I sat in the Grand Hall of my sect.
The throne beneath me was carved from dark ironwood, reinforced with black stone, and etched with ancient patterns I barely understood. It was heavy. Not just in weight—but in meaning. I had claimed this seat as Sect Master, but there was no one yet to kneel before it.
No disciples.
No incense.
No echoes.
Just me.
And the silent mountain wind outside, whispering through cracked walls like an old ghost waiting for something to begin.
But within me… something stirred.
Power.
It was no longer the uncontrolled torrent I felt when I first received the system. It had settled—deepened. Like a river that had carved its own bed, it now moved with quiet confidence through my bones.
Then came the voice.
[System Alert: One major function remains unused.]
[Would the Host like to activate it now?]
My brows lifted.
Another function?
"What kind of function?" I asked, voice soft in the cold stillness of the hall.
[You may now create one original cultivation technique per month.]
[Would you like to begin your first?]
I leaned back on the throne, thoughtful.
Raw power wasn't enough.
If strength couldn't be shaped, it was useless. Just like a wild beast—it might be terrifying, but it was just as likely to harm me as protect me.
I remembered something a wandering cultivator once said:
"The heavens favor the prepared, not the powerful."
To walk the cultivation path, every true cultivator needed three foundational techniques:
One for attack — to strike when the moment calls for it
One for defense — to survive when all else breaks
One for escape — because sometimes, surviving is the only victory
But I could only create one technique now.
I needed to choose carefully.
And more importantly—I needed to think like a sect leader.
This wasn't just about me anymore. I had built this sect for those the heavens had forgotten—for mortals who had no spirit roots, no golden destiny, no ancient bloodline guiding them from birth.
This sect would protect them.
But what kind of protection was complete if it couldn't fight back?
So I made my choice.
"I will create a sword technique."
[Confirmed. Please begin visualization.]
I closed my eyes.
I saw myself on an empty battlefield. Wind tugging at my robes. Enemies closing in on every side. Alone—but unafraid.
I raised my sword.
And swung.
Not with fury. Not with bloodlust. But with stillness.
And in that stillness, something bloomed.
From the arc of my blade, rose petals—white as first snow—scattered into the air.
They danced around me. Hundreds of them. Gliding through the air like a storm of silk and steel.
They formed a shield.
If someone stepped too close—
The petals would cut.
Not to kill. Not unless I chose to.
Their edges would graze skin, tear cloth, mark flesh—not in hatred, but in warning.
But if I truly willed to kill—
The petals would blacken.
And death would follow.
[Technique Creation Complete.]
[Name: Roseblade Waltz (白薔薇劍舞)]
[Type: Sword Technique – Hybrid Class]
[Primary Effect: Rotating storm of white rose petals defends the user against physical and energy-based attacks.]
[Secondary Effect: Petals can be launched at medium range as slashing projectiles.]
[Hidden Effect: If the user's killing intent activates, petals transform into black execution-blades.]
[Grade: High Mortal – Evolvable.]
[Status: Fully Mastered.]
I opened my eyes slowly.
The scent of roses lingered in the air.
Even though it was just a visualization… it felt real.
I had created something with my own will. Not inherited from an elder. Not taught from a jade scroll. Not stolen from a ruin.
Mine.
But before I could feel the weight of what I'd done, another notification came.
[Congratulations. The Host has successfully created and mastered their first personal technique.]
[You may now summon one Elder to serve as its guardian and instructor.]
[Or, you may store up to 10 Elder Summon Cards and combine them into a higher-level Elder.]
That made me pause.
"One Elder?" I asked. "What's their strength compared to mine?"
[All Elders begin one cultivation realm above the Host's current level.]
[Summon Card Fusion System:
10 Cards = 1 Outer Elder
100 = 1 Inner Elder
1,000 = Core Elder
10,000 = Supreme Elder]
So… the elder I summoned would be stronger than me?
> [Yes. But only temporarily.]
[Host is a System User. Elders must cultivate normally. The Host's cultivation advances as the Sect grows.]
[Upon reaching Sect Level 2, Host will instantly advance to Nascent Soul, Level 9.]
That calmed me.
Even if they started stronger, I would outpace them soon enough.
I asked another question. One I knew readers might wonder too.
"If my sect is about equality, why divide disciples and elders into ranks?"
The answer wasn't from the system. It came from me.
Equality is not sameness.
In the old world, people were judged by fate—by whether they had spiritual roots or not. Immortals were born blessed. Mortals, cursed. It wasn't fair—but it was how the heavens operated.
In my sect, anyone could cultivate. Mortal or immortal. Rooted or rootless.
But hard work must mean something.
If someone bled, trained, studied, meditated, fought—and another slept all day—should they be treated equally?
No.
Injustice to the hardworking is still injustice.
That's why the sect had structure.
[Sect Hierarchy Revealed]
Elders:
Sect Leader – Supreme authority (Me)
Supreme Elder – Requires 10,000 cards. Power: Saint Realm.
Core Elder – 1,000 cards. Power: Half-Saint.
Inner Elder – 100 cards. Power: Soul Transformation.
Outer Elder – 10 cards. Power: Core Formation.
Deacon (Manager) – 1 card. Power: Foundation Establishment.
Disciples:
Outer Disciple
Inner Disciple
Core Disciple
True Disciple
Every 10 disciples = 1 Summon Card
I looked at the single glowing card in my palm.
I could wait. Save up. Combine ten and summon a real elder.
But I was alone.
This hall was too quiet.
And I needed someone to stand beside me, even for a little while.
"I choose to summon now."
[Summoning Deacon-Class Elder…]
[Please assign name.]
Wind stirred inside the hall.
Then—rose petals drifted from the air, soft and glowing.
A figure stepped forward from the light.
He was tall, robed in silver and pale blue. His eyes were calm, yet deep—like the sky before a storm. His face was striking: sharp lines softened by a scholar's poise. Long hair fell past his shoulders like silk ink poured from a brush.
There was something noble in the way he moved. Something ancient.
He looked like a man who had once bowed before emperors—and refused to kneel to gods.
He was… beautiful.
Not in the fragile way of courtesans, but in the sculpted way of immortal heroes.
It startled me. Because for a moment—I felt envy.
But then I turned to my reflection in the polished obsidian floor.
And I paused.
I wasn't the boy I used to be.
My eyes no longer flickered with fear. They were steady.
My jaw had hardened. My posture had changed.
My skin was smoother, yet there was sharpness behind it.
I looked like a man forged by fire and ice.
A fusion of mortal pain and something… beyond.
If the most legendary male leads from cultivation myths had been drawn together into one body—this is who stood here now.
Me.
Still me. But finally becoming who I was meant to be.
The summoned elder bowed deeply.
"Your will gave me shape," he said. "What name shall I bear in this world?"
I took a long breath, then answered.
"Your name… will be Yun Shan."
Cloud Mountain.
A name that carried stillness, and weight.
And the quiet promise of rising higher.