The night pressed close, the bonfire crackling softly. Wolf corpses lay scattered around the clearing, their shadows dancing long and warped in the shifting firelight.
Yang Yin Long still felt the pressure of the old man's earlier question echoing inside his ribs. It was not something spoken casually, nor something one could ignore.
"Do you wish to live a short life strong—
—or a long life powerful?"
The words carried the weight of choice — not preference.
Yang Yin Long tried to answer, but his throat constricted. His breathing stuttered as if the very air had thickened.
The old man's gaze remained calm — but the world around Yang Yin Long tightened.
Even his heartbeat slowed, suppressed by an unseen force.
Then the old man spoke again — and his tone was no longer gentle:
"Answer."
The pressure loosened — barely.
Just enough.
Yang Yin Long forced sound from his lungs.
"A long life powerful."
The moment the words left his mouth, the pressure vanished completely. The world exhaled. The fire warmed once again.
The old man smiled.
Not kindly. Not cruelly.
Simply as one who had heard the correct answer.
"Yes. A short life strong is a pointless thing.
The dead do not cultivate."
He raised his hand.
No glow of qi.
No ripple of force.
No grand gesture.
A skull simply appeared in the air before Yang Yin Long, descending silently into his hands.
It was smooth, pale, almost luminous in the firelight — with faint, ancient lines carved across its surface. It did not radiate killing intent, nor aura, nor heat. Yet it felt alive — like something sleeping.
The old man spoke only once more:
"When you reach Foundation Establishment — open it."
Nothing more.
No explanation.
No origin.
No warning.
The old man stood.
The fire flickered.
His silhouette was there—
Then it wasn't.
No spatial ripple.
No flight-step.
No teleportation.
He simply was — and then he was not.
Yang Yin Long sat still for several long breaths, the skull resting in his hands. The fire popped and crackled, sparks drifting upward into the dark sky.
The clearing felt larger now.
Emptier.
But the skull was warm.
And somewhere deep inside Yang Yin Long's chest, something responded — like a faint heartbeat not his own.
He closed his fingers around it carefully.
He did not speak.
There was nothing to say.
The fire burned.
The night watched.
And Yang Yin Long remained very, very awake.
The forest was quiet after the old man vanished. Only the bonfire crackled, its flames rising and falling like breathing. Yang Yin Long sat still for a while, neither speaking nor moving, as though any sudden motion might disturb the echo of the presence that had just been here.
The skull rested in his hands.
Smooth. Pale. Warm.
A strange warmth—not like heat, but like life—pulsed faintly beneath its surface. Yet no matter how he examined it with spiritual sense, with touch, or with intuition, it did not reveal anything. The carved patterns remained silent, deep, unfathomable.
He tried opening it gently with spiritual qi—
Nothing.
He tried probing it through his sea of consciousness—
It slipped from his perception like mist.
He understood.
This could only be opened after Foundation Establishment.
He exhaled long and slow, his breath misting faintly in the night air.
He placed the skull carefully into his storage bag, nestling it beneath layers of protective cloth. It was not something to display. It was not something to mention. It was a seed of fate waiting beneath the soil of the future.
He stood.
His injuries—deep bone impact, torn muscle, strained meridians—should have left him unable to move for days. Yet when he flexed his fingers, the pain was already fading. His breathing came easier. His skin tingled with the slow, steady knitting of flesh.
He understood instantly:
The old man had healed him.
Silently.
Without acknowledgement.
Without debt spoken.
The realization sent a cold ripple down his back. A man who could heal without energy fluctuation… was not someone he was qualified to understand yet.
But Yang Yin Long had never been impulsive. He did not wander in awe. He did not waste thought where understanding was unreachable.
He simply memorized the feeling.
And moved on.
He estimated the recovery.
One incense stick's time to return to full fighting condition.
So he sat before the faded fire and meditated.
Fifteen minutes passed.
His injuries sealed. His meridians steadied. His breath deepened.
He rose.
The night forest was vast, but he walked as though he knew the path.
The wolves were gone. The danger had passed. The moon above cast silver across the leaves.
By the next sunrise, he reached the outer border of the Demon Beast Forest.
By noon, the walls of Monarch Fall City came into sight.
---
Monarch Fall City — Exchange and Departure
The city bustled as always—traders shouting prices, cultivators bargaining over spirit metal, and hawkers selling beast cores of questionable authenticity. Yang Yin Long entered wearing his sect outer-disciple token openly; no one caused trouble for a disciple of Monarch Spirit Sect.
He moved efficiently.
