The moon hung low over Yunshan Village like a silver lantern suspended by invisible threads, its pale light filtering through the temple's latticed windows to paint ethereal patterns on the stone floor. Lin Feng sat cross-legged before the Earth Guardian's statue, his posture rigid yet serene, a fledgling acolyte communing with forces beyond mortal ken. The air in the sanctum was thick with the residue of incense and something newer— the faint, electric tang of nascent Qi, like the prelude to a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle. His breaths came measured and deep, each inhale drawing in the night's ambient essence, each exhale refining it into the chaotic symphony that now danced within his meridians.
The Aadi Shakti Cultivation Method was no gentle stream; it was a raging torrent, primordial chaos distilled into a discipline that demanded absolute surrender. Lin Feng's dantian pulsed like a second heart, a swirling maelstrom of indigo and gold where raw potential warred with fragile control. Visions from the pendant lingered at the edges of his awareness: colossal figures wreathed in starfire, their forms dissolving into voids only to reform as galaxies, whispering axioms of creation and destruction. Inhale the void, forge the form. Exhale the form, return to void. The mantra echoed, guiding his focus as he circulated the energy through his twelve primary meridians, those invisible rivers that crisscrossed his body like the roots of an ancient banyan.
Pain lanced through him sporadically—sharp as a needle's prick when chaos surged unchecked, a dull throb when order imposed too rigidly. His skin glistened with sweat, beads tracing paths down his temples and pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Yet, amid the discomfort, euphoria bloomed: strength unfurling in his limbs like dawn chasing shadows, senses expanding to brush the world's hidden layers. He could feel the temple's stones breathing, their crystalline lattices humming with trapped earth Qi; hear the distant murmur of the village brook, each pebble's song distinct; taste the subtle bitterness of night-blooming jasmine wafting from the outer courtyard.
Hours melted away in this trance. The cicadas' chorus softened to a lullaby, then silence as predawn hush descended. Lin Feng's cultivation stabilized at last, the vortex in his dantian condensing into a stable core—a pearl of primordial essence no larger than a grain of rice, yet brimming with the power to shatter stone or mend flesh. Qi Gathering Stage 1: the threshold crossed, where mortals glimpsed the divine. In the sects, such a breakthrough might warrant a pill or a master's guidance; here, in the quiet vigil of a crumbling temple, it was a solitary triumph, etched in solitude and starlight.
As the first blush of false dawn crept through the windows, Lin Feng opened his eyes. They gleamed with an inner luminescence, the irises flecked with fleeting sparks of chaos—like embers in a forge awaiting the bellows' breath. He rose fluidly, joints popping with newfound elasticity, and flexed his hands. No trace remained of the boar's assault: bruises vanished, ribs knit seamless, even the thorn scratches on his arms smoothed to faint pink lines. The pendant rested warm against his chest, its jade surface etched with runes that now responded to his touch, glowing faintly before dimming once more.
Hunger gnawed at him anew, sharper now that his body demanded fuel for its metamorphosis. But curiosity burned brighter. Test it, the voice in his mind urged—a remnant of the pendant's ancient will, or perhaps his own audacity unchained. Stepping into the courtyard, Lin Feng scanned the shadows. The temple grounds were modest: a flagstone square ringed by wilting herb beds, a weathered pagoda at one end sheltering rakes and hoes, and beyond, the village proper stirring under the veil of night. No eyes upon him yet; the perfect anvil for his hammer.
He began with the mundane, channeling a thread of Qi into his palm. It coalesced reluctantly at first, a misty coil that writhed like smoke in wind, then solidified into a faint azure orb the size of an egg. Lin Feng marveled at its weight—insubstantial yet dense, humming with restrained fury. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it at a nearby boulder, a fist-sized remnant from some long-ago landslide. The impact was understated: a soft thump, followed by a hairline crack spiderwebbing across the stone's face. Chips of granite flaked away, dusting the ground like fallen stars. No cataclysm, but to Lin Feng, it was thunder—a mortal's throw made divine.
Emboldened, he experimented further. The Aadi Shakti's fluidity allowed improvisation where rigid techniques faltered. He drew from the earth next, roots of Qi delving into the soil to commune with the temple's foundation. A tremor rippled outward, gentle as a sigh, coaxing dormant vitality from the herb beds. Wilted stems straightened, leaves unfurling with renewed vigor; one stubborn stalk of moonflower even bloomed prematurely, its petals a cascade of silver and indigo. Life from chaos, he whispered, the pendant pulsing in affirmation. Yet, as he withdrew the energy, a whisper of warning slithered through his mind: Overreach, and the void reclaims.
