Shen Liuyun knelt in the underground chamber, hands hovering over the glowing character 「靜」, and felt the pulse of the Ink Veins inside him intensify. A subtle warmth spread from his fingertips, then surged violently up his arms. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever known—a fluid, almost viscous energy, crawling beneath his skin as though seeking dominion over his flesh. Each thread of spiritual ink moved with deliberate intent, coiling and branching like serpents of shadow.
Pain struck first. Sharp, lancing, relentless. It cut through his nerves, radiated into muscles and bones, and reverberated through the hollow of his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps as the ink wriggled beneath his skin, demanding recognition, demanding mastery, demanding submission. Liuyun's fingers trembled, knuckles whitening as the energy began seeping into his arms. The crawl of the ink was both external and internal—threads seemed to rise along his forearms, intertwining with the veins of blood he had already awakened, twisting and knotting as if to assert their own consciousness.
He gritted his teeth. The pain was punishing, a brutal tutor of limits and endurance. The shadows beneath the chamber floor responded in kind, writhing violently as if mimicking his agony. He wanted to pull back, to retreat, to reject the foreign presence invading his body, yet a quiet voice within—the resonance of the Book of Silence itself—reminded him that resistance would be fatal. The ink demanded submission before it would allow control.
The first lesson came swiftly: one could not fight the ink; one could only learn to coexist, to guide its movement with the will, breath, and rhythm of the body. Liuyun's mind sharpened through the pain. He focused inward, sensing the flow of each thread as though it were an extension of his own nervous system. Where before the currents had been alien, incoherent, they now formed patterns, subtle yet definite.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tremor in his limbs synchronize with the pulse of the Ink Veins. A single tendril of ink moved along his forearm, then another, following the rhythm of his heartbeat, obeying the guidance of his mind. It was agony wrapped in revelation: the energy was sentient enough to resist, yet pliant enough to be taught.
The next hour—or perhaps it was longer, he could not tell in the chamber's timeless shadow—was a crucible. Every breath, every pulse, every thought had to be measured. The spiritual ink wriggled insistently beneath his skin, crawling, branching, testing his resolve. Sometimes it would surge too fast, bursting in violent streaks that forced him to collapse to the floor. Each failure sent fresh tremors of pain through his arms and chest, yet he learned to respond instead of resisting, to guide rather than dominate.
His hands became maps of living ink, veins visible in a faint, internal glow that mirrored the external shadows on the chamber floor. Black threads twisted around the red lines of his blood, entwining, separating, coiling in endless patterns that reflected the first hints of his mastery. Liuyun realized that the ink was teaching him to feel life at a level beyond ordinary cultivation—an intimate communion of body, blood, and consciousness.
With each successful modulation, each small wave of obedience coaxed from the crawling ink, a profound exhaustion followed. Pain gave way to numbness, then to a delicate, vibrating awareness that filled every fiber of his being. He could feel the energy's pulse syncing with his own, the shadows below responding in elegant mimicry, coiling and stretching in rhythm with the flows he guided within himself. The chamber itself seemed alive, attuned to his every adjustment, echoing the internal harmony he was striving to achieve.
At some point, in the twilight of agony and comprehension, the first external manifestation appeared. Black threads began rising from the stone floor, hovering faintly in the air. They did not obey the laws of gravity; they moved fluidly, floating like serpentine spirits animated by the combination of his blood, Qi, and conscious intent. Liuyun's pulse quickened—not with fear, but with a mixture of awe and reverent understanding. The spiritual ink was no longer confined to his veins; it had begun to extend outward, bridging body and environment, internal and external, mind and substance.
His hands shook violently as he attempted to guide the first floating strands. They followed, then recoiled, then shifted independently, testing his will, probing for weakness. Each misstep sent shockwaves of pain through his veins, yet each correction brought delicate triumph—a single thread curling exactly as he intended, a tendril of living shadow obeying for the first time. It was slow, deliberate work, every movement of mind and breath reflected in the living ink, every pulse echoed in the shadows below.
