Wudi Egun, still wrapped head to toe in bandages, limped into the Disciplinary Hall under the pale morning light. His every movement was stiff and deliberate, as though his bones protested against even existing.
The hall, as usual, was filled with disciples—some cultivating quietly, others chatting in low tones. But the moment Wudi stepped inside, a ripple of murmurs spread across the hall like waves in a still pond.
"Isn't that the Suicidal Junior?" someone whispered.
"I didn't expect him to recover this fast!"
"Yeah, wasn't he in a coma for four months?"
"Who wouldn't be after jumping into boiling body-refinement paste?" another replied, sounding half-awed.
"I heard that paste can melt even beast bones if handled wrong!"
"Still, you've got to admit—he's got the courage of a tiger to actually do it."
"Courage? More like lunacy."
"Either way… cool."
Though their whispers carried through the hall, none of them spoke with mockery or contempt. The tone was almost respectful, as if they were witnessing a walking legend of stupidity and bravery combined.
Wudi heard every word. His only comfort was that—unlike in those webnovels—he wasn't being bullied or ridiculed. They were talking about him, yes, but at least they weren't laughing at him.
That alone, he thought bitterly, was something to be grateful for.
With slow, heavy steps, he made his way deeper into the hall. Every movement sent a flare of pain through his recovering muscles. It took him minutes to cross even a few steps, but he persisted stubbornly.
Then, a familiar gentle voice called out, warm and clear as ever.
"Junior Brother, what are you doing here again?"
Wudi turned his head and saw the same senior brother who had guided him months ago—the man in red robes, with his usual calm smile and bright eyes.
"Senior Brother!" Wudi's face lit up instantly. He almost forgot his pain as he hobbled forward, grateful to see the one person who had helped him before.
When he reached him, words spilled out in a rush—how he had boiled the paste, how he had jumped in, how he had spent five miserable months recovering from his burns and broken bones.
As Wudi finished his tragic tale, his senior brother covered his mouth and chuckled softly.
"Senior Brother, why are you laughing at me?" Wudi asked with a pitiful pout, sounding more offended than angry.
"It's just…" The man shook his head, still smiling. "You always manage to make me laugh, that's all. But tell me, Junior Brother—who in the world told you to jump into boiling paste?"
Wudi blinked, stunned. "Eh?"
The senior continued, still smiling but now exasperated. "You don't bathe in boiling body-refinement paste. You're supposed to let it cool first!"
"W-Wait… what?" Wudi stammered, his mind blank.
The senior nodded patiently, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "After you finish brewing it, you wait until it cools down a bit. Then you apply it evenly on your skin and let your body absorb the medicinal essence gradually. That's how it works. Simple."
He laughed again. "Who told you to jump into a boiling cauldron like a dumpling?"
Wudi stood there frozen. His face went pale, then red, then completely expressionless.
So… I wasn't supposed to jump in?
Inwardly, his thoughts were exploding.
What the hell!? In every xianxia webnovel, the protagonist always jumps into boiling paste or medicine baths! The author describes it as "agonizing yet tempering the body"…!
So that was all bullshit!?
He wanted to scream, but his throat could barely hold air. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and his eyes twitched with visible fury.
The senior brother, oblivious to the storm raging inside Wudi's head, tilted his head slightly, confused by the younger man's rapidly shifting expression—from shock, to disbelief, to sheer homicidal anger.
What's wrong with him? he wondered silently. Why does he look like he's about to murder a storyteller?
Meanwhile, Wudi's inner monologue raged louder than thunder:
All those protagonists lied to me!
All those authors lied to me!
I boiled myself for nothing!!
If anyone had seen his face at that moment, they'd have sworn his soul had left his body—
—only to come back furious.
*****
After returning to his residence, Wudi Egun waited for the night to fall.
The moon rose high above the mountains, silver light slipping through the paper windows and bathing his small courtyard in cold luminescence. When the silence settled in, he began his work.
With steady hands, he placed the herbs into the cauldron and started boiling them down into a thick medicinal paste. The fragrance of spiritual herbs filled the air, blending with the faint scent of smoke and ash from his old injuries.
When the bubbling slowed and the paste thickened, he extinguished the fire and waited—this time—with patience.
After it cooled, Wudi Egun stood, unwrapped the last of his bandages, and began to apply the medicine over his entire body. His skin, still uneven and marred from his previous burns, absorbed the mixture greedily.
Once fully coated, he crossed his legs on the ground, spine straight, hands resting over his knees. The faint moonlight shone over his figure as he closed his eyes and began to chant.