The sun crested the horizon then, gilding the peaks in molten gold and banishing the night's mysteries. Lin Feng concealed the pendant beneath his tunic, its chain a secret talisman against his skin, and gathered the salvaged Red Spirit Grass. The herbs, though wilted, retained a spark of their essence—enough, perhaps, to fetch a fair price. Basket in hand, he ventured into the village proper, the path familiar yet alien under his heightened senses. Dew clung to grass blades like crystal beads, each droplet refracting rainbows; birdsong layered into harmonies he had never discerned, a feathered orchestra greeting the day.
Yunshan bustled with its dawn ritual. Smoke wreathed the thatched roofs as hearths crackled to life, the sizzle of frying dough mingling with the lowing of oxen yoked to plows. Children darted between huts, their laughter sharp as shattering glass to Lin Feng's ears, while elders shuffled to the communal hall for morning tea and tales. He passed the blacksmith's forge, where hammers rang like temple bells, sparks flying in defiant arcs. Old Man Wei was already there, perched on a stool, sharing a pipe with the smith—a grizzled veteran named Huo, whose arms were corded like ancient oaks from years at the anvil.
"Morning, lad," Wei called, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through the din. His eyes, sharp despite their milky veil, lingered on Lin Feng a beat too long, as if scenting the change in the air. "You look... rested. The woods treat you well?"
Lin Feng forced a casual shrug, though his pulse quickened. "Well enough, Elder. The grass is gathered; I'll head to town after breakfast." He omitted the boar, the fall, the awakening—secrets too raw to voice, lest they shatter like fragile porcelain.
Wei nodded, puffing thoughtfully. "Mind the roads. Travelers speak of bandits on the eastern trail—rogue cultivators, they say, preying on the unwary. And keep an ear to the wind; rumors from the plains grow darker. Fissures in the earth, leaking foul mists that twist the mind."
Lin Feng's interest piqued, the Shadow Abyss's shadow lengthening even here. "Demons, Elder? In Yunshan?"
"Not yet, boy. But the Heavenly Veil thins. Sects squabble over it, blind to the rot beneath." Wei's tone darkened, a rare crack in his stoic facade. Once, in a rare tipsy confession over rice wine, he had hinted at his own youth—a failed disciple of a minor sect, cast out for a meridial blockage, condemned to mortal dust. "Power blinds, Feng. Remember that."
The words lingered as Lin Feng departed, weaving through the village lanes. He bartered the grass at the apothecary's stall in the modest market square—a thatched pavilion where poultices and elixirs hung like colorful talismans. Mistress Zhao, a shrewd woman with a scar bisecting her brow from some youthful misadventure, haggled fiercely but paid handsomely: a pouch of coppers heavy enough to clink like chimes, plus a small vial of Qi-tempering salve as a "gesture for the temple lad." Her gaze narrowed at his scratches, but she said nothing—village folk knew better than to pry into the woods' whims.
With coin secured, Lin Feng's thoughts turned inward, the pendant's warmth a constant reminder. He sought solitude in a quiet meadow beyond the paddies, a sun-dappled hollow where wild grasses swayed like supplicants. Here, away from prying eyes, he delved deeper into the method. Seated in the lotus position, he circulated Qi in broader loops, expanding from meridians to the sea of consciousness—a ethereal realm where thoughts crystallized into intent. The Aadi Shakti unveiled its first technique: Chaos Veil, a defensive shroud that blurred one's presence, weaving illusions from environmental Qi. He practiced in fits and starts, the veil flickering like heat haze: once, it cloaked him so thoroughly a passing shepherd mistook him for a boulder; another time, it backlashed, summoning illusory vines that tangled his limbs in phantom thorns.
By midday, exhaustion tugged at him, his core dimmed to a flicker. Cultivation was no free boon; it exacted tribute in spirit and stamina. Lin Feng rose, muscles humming with residual power, and made for the riverbank to wash away the grime. The Yunshan River was a lazy serpent, its waters clear as polished jade, fringed by willows whose branches trailed like weeping veils. He stripped to the waist, the cool current a balm against his heated skin, and dove in. Submerged, he felt the water's Qi—subtle eddies of wood and flow, harmonious with his chaos. Experimentally, he infused a palmful, watching it swirl into a miniature vortex that propelled him upstream with effortless grace.
