lightly and stood before the elder, expecting words of recognition, maybe even approval.
But Elder Gao's expression darkened the moment his gaze landed on him. Without a word, he seized Zhao Yan's wrist.
Qi surged from the elder's palm, flooding through Zhao Yan's meridians with probing precision.
The young man's confident smile faltered slightly under the elder's scrutiny—but before he could speak—
SLAP!