The cave felt different already.
Luo Yun stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, watching the faint mist swirl lazily above the patch of sunlight where his herb field had formed. The little spirit-gathering core rested at its center, glowing faintly like a quiet heartbeat.
One month had passed since his arrival.
Within that time, this bare cave had begun to gain something almost resembling life.
He knelt beside the herb patch and inspected the soil. It was still rough and uneven, but that didn't matter. What mattered was what grew atop it.
He planted everything he had the day he returned from the sect market. The seeds from the sign-in rewards—Moonlight Grass seeds, Blooddew seeds, two Jadeleaf seedlings, and the stubborn Spirit Bamboo fragment—were planted first. Those were the core of his field. The purchased sprouts were placed around them to support humidity and balance elements.
Now, all of them had sprouted.
Moonlight Grass shimmered with a soft silver-blue tint each morning. Blooddew vines clung to the damp wall and grew inch by inch. The Jadeleaf seedlings formed small clusters of green-white leaves. Even the Spirit Bamboo, once a lifeless root fragment, now stretched a slender stalk upward.
He smiled faintly.
"You're all doing well."
He didn't know why talking to plants felt natural here. Maybe it was the isolation. Maybe because tending them gave shape to his days. Or maybe because in a world where cultivation determined fate, watching something grow because of his own hands felt grounding.
He took out a small gourd of water and poured carefully around the Moonlight Grass. The soil darkened with moisture.
Watering herbs. Checking humidity. Adjusting stones to angle light. Rearranging sprouts to avoid overcrowding.
These mundane chores became habits.
Once the herbs were tended, he brushed off his knees and sat cross-legged on his meditation cushion. It was the most valuable treasure he had so far, and it showed. The moment he settled, he could feel the faint structural adjustment it performed—straightening his posture, calming his breathing, encouraging Qi to circulate properly.
The spirit-gathering core helped as well. It pulled loose spiritual energy closer, feeding his small environment. Compared to a normal cave, this one now held perhaps twice as much Qi.
Still not enough to make cultivation easy. But enough to make it possible.
He closed his eyes and began the Mind-Refining Void Scripture.
Qi drifted toward him like threads of mist. Some slipped into his pores, winding through meridians. Despite his fake roots—which distorted Qi flow—there were small improvements each day. The meditation cushion softened the resistance, smoothing the journey.
Qi traveled downward, slowly gathering toward the dantian—the true center of cultivation.
Even with the scripture strengthening his soul faster than his Qi, the manual didn't ignore the basics. The dantian was still the foundation. This method simply walked both paths in parallel:
Soul perception grew through the mind, affecting the sea of consciousness near the forehead. Qi accumulation grew through meridians, settling into the dantian.
The two streams of growth eventually intertwined, supporting each other.
That was why, during meditation, Luo Yun felt two sensations at once.
One near his dantian—warm, faint, like a flickering ember. One at his forehead—a cool ripple, like a lantern glowing in mist.
He opened his eyes slowly, letting the sensations fade.
"Better than yesterday."
The improvement was minuscule, but he wasn't deluding himself. He had no talent. False roots. Even the herb field and spirit core were only helpful, not miraculous.
His soul perception progressed faster because the scripture emphasized it. His Qi accumulation remained painfully slow.
But Luo Yun didn't mind.
He had died once already. Nothing was more frightening than that. Slow progress didn't concern him as long as he moved forward at all.
The cave however, had begun to embrace him.
The dark aura from the sealed tomb beneath the mountain still lingered, but it no longer pressed harshly against his mind. Instead, it felt like a distant tide, ebbing and flowing beneath the stone. Dangerous, yes. But familiar enough that it no longer startled him.
He suspected this was because his soul was growing stronger—even if only slightly.
When he stood, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, he glanced at the space beside the herb field.
"This area should do for sword practice."
The iron sword the Peak Lord gave him leaned against the wall. It was dull, unimpressive, but sturdy enough for early training.
He picked it up, feeling its weight settle into his palm.
Flowing Cloud Edge.
A beautiful sword manual name for someone who could barely swing a proper blade.
He took a slow stance, feet shoulder width apart, keeping himself mindful of the herb patch behind. The first form was simple—a downward arc that flowed seamlessly into a side sweep.