Refreshed, he emerged dripping onto the bank, shaking water from his hair like a hound. It was then that trouble slunk from the underbrush, as inevitable as dusk chasing day. Wang Li and his cronies—three loutish youths from the village's fringes, their frames bulky from idleness and stolen ale—lounged against a willow, fishing poles idle in their hands. Wang Li was the ringleader, a bull-necked brute of eighteen with a face pocked by acne and a sneer carved permanent by petty cruelties. He fancied himself a budding cultivator, having bartered for a tattered manual from a passing peddler and scraped together Body Tempering Level 1 through brutal regimens of lifting millstones and shadowboxing boars. In Yunshan, where true Qi was a myth for the talented few, his crude strength made him king among boys.
"Oho, the temple rat returns," Wang Li drawled, his voice a lazy drawl laced with malice. He uncoiled from the tree, cracking knuckles that popped like dry branches. His cronies—Jiao the weasel-faced sneak and the ox-shouldered twins, Da and Er—flanked him, their grins feral. "Heard you danced with the woods today. Bring back any pretties for us to... admire?"
Lin Feng tensed, water still beading on his skin, tunic clutched in one hand. Wang Li's bullying was an old scar: shoves in the market, stolen coppers from his errands, once a black eye for refusing to fetch their wine. Pre-awakening, Lin Feng endured it with gritted teeth, survival dictating silence. But now? The pendant thrummed, chaos stirring like a beast rousing from slumber. "Leave it, Li," he said evenly, voice steady as the river's flow. "I've business in town. Not your plaything today."
The group laughed, a barking chorus that echoed off the water. Jiao darted forward, snatching at the coin pouch visible in Lin Feng's sash. "Business? With what, orphan scraps? Hand it over—elder's orders, see? Temple tax." It was a lie, transparent as mist, but Wang Li's shadow lent it teeth.
Lin Feng sidestepped, the movement a blur even to his own eyes—Qi-enhanced reflexes turning evasion into art. Jiao stumbled past, splashing into the shallows with a yelp. Wang Li's sneer twisted to a scowl. "Feisty today, eh? Woods give you spine, or just delusions?" He lunged, fist arcing like a hammer, the air whistling with crude force. It was a blow that had felled stronger lads, powered by tempered muscles and bully's spite.
Time dilated for Lin Feng. He saw the punch's arc, the flex of tendons, the Qi—faint, earthy, like compacted soil—lending it momentum. Instinct guided him: he exhaled order, channeling chaos into a parry. His forearm met Wang Li's in a clash that cracked like thunderclap, not of bone but of energies colliding. Wang Li staggered back, eyes widening in shock as numbness spiderwebbed up his arm, his tempered strength unraveling like frayed rope. Lin Feng felt it too—a jolt that sang through his meridians—but his primordial core absorbed it, transmuting pain to power.
The cronies charged then, a clumsy wave: Jiao with a knife flashed from his boot, the twins with haymaker swings. Lin Feng's mind sharpened to a blade's edge. Harmony, the pendant whispered. He inhaled chaos, the world fracturing into flows—river's current, wind's sigh, earth's pulse. The Chaos Veil unfurled instinctively, a shimmering haze that bent light and intent. To the attackers, he blurred, a ghost in the periphery. Jiao's knife sliced air, embedding in willow bark; the twins' fists pummeled shadows, momentum carrying them into each other with bone-jarring thuds.
Wang Li recovered, roaring as he summoned his crude technique: Iron Bull Charge, a forward stampede infused with body Qi, shoulders low like a battering ram. Lin Feng met it head-on, no evasion this time. He exhaled order, forming a barrier of condensed mist—primordial essence woven into an unyielding wall. The impact boomed, shockwaves rippling the river into frothing waves. Wang Li rebounded as if striking marble, sprawling onto the mud with a gasp, ribs creaking in protest. His Qi sputtered, disrupted by the foreign chaos that infiltrated his channels like ink in clear water.
Silence fell, broken only by the river's chuckle and the cronies' groans. Jiao clutched a sprained wrist, the twins nursed blooming bruises, and Wang Li pushed to his knees, face ashen, eyes bulging with dawning fear. "What... what are you?" he wheezed, voice cracking for the first time.
Lin Feng stood unmoved, Qi coiling inward like a serpent sated. Pity stirred—Wang Li was no demon, just a bully forged in Yunshan's cruelties, his "cultivation" a desperate grasp at power denied. "Someone who's done playing your games," he replied, voice calm but edged with steel. "Tell your shadows to leave the weak alone, Li. Or next time, the woods will claim you instead."
He gathered his tunic, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked away without a backward glance. The pouch of coppers jingled softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollow thrill. Was that mercy, or arrogance? The pendant offered no answer, only a steady pulse.
