Zareck's home sat on the quieter edge of the inner city, tucked away from the bustling avenues where clan members gathered and compared achievements. For an orphan, it was unusually spacious. Clean stone floors, reinforced walls, a private cultivation room lined with spirit-insulating wood.
A silent testament to his grandfather's influence.
Zareck closed the door behind him and exhaled slowly. The noise of the clan faded, replaced by a stillness he was intimately familiar with. This was where he had grown up. Where he had waited.
He removed the jade slip from within his robes.
Even now, it felt unreal.
The surface was smooth and cool, faint patterns etched so finely they seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. Zareck turned it over in his hands, brow furrowing.
"So this is how thousands of years of knowledge are stored," he murmured.
He had heard explanations before, arrays, spiritual inscriptions, soul-imprint resonance, but holding it made those words feel hollow. The jade slip wasn't just an object. It responded.
When he pressed his thumb against its centre and focused, the world tilted.
Information did not arrive as words.
It arrived as understanding.
Zareck staggered slightly and sat down, back against the cultivation room's central mat. Thoughts that were not his own unfolded in his mind, structured and deliberate, as if someone had carefully placed them there one layer at a time.
Not forced but guided.
"How does something lifeless do this?" he whispered.
There was no answer-only the technique.
Hans Flower Technique – Foundational Method
The first section did not begin with instructions.
It began with theory.
The human body is an incomplete vessel.
Zareck frowned, reading deeper.
According to the manual, the world was saturated with spiritual energy. An omnipresent field of refined natural force. Ordinary humans absorbed trace amounts simply by existing, but their bodies lacked the structure to store or direct it.
Cultivation, at its most basic level, was not about power.
It was about compatibility.
The Body Forging Realm, the manual explained, was the process of converting the human body from a passive system into an active spiritual framework.
Muscle fibres were not merely strengthened, they were realigned to form micro-channels capable of conducting energy. Bones were not hardened but were reinforced at a molecular level, increasing density while preserving flexibility. Organs were gradually conditioned to withstand internal spiritual pressure, preventing collapse or rejection once energy circulation began in earnest.
Zareck's eyes widened.
"This is…" He hesitated, searching for the right word. "Systematic."
The manual broke the body down into components, describing how spiritual energy interacted differently with flesh, marrow, and nerve pathways. It even referenced failure points, areas where early cultivators often crippled themselves by forcing energy where their bodies were not yet prepared.
The reason for the Body Forging Realm became painfully clear.
Without preparation, spiritual energy was poison.
The technique outlined a gradual process: repeated physical conditioning paired with controlled exposure to ambient spiritual energy. The goal was to increase the body's tolerance threshold, layer by layer, until it could safely retain energy rather than disperse it.
Only then could true manipulation begin.
Zareck swallowed.
"So this is why reckless cultivators die."
The Hans Flower Technique emphasized balance above all else. Unlike aggressive methods that prioritized speed, it used steady circulation patterns modelled after natural biological rhythms. The heartbeat, breath, muscle contraction.
Energy was to be invited, not seized.
He continued reading.
The manual described the early Body Forging Realm as divided into stages, each corresponding to a measurable increase in structural efficiency. Improved reaction time, enhanced strength, heightened perception. These were not mystical gifts, but by products of a body operating closer to its theoretical limits.
By the time a cultivator completed the realm, their body would no longer resist spiritual energy.
It would welcome it.
Zareck closed his eyes, jade slip still pressed to his palm.
For the first time, cultivation didn't feel like legend or destiny.
It all seemed Careful. Dangerous. Precise.
He opened his eyes again, a quiet fire burning behind them.
"Alright," he said softly. "Let's see if I can be rebuilt."
Zareck had just lowered the jade slip to his lap, breath steadying, when a knock echoed through the house.
Three slow taps.
He stiffened.
Very few people ever came here.
Another knock followed, louder this time. Impatient.
Zareck stood and crossed the room, pulling the door open.
An old man leaned heavily on a crooked staff, his back bent more from habit than age. His robes bore the muted grey of a Hans clan servant, frayed at the cuffs and patched more times than Zareck could count.
Old Man Krab grinned up at him, missing two teeth.
"Well?" Krab said. "You going to let an old man rot outside, or has cultivation already turned you into a proper young master?"
Zareck laughed immediately, tension evaporating. "You're early."
"I'm late," Krab shot back, shuffling past him without waiting for permission. "If I were early, you'd still be in diapers."
If anyone else heard a servant speak like that to a Hans clansman, especially one tied to an elder, the consequences would be severe.
Zareck only shook his head, closing the door behind him. "You shouldn't talk like that."
Krab snorted. "Then you shouldn't listen."
The old man glanced around the room, eyes sharp despite his hunched frame. "Hmm. Same place. Same smell. Still alive. Good. Means no one's poisoned you yet."
"Give it time," Zareck said dryly.
Krab barked out a laugh and eased himself onto a low stool. His gaze drifted, inevitably, to the jade slip resting in Zareck's hands.
"So," he said casually, "you got it, didn't you?"
Zareck hesitated.
Clan rules surfaced immediately in his mind. Manuals were sacred. Knowledge was blood. Speaking of them to outsiders, even servants, was forbidden.
Krab noticed the pause and waved a dismissive hand. "Relax. I'm not asking you to recite it. Just curious."
Zareck tightened his grip on the jade. "It's… the Hans Flower Technique."
Krab hummed. "Figures."
There was something in his tone that made Zareck frown.
"It's a good technique," Zareck said, a little defensively. "Stable. Balanced."
"I didn't say it wasn't," Krab replied. "I said it figures."
Silence stretched between them.
Zareck opened his mouth, then closed it again. His instincts warred with his loyalty. Krab had fed him when he was too small to cook, dragged him back from fights, sat outside his door on nights when the world felt too empty.
If anyone deserved the truth—
"I'm not supposed to talk about it," Zareck said slowly. "But…"
Krab raised a hand.
"Don't."
Zareck blinked. "What?"
Instead of answering, Krab reached into his robes.
His movements were unhurried, deliberate. From within, he drew out a book, not jade, not inscribed stone, but old, yellowed pages bound in cracked leather. The thing looked ancient, fragile, utterly out of place in the hands of a servant.
Krab placed it on the table between them.
"You should cultivate this instead," he said.
Zareck stared blankly. "That's… not funny."
Krab's eyes met his, suddenly clear, sharp as broken glass. "I'm not joking. This is better than that Hans Flower Manual. Shit that. Anything those higher-ups of yours could give you."
"This is better than the Hans Flower Technique?" Zareck asked, disbelief creeping into his voice. "Better than anything the Hans family can give me?"
"Yes."
No explanation. No elaboration.
Zareck felt something cold coil in his stomach. "You sure you haven't hit your head old man. How do you even have a cultivation manual anyways?"
Krab stood, leaning once more on his staff. "Some questions ruin things when they're answered too early."
He turned toward the door.
"You don't have to use it," he added, hand resting on the latch. "But if you want to walk further than this city… you'll need more than pretty petals."
The door opened.
Darkness crept in from outside, the sky already bleeding into dusk.
"Wait," Zareck said.
Krab paused, not turning around. "You were never as good at listening as you thought."
Then he was gone.
The door shut softly.
Zareck stood alone, the house suddenly feeling too large, too quiet.
He looked down at the book.
No glow. No aura. No spiritual pressure.
Just words on a cracked cover.
Thy Image of Zenith
Zareck swallowed.
"How," he whispered to the empty room, "does a servant own something like this?"
For the first time since returning home, unease replaced anticipation.
Two paths lay before him.
And neither felt safe.