The qi trail guided Ling Feng into a secluded alcove carved deep into the obsidian wall of the abyss core.
Jagged peaks shielded the chamber on three sides, their serrated edges forming a natural barrier. A thin blood stream flowed past like a vein of liquid sapphire, its faint glow casting elongated shadows that swayed with each pulse of ancient energy. Here, the roar of the eternal storm was reduced to a distant murmur—a low, constant hum, as if the abyss itself held its breath.
Ling Feng assessed his condition with clinical detachment.
Qi reserves: eighty percent.
Stability: compromised.
The storm beast essences churned within his dantian, clashing violently against the venerable's draconic blood. The dragon foundation dominated—but the newly awakened lightning affinity introduced discord, threatening reversal if left unchecked.
His scorched arm had recovered to functional status, scales gleaming faintly beneath healed flesh. Yet a deeper fatigue lingered—residual strain from continuous combat and forced integration.
Refinement required, he concluded.
Extended session to align essences.
Risk: attracting further threats.
Benefit: potential breakthrough to Late Core Formation.
Acceptable odds.
Ling Feng sat cross-legged upon a flat obsidian outcrop. His ponytail slid over one shoulder as he closed his eyes.
The Mad Sword Dao mantra began to circulate.
The sword is madness.
Sever discord.
Devour chaos.
Ascend through defiance.
Essences stirred.
The venerable's azure blood anchored the cycle, storm condensates orbiting it like unstable satellites. Threads of sword intent wove through his meridians—sharp, meticulous—stitching wounds, binding power into cohesion.
Integration began.
Draconic resilience swallowed lightning volatility, grinding chaos into refined strength.
Pain followed.
A simmering burn ignited within his dantian, spreading outward like veins of electricity. Muscles tensed. Veins bulged beneath his skin, azure light flickering under flesh. Sweat gathered at his brow.
Ling Feng did not react.
Pain threshold acceptable.
Increase pressure.
As refinement deepened, the Whispers of Defiance evolved.
No longer murmurs.
Echoes.
His sea of consciousness blurred as hallucinations surged forth—Stage One Sword Insanity manifesting fully.
The alcove dissolved.
He stood within the grand council hall of the Heavenly Sword Sect.
Spirit jade pillars gleamed. Sword arrays hummed softly overhead. Elders sat in a pristine circle, robes white as snow, faces etched with solemn piety.
At the center lay a pile of resources.
His resources.
Foundation pills.
Sword manuals taken from his quarters.
Even the low-grade spirit sword he had forged with his own hands.
"Junior Brother Ling's unfortunate demise in the abyss is… regrettable," Elder Li intoned, voice thick with false sorrow.
As he spoke, his hand slipped casually toward a vial of high-grade essence pills, vanishing into his sleeve.
"Heaven's will is inscrutable," Elder Li continued smoothly. "These items must be redistributed—for the sect's stability."
The others nodded.
Zhao Yun leaned forward, a practiced smile tugging at his lips.
"Indeed, Elder. His courtyard on the southwest peak—prime qi-gathering land—should be reassigned to a promising talent." He paused, eyes glinting. "I'll oversee it personally."
A jade key disappeared into his palm.
The vision widened.
Elders spoke of virtue and equality while dividing spoils with greedy efficiency. Manuals claimed for "archives." Spirit stones requisitioned for "communal funds."
Justice reduced to accounting.
Hypocrisy layered upon hypocrisy.
In the real world, Ling Feng's body tensed. Meridians strained.
Yet no anger surfaced.
No rage.
Emotion was noise.
Data, he analyzed calmly.
Elder Li: pill dependency—visible tremor, dulled complexion.
Exploit via supply manipulation or poison infusion.
Zhao Yun: fixation on spatial advantage.
Southwest peak courtyard—formation weakness at eastern gate.
Infiltration viable.
The vision sharpened further.
Resource flow:
Pills → inner disciples.
Manuals → library vault under Elder Wang.
Vault cipher rotates by lunar phase.
Predictable.
The hallucination shifted again.
Zhao Yun practiced in Ling Feng's former courtyard, swinging the stolen sword, boasting to sycophants about "heaven's favor." Elders laughed privately, mocking the "foolish junior" who had reached beyond his station.
Then—
A flicker.
Something unwelcome.
A sting.
A whisper from another life.
Why me?
Fragments of Earth surfaced—memories of fairness, of justice not wielded as a tool but held as belief.
Ling Feng did not hesitate.
Irrelevant chain.
An internal sword of intent formed and fell.
Sever.
The sentiment dissolved instantly. Pain spiked in exchange—but clarity surged.
The visions sharpened even further, revealing hidden layers: a concealed compartment within the council hall, guarded by a blood-sealed array—an "emergency treasury" for the elders alone.
Schemes confirmed.
Objective: harvest resources.
Not revenge.
Efficiency.
Suddenly—
A pulse of azure light flared from Ling Feng's body.
The alcove trembled.
Distant howls answered.
The Whispers warned.
Intruders.
Opportunity renews.
Ling Feng's eyes snapped open.
Refinement continued internally even as he rose to his feet.
Four figures emerged from the shadows.
Stronger abyss beasts.
Their vortices were larger, tendrils tipped with scale-like barbs. Faint draconic traits warped their forms, pseudo-intelligence glimmering within crackling eyes.
Harvest fuel for breakthrough.
Qi was limited—but sufficient.
Sword intent manifested fully for the first time—an azure blade half an arm's length, lightning veins crawling along its edge.
The first beast charged.
Ling Feng sidestepped, angling its tendril into the alcove wall. Barbs embedded in obsidian.
Slash.
The core thread severed. Essence devoured mid-motion.
Pain surged—but integration accelerated.
The second and third flanked.
Ling Feng drew ambient qi from the blood stream, flooding his blade with conductive lightning. A sweeping arc redirected their discharges back into their own forms.
Forms frayed.
Quick thrusts.
Cores pierced.
Devour.
His body convulsed subtly as essences clashed harder within.
The fourth beast absorbed its kin's mist—evolving rapidly. Its vortex coiled into a draconic silhouette, illusory scales forming as it roared and unleashed a storm of barbed tendrils.
Ling Feng advanced instead of retreating.
Sword intent extended to full length.
He slashed with surgical precision, severing barbs one after another.
Pain peaked.
Hallucinations bled into reality—elders fleeing, sect banners burning.
Clarify.
He embraced the madness fully.
The Whispers guided his movements, transforming instinct into lethal intuition.
Final slash.
The core lay exposed.
Devoured whole.
Essences aligned in a violent torrent.
The dantian expanded.
Qi surged.
A threshold shattered.
Late Core Formation.
Foundations stabilized—resilient, unbound.
Sword intent evolved—manifestation fully stable, lightning veins intensified, draconic aura coiling faintly around the hilt.
Ling Feng exhaled slowly.
Azure light radiated from his body—then faded.
Silence reclaimed the alcove.
Beast remnants dispersed into nothingness.
Gains consolidated.
Realm advanced.
Visions repurposed as data.
A final insight crystallized:
Emotion clouds judgment.
Madness strips illusion.
The weak cling to sentiment and call it virtue.
The mad see truth—naked and unadorned.
Ahead, the qi trail pulsed brighter than ever, beckoning toward the petrified heart chamber.
The Whispers teased.
Deeper trials await.
Greater clarity beckons.
Ling Feng stepped forward.
Unbound.