He sold:
Spirit beast hides
Bone fragments
Glands and tendons
Claws and fangs
The cores of the 7th and 8th stage wolves
He kept:
The mission-required materials
A few tendons suitable for artifact refinement
A pelt for future defensive artifact experimentation
He received:
Several dozen spirit stones
A few bottles of low-grade recovery pills
Some rare plant seeds for his spiritual farming trials
And enough working capital to support a year of closed cultivation
He did not linger.
He walked to the city's transport platform and boarded the sect's flying vessel.
The wind blew steady and cold as the ship cut across clouds.
His eyes remained closed the entire ride.
Circulating qi. Stabilizing realm.
Preparing.
---
Return to the Sect – Mission Hall
The flying vessel docked at the foot of the mountain. Yang Yin Long walked the familiar stone steps leading upward, each carved with Dao patterns representing the principles of Stability, Endurance, and Foundation. He passed outer disciples discussing rumors, inner disciples in meditation, and steward-cultivators transferring scrolls.
He entered the Mission Hall.
The steward behind the counter—a middle-aged man with calm brows and a habit of pushing his spectacles up his nose—looked up.
At first, he showed polite attentiveness.
Then— His eyes widened.
Yang Yin Long's aura was unmistakable.
9th Layer of Qi Condensation.
Not early.
Not mid.
Not unstable.
Stable. Settled. Fully formed.
The steward's voice lowered slightly in disbelief.
"When you left… you were 6th layer."
Yang Yin Long cupped his hands respectfully.
"I encountered danger, fought, nearly died… and found some clarity."
The steward did not pry.
Every cultivator had secrets.
Every growth had blood behind it.
He recorded the mission completion, handed Yang Yin Long his merit slip, and simply said:
"Cultivate well. Your Foundation Establishment is not far."
Yang Yin Long bowed and left.
---
The Courtyard – Elder Qing Arrives
His courtyard was quiet as he approached. The bamboo leaves rustled softly with mountain wind. The scent of moss and fresh water hung in the air. It was peaceful.
He reached for the door.
"Yang Yin Long."
The familiar voice came from behind—calm, clear, and tinged with wry amusement.
Yang Yin Long turned and bowed instantly.
"Elder Qing."
The elder stood with hands behind his back, white beard flowing down his chest, eyes sharp but gentle. He looked Yang Yin Long up and down once.
"You really did break through. Hmph. Didn't I say young cultivators must go outside to temper themselves? One trip and look at you—already at the peak of Qi Condensation."
Yang Yin Long offered a small smile.
"This disciple was fortunate. The danger was… not small."
Elder Qing snorted.
"Opportunity comes wrapped in danger. If you lived, it was fate. If you died, it was also fate. Since you came back—good. Now your path is clear."
He tapped his cane lightly on the ground.
"Prepare for Foundation Establishment. Take your time choosing your technique. Even if it takes ten years to convert your qi, it is better than building your future on a crooked foundation."
Yang Yin Long nodded respectfully.
"I already have two techniques in mind. One includes body tempering as well."
Elder Qing raised a brow.
"Body and qi refinement together, hm? Ambitious. Good, but hard. Painful. Many fail."
Yang Yin Long did not flinch.
"I have patience."
The old man studied him for a quiet moment.
Then his lips curved into a slow smile.
"Good. Then—"
He paused, as though remembering something.
"It has been a while since I tasted your roasted meat."
Yang Yin Long blinked… then laughed lightly—genuine, not polite.
"…Yes, Elder. Let me prepare it."
Elder Qing's eyes lit with satisfaction.
"I'll bring wine."
That made Yang Yin Long pause.
This was not ordinary wine.
He remembered it vividly—years ago, when trapped at the 3rd layer for four years, exhausted, hopeless, defeated. Elder Qing had shared a single sip.
He had woken the next morning at 4th layer, his bottleneck shattered like rotten wood.
His heart tightened in memory.
This wine was an inheritance, not beverage.
Yang Yin Long went inside, washed, changed robes, and began preparing the meat.
The fire crackled warmly.
Fat sizzled.
The scent of roasted herbs filled the courtyard.
Elder Qing arrived carrying a gourd, simple in shape, unadorned—yet radiating faint spiritual heat.
He poured the wine into two cups.
The fragrance alone made Yang Yin Long's mind clear, his soul focused.
Elder Qing took a bite of roasted meat and sighed with genuine pleasure.
"Ai… Yang Yin Long, your cooking is still unmatched. After eating this in the past, everything else tasted like ashes. This old man nearly starved from disappointment."
Yang Yin Long smiled quietly.
"Then I am honored Elder remembers it."
Elder Qing raised his cup.
"To the future Foundation Establishment of Yang Yin Long."
Yang Yin Long raised his cup.
"To the path ahead."
They drank.
The wine hit his tongue—
And the world opened.
---
End of Chapter 12
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