The impossible purple-gold light receded, pulling back into the dull black ring on Lin Feng's thumb as swiftly as it had appeared. The thunder in his mind vanished, and the boundless dimension of Primordial Spiritual Qi snapped shut, leaving him gasping, convulsing, and drenched in a cold sweat on his wooden pallet.
The shack was still dilapidated, the air still thick with the dust of ten years of failure, but Lin Feng was no longer the same.
He lay there for a full hour, unable to move, processing the profound, violent restructuring his body had just undergone. The experience had been excruciating, an overwhelming fusion of divine energy and mortal flesh. His internal scream was the sound of a hundred years of filth being instantly scoured away.
The most immediate change was internal. He probed his dantian, the spiritual sea that had always felt like a teaspoon of muddy water choked with moss. Now, it was a wide, deep lake, perfectly clear and brimming with a surging, deep green mist. This was not the stagnant Level One Qi he had labored for; this was vibrant, volatile energy that felt ready to burst forth and reshape the mountains.
He focused on his Spirit Root. Where the medical instruments had registered "Shattered Wood," there now coiled an emerald thread of pure energy, pulsing with life. It was dense, unified, and utterly clean. The Primordial Chaos Art had not merely fixed his Wood Root; it had elevated its essence, stripping away every impurity until it resonated with an ancient, terrifying purity.
"Primordial Chaos Art: Heaven's Foundation," the name echoed in his soul. This was not a cultivation method; it was a blueprint for creation. It did not borrow energy; it purified the source.
Lin Feng carefully circulated the new energy. It moved through his meridians with the speed of a rushing river, effortlessly breaking through the last, minor blockages Elder Qing had complained about. In an instant, his cultivation rose:
Qi Condensation, Level One (The failure of a decade).
Qi Condensation, Level Two.
Qi Condensation, Level Three.
He paused the surge, realizing the chilling danger. If he continued for another minute, he could easily break through to Level Five. He, the waste of the Azure Cloud Sect, could reach in a single day what took talents like Liu Kai five years to achieve.
The thought of that power brought an icy clarity. Elder Qing's disdain, Liu Kai's mockery—it was protection. If the sect elders knew he possessed a secret art capable of obliterating spiritual blockages and refining energy into this terrifying purity, they wouldn't train him; they would dissect him. The Primordial Chaos Art was a treasure of the cosmos, not of the Azure Cloud Sect.
He needed a mask.
With a focused effort of will, he tried to recall the sensation of his previous, weak self. He forced his newly refined Qi to flow sluggishly, restricting the vast majority of it into a tightly sealed sphere deep within his dantian, leaving only a faint, almost nonexistent wisp circulating in his outermost meridians.
He ran his hand over the black ring. It was cold and dull once more, indistinguishable from ordinary iron. He willed the dimension open, remembering the point of contact where his blood had activated it.
Nothing.
He tried again, pouring a tiny, regulated amount of his new, purified Qi into the ring. Zzzzt.
The internal space opened in his mind—the vast expanse of purple-gold light. He realized with a jolt that the black ring was not just an artifact; it was a gateway, and the new Primordial Qi was the key. He could enter and exit this dimensional space simply by channeling a specific type of energy. The blood had merely been the catalyst for its initial awakening and bonding.
This place... is where I must cultivate. The spiritual density here is hundreds of times greater than the Outer Peak. It's also completely invisible.
He had found his secret garden, his shield, and his weapon, all wrapped around his finger.
He cleaned the blood from his thumb, changed into the only other set of faded robes he owned, and surveyed the shack. He had nothing of value to take. Everything was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of his new reality and the exhilarating power hidden beneath.
It was time to face the music: the Mortal Estate.
The path from the Outer Assessment Platform to the Mortal Estate wound through the lowest, least guarded slopes of the mountain. As Lin Feng reached the administrative checkpoint—a small, weather-beaten hut staffed by a single clerk—he found his way blocked.
"Lin Feng?" A soft, melodic voice inquired.
He looked up to see a young woman standing beside the hut. She was an Outer Disciple, perhaps a Level Four or Five cultivator, but her robes were clean, and her hair was neatly pinned with a silver clasp. She carried a small stack of administrative documents and possessed an ethereal beauty common among those with high spiritual grace, though her expression was one of genuine sadness.
She was Han Yue, a junior administrative disciple often tasked with recording transfers. He barely knew her, but her presence was unusual in this desolate spot.
"Administrative Disciple Han," Lin Feng replied, bowing deeply, maintaining the subdued, defeated posture expected of him.
Han Yue stepped closer, her wide, clear eyes meeting his. "I am tasked with processing your transfer papers to the Mortal Estate. Elder Qing sent them down immediately. I… I am sorry, Lin Feng. Ten years is a long time. It is harsh to be sent to the stables."
Lin Feng felt a flicker of warmth, an unfamiliar emotion given the constant stream of mockery he received. "The sect has been generous, allowing me to stay this long. I understand the cost of resources." He kept his voice flat, emotionless. Always the failed disciple.