"—Ghost Deity Cultivation Mantra."
His voice was low, steady, almost resonant with the rhythm of the night wind.
A faint vibration stirred in the air. The stillness broke. The world itself seemed to listen.
The spiritual energy around him began to tremble. Invisible ripples expanded outward, and then—
Boom.
A vortex formed behind him, born from the laws of heaven and earth.
Then another.
One after another, they appeared—two, three, four… until nine swirling black vortices floated behind him, each inscribed with faint, luminous mantras. They devoured the surrounding Spiritual Qi in great currents, as if swallowing the very air.
Swoosh—
A spiral of wind formed above his head, compressing into a dark whirlpool no larger than a marble. The nine vortices fed their gathered energy into that singular point, which pulsed like a heartbeat, faint yet vast—an embryonic black hole.
That was his Cultivation Array.
Within it, the wild and untamed Spiritual Qi of heaven and earth was refined and condensed into a purer, usable form—Cultivation Qi.
In this world, Spiritual Qi existed everywhere, in every breath and grain of dust, yet mortals could neither see nor touch it. Only cultivators could refine it, strip it of its impurities, and transform it into energy that could flow through human meridians.
That refined essence—clear, sharp, and alive—was Cultivation Qi.
The black marble-like Cultivation Array pulsed again, sending streams of that purified energy into Wudi Egun's body.
Slowly, his skin began to glow—not brightly, but with a dark, ashen radiance. A cold, eerie hue enveloped him, seeping from his pores like ghostly mist.
Every cultivator's aura reflected the nature of their cultivation method.
And Wudi Egun's path was that of the Ghost Deity Cultivation Manual—a method steeped in darkness and soul refinement. His energy, naturally, was Ghost Qi—ominous, heavy, and cold.
Yet, this was not true Ghost Qi—not yet.
Until he formed his Spiritual Wheel and connected to the Ghost World, this was merely a reflection of what was to come—a shadow of a greater power.
His body began to rise slightly from the ground, hovering by an inch, his black and grey aura spiraling around him like drifting smoke.
The nine vortices continued to spin silently behind him, feeding his Cultivation Array, while the night outside remained utterly still—
—as if the heavens themselves were watching a ghost being reborn.
Wudi Egun opened his eyes after several hours of cultivation, feeling a strange surge of satisfaction flood his mind.
"Damn, I feel like I've suddenly gotten hundreds of thousands of times stronger than before!" he muttered, clenching his fists.
Of course, it was only a feeling—an illusion born from his excitement.
In reality, a Foundation Establishment Realm cultivator was, at most, fifty to sixty times stronger than a healthy mortal. At the very least, they were ten to thirty times stronger—able to crush boulders, leap across walls, and survive what would kill ordinary men. Anything beyond that was pure fantasy.
Still, for Wudi Egun, that illusion was enough to make him grin like a madman.
"This feeling… if I can experience it every time I cultivate, I don't mind cultivating forever," he murmured with satisfaction, a rare look of serenity softening his otherwise sharp features.
From that night onward, Wudi Egun established his rhythm—cultivate during the night, sleep during the day.
The night was quiet, rich with Yin energy, and the stillness made him feel as though the heavens themselves were watching. It was during those hours that his soul felt most alive.
But even cultivation had its limits.
Each session left him drained to the bone, his energy hollowed out, his body begging for rest. So he rested by day and trained by night—a routine that slowly twisted his sense of time.
Days blurred together. The sun became a rumor.
Fifteen days passed without him once setting foot outside during daylight.
Then, one night—when the moon hung low and the air was unnaturally still—he felt a disturbance.
A prickle ran down his spine. His eyelids fluttered open.
Before him stood a tall, slender figure cloaked entirely in blue. The person's face was hidden beneath a deep hood, and only a pair of sharp eyes gleamed through the shadows.
The intruder was at least a full head taller than Wudi Egun—around six and a half feet.
Wudi's brows furrowed. His body tensed instinctively.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly.
The man tilted his head slightly. His tone was calm—too calm.
"Don't mind me. Please, continue whatever you were doing."
"..."
Silence fell between them.
The moonlight flickered faintly over the cauldron beside him, casting long shadows across the floor. The night wind brushed past, whispering between the leaves outside.
Neither moved. Neither spoke.
For a long time, only the soft crackle of the dying embers filled the air.
Then—
"....."
Still silent. The kind of silence that presses on your ears until your heartbeat becomes the only sound left.
Wudi Egun narrowed his eyes. Whoever this man was—he wasn't just a passerby.