Hours merged into an undetermined span, the chamber timeless except for the living dance of ink. Liuyun learned to breathe in coordination with the flow, to pace his pulse, to think in deliberate, controlled bursts. Pain was no longer simply endured; it became a language, a dialogue between himself and the crawling ink. He could sense hesitation in the tendrils, uncertainty in their twists, hesitation in their flow. To push too hard was disaster; to be too timid was failure. Only the measured, conscious guidance allowed the energy to align with his will.
Sweat poured from him, slicking his skin, yet he continued, compelled by necessity and the fierce determination that had always driven him beneath the scorn of the sect. Every fiber of his being screamed, yet he welcomed it. The sensation of living ink moving within and without him was intoxicating, a profound testament to the power that had been denied him for so long.
And then, at the apex of exhaustion and mastery, the first formation appeared. Threads of black spiritual ink, rising from the floor and guided by his hands, began to swirl in the air around him. They moved in patterns both chaotic and precise, coiling, separating, and reconnecting, forming glyphs unlike any character he had ever seen. Strange symbols hovered, rotating slowly, pulsating faintly, suspended as if in defiance of time itself.
Liuyun's breath caught. He understood in that moment that the ink was no longer merely an extension of himself—it had begun to manifest autonomously, responding to the harmonized alignment of blood, will, and spiritual ink. The chamber vibrated with subtle energy, air thick and charged with a living presence. The first external glyphs were tentative, experimental, yet undeniable in their significance. He had moved beyond awakening; he was now crafting, shaping, and imprinting his presence upon the spiritual medium itself.
Exhausted, he sank to the floor, limbs trembling, body slick with sweat and the lingering sensation of crawling ink. Yet a sense of exhilaration rose within him, a quiet, dangerous joy. Pain had become a tutor, agony a guide. The crawling ink had revealed its nature: brutal, sentient, and demanding, yet capable of harmony if approached with patience and intent.
He raised his gaze to the floating symbols, observing them as they shimmered in the dim chamber light. The Book of Silence seemed to pulse in subtle acknowledgment, though no sound issued from its pages. The shadows below mirrored the glyphs, writhing in delicate correspondence, a reflection of his mastery extending into the chamber itself. The air was still, thick with the supernatural weight of the moment, a tangible record of his communion with the living ink.
Liuyun closed his eyes, letting his consciousness flow outward once more, touching each thread, each tendril, each external glyph. The pain was no longer unbearable; it was refined, a fine instrument of awareness and control. Each pulse of the Ink Veins within him responded in harmony, the blood-thread weaving in delicate synchrony. He realized, with awe, that the first stage of real cultivation had been achieved. Pain had been endured. The crawling ink had been guided. And in doing so, he had begun to inscribe himself upon the world of spiritual ink, a small but undeniable mark upon the Book, the chamber, and the hidden currents beneath the stone floor.
The symbols hovered silently, suspended in a dance of shadow and light. Liuyun's arms ached, trembling from the strain, yet he remained poised, attentive, aware. Every fiber of his being resonated with the living ink; every pulse of his heart reflected in the shadow glyphs. The chamber felt alive, as though acknowledging his presence, his endurance, and his nascent mastery.
A faint thought entered his mind, a whisper carried on the rhythm of the Ink Veins: This is only the beginning. Blood, will, and persistence are the keys. Every stroke, every pulse, every breath will be a lesson.
He exhaled slowly, letting the awareness of the crawling ink settle within him, and for the first time felt a deep, resonant connection. The living ink had tested him. He had responded. Pain had been endured. Harmony had been achieved.
The shadows continued to twist below, the glyphs above hovering in deliberate formation. The chamber was quiet, yet pregnant with potential. Liuyun understood with absolute clarity: the path forward was brutal, unforgiving, yet infinitely rich in possibility. Each tendril of crawling ink was both teacher and student, a guide and a test, and he had passed the first trial.
Shen Liuyun, trembling, exhausted, yet exhilarated, looked at the floating glyphs around him. The spiritual ink had begun to move autonomously, responding to his alignment, and for the first time, the underground chamber felt less like a prison and more like a crucible—a place of transformation, of rebirth, of mastery yet to be fully