The battle library loomed like a fortress of ancient secrets, its towering shelves carved from dark stone, etched with runes that pulsed faintly under torchlight. The air was thick with the musty scent of old parchment and lingering magic, each breath heavy with the weight of forgotten knowledge. Song stood on the tenth floor, his gaze fixed on three scrolls, their golden seals glinting like promises in the dim glow. His heart thudded, a mix of hope and frustration. The ninth and tenth floors—the highest in the library—offered no cultivation methods or skills beyond these three, and only one was within his reach. The other two demanded advanced cultivation and a formed pattern, barriers he couldn't yet cross.
Song's fingers twitched, brushing the coarse fabric of his worn tunic. His cultivation, stuck at the Fourth Overlord stage, was a shackle. If he could form five more energy stripes, he might forge a pattern, opening doors to clans or sects, shedding his past as a slave. But without a suitable method, that dream was a cruel mirage. He shook his head, banishing fantasies of joining the city's great powers. Focus, he told himself. Find a method first.
The scroll he could study was Sword Flash:
Skill: Sword Flash
Description: A rapid, multi-strike sword technique. At level one, a master delivers five instant strikes to one target. At level two, ten instant strikes. At level three, twenty swift strikes, hitting up to four targets simultaneously.
Requirements: Basic understanding of fire laws. High Perception mandatory.
Note: Method to comprehend fire laws included.
Skill Rank: Peak Golden Rank.
The other two scrolls mocked him with their requirements—advanced cultivation and a completed pattern. Song's Perception was high, a rare strength, but his cultivation lagged, a wound to his pride. He grabbed the Sword Flash scroll, its weight grounding his resolve, and descended to the ninth floor, where he'd seen two high-rank cultivation methods.
Scanning them with his Perception, he groaned in frustration.
"Damn it! These methods don't suit me at all! What do I choose?"
Both required catalysts—fire essence for one, darkness essence for the other. Song had neither, nor the merits to acquire them. His dream of breaking free seemed to slip further away, the library's silence amplifying his despair.
"Disciple, I strongly recommend the first scroll," a cold, emotionless voice echoed in his mind. "I sense traces of fire within you. Perhaps you've received a flame blessing. If so, this method is your fortune."
Song froze. The assistant? Why had it been silent all this time?
"Disciple, you asked no questions, so I had nothing to answer."
Song mentally cursed himself. Of course—a library brimming with scrolls demanded an assistant to navigate. Feeling foolish, he refocused on the gray scroll the voice endorsed.
Method: Fiery Immortal Technique
Description: Developed by a true immortal millions of years ago, this method transforms the body into an elemental treasure through eight revolutions. It greatly accelerates a warrior's progress but demands extreme dedication.
Requirements: Advanced understanding of fire laws or affinity with fire.
Note: Method to comprehend fire laws included.
Rank: Peak Silver Rank. Each revolution increases the method's rank.
The final line intrigued him. Could completing all eight revolutions elevate the method beyond heavenly rank? Had anyone ever succeeded?
He asked aloud, "Has anyone completed even one revolution?"
"No such person exists in the battle library's history," the voice replied curtly.
"What nonsense, Elder! You're pushing a method no one can use?" Song's shout echoed through the ninth floor, unanswered. The voice deemed his question rhetorical.
Frustration boiled within him. The library's walls seemed to close in, their runes mocking his indecision. Trust the voice, or choose alone? He had no better ideas. Weighing the risks, he seized the Fiery Immortal Technique scroll, its gray parchment heavy with potential. With Sword Flash in hand, he headed for the exit.
At the library's threshold, the voice spoke again. "Is your choice final?"
"Yes," Song confirmed, voice steady despite his doubts.
"You must return these scrolls in one year or pay 1,000 merits per scroll to keep them another year."
"Robbery," Song muttered, cursing under his breath as he left. His destination was a secluded glade near the Forbidden Garden, a sanctuary for his meditations away from the sixth barrack's noise. Tucked between a high stone wall and thorny bushes, the glade was shielded from wind and prying eyes, far from the servants' stone path.
Under the fading light of dusk, Song built a small fire, its flames crackling with a warmth that contrasted the evening's chill. The glade was quiet, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves. Sitting on a fallen log, he pulled the scrolls from his tattered sack. Sword Flash could wait—without a fire law foundation, it was useless. The Fiery Immortal Technique scroll, bound by a blue ribbon and red wax seal, demanded his focus. Breaking the seal, he unfurled the parchment and immersed his Perception.
An hour later, he groaned, slumping against the log. "What have I gotten myself into?"
The method was daunting. Its initial stage relied on endurance, strength, and—critically—fire essence, a rare material worth over 30,000 merits. Without it, the alternative was enduring excruciating pain. Song's fist clenched, tempted to punch the log, but his Fourth Overlord strength could splinter it. No need to destroy his sanctuary. The voice had misled him—or had it? The method promised power, but the cost was steep.
Sitting by the fire, its heat licking his skin, Song began the scroll's breathing technique. To practice the Fiery Immortal Technique, he needed a basic grasp of fire laws. Two paths existed: long-term observation of fire, requiring years he didn't have, or a painful shortcut. He chose the latter.
Completing the breathing pattern, he closed his eyes, visualizing his hands coated in an invisible barrier. With a shouted "Ha!" he thrust them into the flames.
Pain engulfed him, a tidal wave threatening to drown his consciousness. His mind screamed, but he clung to awareness, focusing on the fire's essence—its hunger, its dance. He couldn't hold on. With a moan, he yanked his hands free, staring at the charred, blistered flesh.
His Overlord tattoo pulsed, sending waves of healing energy. The pain ebbed, but not enough. Collapsing into a lotus pose, he replayed the moment, seeking to understand the fire that had scarred him. The night passed in a haze of meditation, the glade's silence his only companion. By dawn, his hands were less raw, the tattoo's healing promising near-full recovery by evening.
No one said it would be easy. Slinging his sack over his shoulder, Song trudged toward the Magistrate. With 10,000 merits left from the library, he aimed to rent a room—yesterday's attempt had failed due to late hours. The Magistrate's halls were a labyrinth of stone corridors, their walls adorned with faded tapestries of ancient battles. After wandering, he found the housing desk, where a middle-aged servant lounged, rocking on his chair. Seeing Song, he straightened, masking boredom with a neutral smile.
"Good morning," the servant said, standing. "Looking to rent housing?"
"Yes. Cheapest single room?" Song cut to the chase.
"In the Media district, 30 merits a month. Lowest price available."
"I'll take it for two years," Song replied. The cost—720 merits—was a small dent in his capital.
The servant raised an eyebrow but said nothing, producing a rental scroll and infusing it with energy. "Confirm your intent. If you have enough merits, the deal's done."
Song infused the scroll, feeling 720 merits drain from his collector's medallion.
"Deal complete. Head to Media and pick any free single room—no nameplate on the door means it's open."
The scroll flashed, splitting into two copies—one for Song, one for the servant. Without delay, Song headed to Media, a quiet district of cozy courtyards. It was where he'd awakened after escaping the Twilight Overlord sect. Compared to the barrack or slave pens, it was paradise.
As he neared the district, a faint rustle in the shadows caught his ear. Someone—or something—was following, their presence a whisper of danger in the morning mist.