Han Yue frowned slightly. "But Elder Qing's report… it seems unduly harsh. Ninety-nine percent blockage? I've seen weaker roots survive. There is something in the notes here, a penalty for 'unnecessary consumption of Tier-One Spirit Stones.' He made you sound like a parasite." She gestured to the scroll in her hands.
Lin Feng stiffened internally. Elder Qing had added insult to injury. "It is the Elder's prerogative," he murmured.
Han Yue suddenly reached out, her fingers just brushing the back of his hand as she quickly drew them back. It was a brief, electric contact, and Lin Feng had to suppress the urge to let his refined Qi surge in defense.
"Do not let it break your spirit," she whispered, her voice low and earnest. "Even down in the Mortal Estate, you can still meditate. You might be slow, but persistence matters. They might make you clean latrines, but they cannot take your will." She offered him a small, sealed scroll. "This is your duty scroll. Report to Head Servant Cao immediately. He is rough, but mostly fair."
As Lin Feng took the scroll, their fingers touched again, longer this time. Han Yue's cheeks flushed slightly, and she quickly stepped back, her professional demeanor returning with a slight nervousness.
"Go quickly, Lin Feng. The path is muddy down there. May your luck change."
Lin Feng bowed again, his mind reeling slightly from the genuine kindness and the unexpected physical contact. Han Yue. A sympathetic face. Perhaps a future connection, but for now, she is a useful point of contact.
He turned and began his descent.
The path to the Mortal Estate was less a road and more a rutted track, winding down the mountain into a perpetual valley of shadows. The spiritual Qi here was thin, almost non-existent, replaced by the smells of smoke, common food, and animal waste.
The Mortal Estate itself was a sprawling, ramshackle collection of grey stone buildings surrounded by poorly fenced paddocks. The air was dominated by the sour, earthy stench of Spirit Horses—creatures used by the sect for long-distance travel, whose magical digestion produced waste that, while spiritually neutral, was overwhelmingly pungent.
Head Servant Cao was a hulking, bald man with a permanently sour expression, wearing the same grey uniform as the other thirty or so mortal workers. He was a retired soldier, not a failed cultivator, and his strength was purely physical.
"So you're the spoiled little Outer Disciple who couldn't even reach Level Two," Cao growled, snatching the duty scroll from Lin Feng's hand without ceremony. "Elder Qing's notes say you are a drain on the sect and need harsh manual labor to fix your soul. Fine by me. The more you sweat, the less I do."
Cao pointed to a series of rough, dark bunks crammed into a low-ceilinged stone barracks. "That's your bed. You start with the Spirit Horse stables. They've been neglected for a week. I want every stall spotless by nightfall, and the latrine buckets emptied and washed in the ravine. If I smell even a hint of waste, you sleep outside. Understood?"
"Understood, Head Servant," Lin Feng replied, his posture deferential.
As Cao walked away, Lin Feng allowed a tiny, triumphant smile to curl his lips. This was perfect.
He located his bunk—the last, dirtiest one near the perpetually damp exterior wall. The other servants eyed him with suspicion and indifference, clearly viewing him as temporary nobility here for his punishment.
He didn't care.
This barracks, this filth, this crushing work—it was the perfect cover. No one would expect the 'waste' Lin Feng to be secretly cultivating. The lack of ambient spiritual Qi here meant that any faint disturbances from his practice would be attributed to the horses or the wind, unlike the sensitive arrays of the Outer Peak.
He picked up a large, wooden shovel and a bucket, the coarse texture rough against his delicate cultivator hands. He walked into the stable, the pungent smell hitting him like a physical blow.
But as he worked, shoveling steaming piles of straw and dung, his mind was elsewhere. He closed his eyes momentarily, using his concealed Primordial Qi to access the ring.
Inside, the dimension was waiting: vast, eternal, and overflowing with the energy of creation.
The greatest secret of the cosmos, hidden in the dirtiest corner of the Azure Cloud Sect. Let them mock me. Let them forget me.
The work was brutal, designed to break the will of a fragile youth. His body ached, his muscles screamed, and his pampered hands quickly developed blisters. But every drop of sweat, every physical strain, was nothing compared to the searing pain of his spiritual rebirth.
He worked until sunset, scrubbing the final latrine bucket in the freezing ravine water. Exhausted, physically broken, he stumbled back to the barracks and lay on his bunk.
The moment the last, snoring servant settled down, Lin Feng's eyes snapped open.
He focused his mind, channeling the Primordial Qi into the ring. The boundless dimension of purple-gold light opened inside his consciousness.
He would use the next four hours—the precious hours of sleep—to cultivate in the divine space, absorbing Primordial Qi and advancing his hidden foundation. He would rebuild his body in the daytime with mortal labor, and cultivate his soul at night with immortal power.
He was the menial servant Lin Feng to the world, cleaning up after spirit horses. But in the secrecy of his mind, he was the master of the Primordial Chaos Art, taking his first, silent steps toward the peak of Immortality. His true development had begun.