The encounter rippled through Yunshan like a stone in a pond. By afternoon, whispers chased Lin Feng to the market: the temple orphan had humbled Wang Li, sending the bully fleeing with tail tucked. Aunt Li clucked her tongue over tea, eyes twinkling with gossip's delight. "Spirits indeed, lad. You've the makings of a tale." Even Old Man Wei, upon his return, fixed him with a probing stare over supper—simple congee laced with foraged mushrooms—but voiced no accusation, only a murmured, "Strength is a double-edged sword, Feng. Wield it wisely."
As evening draped the village in indigo, Lin Feng retreated to the temple roof, mending tiles by lantern light with hands that no longer trembled. The coppers had bought stout bamboo and lime mortar, enough to seal the leaks that plagued the rainy season. Below, the village settled: lanterns blooming like fireflies, the hum of evening chatter, the distant howl of a spirit wolf testing the night. But Lin Feng's gaze lifted to the peaks, where clouds gathered like omens. The Azure Cloud Sect's trials loomed—three moons hence, when disciples would descend on a tide of azure silk, testing youths with arrays that measured latent Qi.
With the Aadi Shakti, he stood a chance. But resources eluded him: no spirit stones to hasten circulation, no pills to purify essence, no master to guard against deviations. The pendant's legacy hinted at more—hidden caches in ancient ruins, techniques locked behind trials of will—but warned of perils: heart demons born of unchecked ambition, rivals drawn to the chaos like moths to flame.
Sleep claimed him fitfully that night, dreams a tapestry of voids and stars, the cloaked observer from the peaks a shadow at the fringes. Dawn broke with resolve. Lin Feng rose before the roosters, slipping into the Whispering Woods once more—not for herbs, but for seclusion. There, amid the oaks' cathedral, he pushed his limits: sparring shadows with Qi-infused strikes, the air cracking like whips; meditating until the veil thinned, glimpsing ethereal threads connecting all things.
Days blurred into a rhythm of secrecy and growth. Wang Li's gang slunk away, their bruises a silent testament, but eyes followed Lin Feng now—curious, wary, hopeful. A sickly child he had aided recovered overnight after a "healing touch" disguised as prayer; crops in the temple gardens flourished under subtle infusions. Whispers grew: the Earth Guardian's favor, or something more arcane?
It was on the seventh dawn, as mist clung like gossamer to the hills, that the first true ripple arrived. A traveler stumbled into Yunshan—a ragged figure cloaked in dust-stained robes, mount a weary mule laden with scrolls. He called himself Scholar Ren, a wandering chronicler of sects, but his eyes held the gleam of one who sought more than ink and vellum. At the communal hall, over bowls of steaming noodles, he spun tales of the Azure Cloud's grandeur: towering spires wreathed in eternal storms, elders who communed with cloud dragons, trials where aspirants faced illusions of their deepest fears.
Lin Feng listened from the shadows, heart quickening. When Ren's gaze swept the crowd, lingering on him with unnerving acuity, he felt the pendant stir—a warning chime. "And you, young one," the scholar called, voice smooth as oiled silk. "Do the mountains whisper to you? I sense... potential untapped."
The villagers chuckled, dismissing it as flattery, but Lin Feng met the man's eyes steadily. "They whisper of trials ahead, Scholar. For those bold enough to heed."
Ren's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Boldness is the forge of immortals. Perhaps, in time, our paths cross again."
As the scholar departed at dusk, vanishing into the eastern trail, Lin Feng felt the web tightening. The cloaked figure in the peaks, the scholar's probing—pawns in a greater game? The pendant's voice returned, faint but insistent: The key turns. Seek the Azure gates, but beware the shadows that follow.
That night, under a canopy of stars like scattered diamonds, Lin Feng meditated atop the temple roof. Qi flowed freer now, Stage 1 consolidating toward peak. Visions clarified: a path of azure clouds leading to sect halls, trials of fire and illusion, allies forged in adversity. But darker threads wove in—betrayals in marble courts, abyssal rifts spewing demon hordes, a primordial evil stirring in the Immortal Realm's depths.
Yunshan was cradle no longer; it was launchpad. In two moons, he would depart, coin saved for a mule, resolve armored in chaos. The game of heavens beckoned, and Lin Feng, heir to Aadi Shakti, would play to win.
Yet, as sleep beckoned, a final whisper chilled him: high in the peaks, the scrying mirror gleamed anew. The cloaked observer leaned closer, breath fogging the glass. "The spark ignites. Send the hounds."
The hunt had begun.