The key was softness. Not raw strength.
Water did not fight the stone directly. It flowed around it.
He repeated the movement again. And again. And again.
Dozens of times.
His breathing grew heavier, his arms sore, but the repetition loosened muscles tightened by poor Qi flow. His sword didn't whistle through the air, but the motion grew smoother.
He attempted the second form—a circular motion that gathered momentum like a tightening whirlpool.
He stumbled the first time. His foot scraped the ground.
He tried again.
The sword passed through the air with a muted swoosh—not powerful, but balanced.
Little by little, he understood what the manual asked for.
He lowered the blade, chest rising and falling with exhaustion.
This, too, became routine.
A simple life. Monotonous, but quietly fulfilling.
…
Once every week, Luo Yun changed his routine.
He descended the narrow, shadowy path toward the abyss at the base of the mountain.
The moment he neared the edge, the world shifted.
Cold wind burst upward, carrying whispers that scraped at the edges of his mind. It felt like invisible claws tugging at his thoughts, trying to unravel them.
Most disciples refused to even look at the abyss. He walked toward it willingly.
He sat on a rough stone ledge overlooking the endless blackness.
His body trembled instantly.
Agony sank into him—not a pain of flesh or bone, but of the soul. His breath shook, sweat dripping from his chin.
But this pain fed the scripture.
The Mind-Refining Void Scripture resonated with the abyssal aura, sharpening clarity through contrast with madness.
It wasn't safe. It wasn't sane. It wasn't something anyone should normally do.
But the effect was undeniable.
He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly, and felt his soul perception deepen—a faint lantern glowing brighter inside his mind-space. For a moment, he sensed the flowing currents of the abyss, chaotic yet patterned.
Just a glimpse.
Then the pressure became too much. His vision blurred. His thoughts frayed at the edges.
He stood unsteadily and retreated carefully until the pain grew bearable again.
By the time he returned to the cave, he felt hollow, drained, exhausted beyond belief—but his mind felt clearer.
"Worth it," he murmured each time.
The abyss was a ruthless teacher. But he learned from it.
…
Two more weeks passed.
Herb sprouts grew steadily. The Moonlight Grass reached nearly knee height now. The Blooddew vines clung to the cave wall with vivid red veins. Jadeleaf plants shimmered with soft green light. Spirit Bamboo grew a full foot tall, slender but incredibly firm.
The purchased herbs grew too—some better than others—but the system-granted seeds clearly responded more strongly to the spirit-gathering core. He still didn't know what they were, but they felt unique.
The Qi density around the herb field increased noticeably. Sometimes a faint fragrance drifted through the cave, calming his mind without effort.
He noticed another change as well.
His meditation sessions lasted longer. His mind wandered less. His sea of consciousness felt steadier.
Qi still flowed slowly into his meridians and downward toward his dantian, but with less resistance than before. The scripture seemed to gently reshape his inner pathways—not enough to fix his fake roots, but enough to make them tolerable.
He wasn't progressing fast. But he was progressing.
One afternoon, after sword practice, he sat at the entrance of the cave and gazed at the distant mountains. The sun dipped behind a peak, turning the sky pale orange.
The world was beautiful. Peaceful from a distance.
And deadly up close.
He understood well that outside this cave lay a brutal cultivation world. If he were forced into a duel today, he'd likely lose. If a beast attacked, survival would depend on his quick thinking, not strength.
But here, on this secluded peak, life was simple. Quiet. Manageable.
He had herbs to tend. Sword forms to practice. spirit cultivation to study. A cave becoming more and more alive each day.
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes just long enough to feel the warmth of the fading sunlight.
"This… isn't bad," he murmured.
Not glory. Not fame. Not genius cultivation speed.
Just steady effort.
And in some ways, Luo Yun preferred it this way.
Because slow progress was still progress.
He stood and returned to the cave, settling onto his cushion for another session of cultivation. Qi trickled into him once more, the faint lantern of his soul flickering softly in the depths of his awareness.
Step by step. Day by day.
He would reach Qi Condensation. He would grow stronger. He would survive this peak.
Even if it took years.