Yang Zhai was once again training with the Brown Dacite. By now, he had been at it for an hour and a half, his body drenched in sweat, his breathing steady yet heavy, every movement echoing in the stillness of the inheritance ground.
He followed the same routine as he had carried out with Dar, repeating the process with unshakable focus. His bones, however, had already undergone substantial modification once. This time, the transformation, though demanding, did not feel nearly as overwhelming as it had the very first time he trained with the Brown Dacite. The reason was clear: he had already endured the Dacite's bone-altering effects before, forging a foundation of resilience.
On top of that, it was a subtle and gradual refinement. Unlike with Dar, where the intensity struck him as raw and unfiltered, the Dacite's influence was something he had tasted before, something his body, though battered, could endure.
"As the Brown Dacite's power works slowly to refine the bones, unlike Dar's violent bursts, I don't have to repeat the cycle of activating and deactivating the orange and blue lines again and again," he thought to himself, silently observing the differences. "A few repetitions are more than enough. Its nature is gradual—steady refinement rather than sudden upheaval. Even when it feels intense, its essence is slowness."
If he were to compare the two, the difference was striking. With Dar, it was as if within the span of mere minutes, his strength had skyrocketed, giving him the raw might of nearly fifteen bulls.
Not only did the surge elevate his power, but it also transformed the very fibers of his muscles and flesh, reshaping his body to sustain such overwhelming force. Yet such a sudden eruption of strength came at a cost—it took him nearly three hours before he could stabilize and truly adapt to the flood of energy.
The Brown Dacite, on the other hand, operated on a different rhythm. It didn't shower him with explosive gains at once. Instead, it pressed down on him, molding him inch by inch. And the result, though real, was not as amazing as Dar's. What it gave him was steady, almost invisible progress—strength that seeped into his bones like water soaking stone. His body shifted with it, adapting in real-time, as if the very act of refining and the act of adjusting were happening together.
These were Yang Zhai's reflections as he continued to endure the process.
He had chosen to limit his training to only an hour and a half with the Brown Dacite, for the sky was already beginning to pale with the approach of dawn. Once the sun rose fully, the power of his orange lines would become useless, and he wanted to leave room to adapt before they faded away.
When he finally deactivated his orange line of perfection, the strain upon his body was not severe, though the pain surged sharply. He chose not to rush into reactivating it. Instead, he allowed the ache to spread through his limbs for several minutes before finally deactivating the fourth line as well. The pain spiked once more, yet even then, the toll was within his endurance.
Having been submerged in agony throughout the entire night—waves of pain rising and falling without rest—his body had grown accustomed to it. What once felt unbearable now seemed survivable, though the pain itself had never diminished; it had only continued to build upon itself.
Afterwards, he healed himself carefully, pushing the flow of energy through his wounds, and allowed himself an hour of rest. His battered body, though resilient, demanded moments of rest.
By the time the sun rose and its first rays touched the ground, his orange lines had already begun to fade away. Yet despite their fading, Yang Zhai had managed to accomplish much. He had trained with both Dar and the Brown Dacite in a single night, pushing himself further than ever before.
After his short rest, he resumed. Once again, he began striking the Brown Dacite in the same manner as during his very first training session with it. His fists pounded relentlessly against the stone, again and again, unyielding. He would focus on one single point, hammering it until a faint dent finally emerged, before shifting to another spot to repeat the process. The rhythm of his blows was merciless, a storm of persistence that refused to let him stop without achieving his purpose.
The consequences soon began to reveal themselves. Just as before, strands of his hair gradually whitened under the strain, a mark left by the unnatural burden he placed on himself. The stress upon his body was immense, yet this time, his condition was not quite as dire as it had once been. His legs, though trembling and heavy, did not go numb as they had when he trained intensely the first time with the Brown Dacite. He could still feel the ground beneath him, could still force his weight to hold, though it was difficult to remain upright.
At last, after more than seven hours of relentless striking, Yang Zhai stopped. His body quivered with exhaustion, his chest heaving as sweat poured down his body. Yet unlike his previous attempt, the aurora's aura did not enter his bones this time.
"Good," Yang Zhai muttered softly, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction despite the pain. "In just one day, my strength has risen by twenty-one bulls, and the quality of my body has improved by twenty-nine. Even I hadn't anticipated such a result. It may have taken an entire day of torment, but the harvest was worth it. Still… I cannot keep this up forever. Progress is fine, but to spend every day like this, with no room for anything else—that's not good. For now, I'll push myself for a week. After that, I'll leave."
Had his training not interfered, he might have chosen to depart within only two days. But with the results he had tasted, he decided to push further bound him to the inheritance ground. He resolved to remain for seven full days.
He allowed himself five hours of sleep, granting his body the minimum rest it required before resuming. Each day thereafter followed the same pattern. Time was given only for necessities—eating, washing, tending to wounds—while the rest was devoted entirely to relentless training.
A week passed in this grueling rhythm. By the end, his power had soared. His strength, once the equivalent of thirty-five bulls, had multiplied until it stood at one hundred and eighty-two. The quality of his body, which had measured at one hundred and eight, now reached three hundred and eleven.
But this strength came with a price. His body bore scars across every surface, carved into him like inscriptions of suffering. His hair, once merely touched with streaks of white, had now turned halfway pale, a stark contrast against the remnants of its darker shade. His figure had grown leaner, harder, his frame muscular and training-worn, exuding the undeniable aura of a rank five cultivator.
"Impressive," he whispered to himself, voice calm. "The strength of a rank five cultivator that's achieved over the years… I achieved it in just a week. So this is the difference. This is the result of cultivating with higher-rank materials while carrying the foundation of a higher rank, and then returning to back to weaker foundation. The power I obtain is naturally on a different level."
His thoughts deepened as he reflected. "My body, though weak now, trained under the refinement of Dar, the Brown Dacite, and the Sap Water—meant for cultivators of rank six and rank seven. Their effects may have seemed limited when at high ranks, but once I fell back to rank 5 and deactivated the orange lines, the changes they wrought became immensely effective for me. The strength insignificant at rank 7 and rank 8 became my leap."
"It is as though I borrowed from a vast reservoir, a tank designed to pour slowly into small tank over decades, and instead poured all of it into the smaller tank at once. Naturally, I filled up far quicker than I should have. But such flood always leaves a cost. The marks upon me is that price."
The price of his progress was etched clearly into his body. His face, once youthful, was now hardened. His body was covered in countless scars, some faded and silvered, others still raw and red as if freshly torn. His hair, more than half turned white, made him nearly unrecognizable from the person he had been only a short while ago.
Yang Zhai rose to his feet, his expression calm, and stepped away from the inheritance ground. His journey was now his alone.
He had not trained blindly—he had allowed himself recovery, he had maintained balance where he could—but still, the toll was undeniable. If he had abandoned even that caution and pursued strength like a madman, throwing himself endlessly against the stone without pause, his body would have long since collapsed. The scars that now adorned him would have been his destruction.
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