It was already midday when Damian pushed open the doors to the library.

  It wasn’t crowded. A few students sat scattered between shelves, just enough presence that nothing seemed suspicious. There was enough noise to hide quiet conversation, but not enough to draw attention. Perfect.

  Damian’s eyes found Lee almost immediately.

  They exchanged a brief nod. Nothing more.

  Damian headed toward the back of the library, where shelves were stacked with old records and historical accounts of famous cultivators. While he waited, he pulled a book free at random, one detailing fragments of history surrounding the First Immortals.

  As he skimmed through it, something caught his attention.

  The book explained how modern cultivation realms differed from ancient practice. Originally, the Foundation Realm had been known as the Prime Realm

  Many of those techniques had been lost to time.

  Damian remembered his grandfather once claiming that the generations after the First Immortals had simplified cultivation—standardizing it so more people could walk the path, even if it meant sacrificing depth. Realms were removed. Shortcuts were introduced. What had once been a dangerous, layered process was trimmed down into something more accessible, but also more limited.

  Dao, too, had once been secondary. It had been a supplemental pursuit for cultivators who sought a deeper understanding of Heaven and Earth. Only later did cultivators realize Dao could replace entire realms, accelerating progress while demanding far less patience and refinement in other areas.

  Damian paused.

  What if Magic was the same?

  Not some new invention. Not some blasphemous deviation born from madness.

  What if it was simply something cut out?

  Or perhaps something that had always existed alongside Dao—never meant to replace cultivation, but to distort it, challenge it, or push it into directions the orthodox path had abandoned.

  The thought lingered in his mind as footsteps approached.

  Lee stepped into the back of the library, wearing that same infuriating, easy smile.

  “Well,” Lee said quietly, “what do I owe the pleasure of my disciple visiting me at my day job?”

  Every word dripped with sarcasm, but his voice stayed low.

  Damian smiled back. “Originally, I was going to tell you I picked up a mission.”

  He slid the book back into place and grabbed another without looking directly at Lee.

  “But I’m guessing you already know about the lockdown.”

  Lee hummed.

  “So instead,” Damian continued, “I was thinking… while I really am enjoying you beating me into shape, I’d like to actually use that training sooner rather than later.”

  He finally looked at Lee.

  “I want to go on a mission as a Magic cultivator.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow.

  “I understand patience,” Damian said. “I really do. But my life isn’t exactly low-risk. Other students. Politics. Bad luck.”

  He shrugged lightly.

  “I’d rather not die a terrible death for being too weak.”

  He chuckled, but the concern beneath it was real.

  Lee stared at him for a moment.

  Then he smirked.

  “Oh, I can come up with ideas,” Lee said. “The real question is whether you can survive them.”

  He straightened, adjusting his glasses.

  “Even though I’m technically the head librarian, I do have… flexibility.”

  Lee turned and started walking.

  “We can begin today. Come back to the warehouse in an hour.”

  Damian frowned slightly. “What about the suspension?”

  Lee waved a hand dismissively.

  “Forget it. In three months, either you’ll be a true Magic cultivator—”

  He chuckled darkly.

  “—or you’ll be a fond memory of my poor, dead disciple.”

  Damian didn’t rise to it. He just waved back as Lee disappeared between the shelves.

  If that was the case…

  He turned and headed for the exit.

  An hour was plenty of time to meditate.

  And if today was the start of that process, then he couldn’t afford to waste a single breath.

  Night had already fallen by the time Damian finished his preparations.

  He sat cross-legged on his bed, breathing slowly and steadily as he continued cultivating his Soul Seed. It pulsed faintly in his chest, warm but distant, still far from the second step. He wasn’t frustrated. There was no rush. For once, he allowed patience to exist alongside ambition.

  When he opened his eyes, he exhaled softly and looked toward the window. Moonlight spilled in through the glass, pale and quiet, brushing the floor like something alive.

  He stood.

  Time to meet his master.

  Outside, a cool breeze rolled through the streets of the sect. The air felt clean, calm, almost gentle. Damian walked beneath the artificial stars with a faint smile on his face. His thoughts were clear, his emotions steady—thanks to the Sovereign Spirit technique. Hope sat quietly in his chest, no longer frantic or desperate.

  When he reached the warehouse, that calm cracked.

  Unease crawled up his spine.

  He placed a hand on the door and pushed it open slowly.

  Fog poured out.

  Not white. Not gray.

  Dark purple.

  Magic.

  It swallowed the interior completely. Damian stepped inside, his breath growing heavier as the fog clung to his skin and slid into his lungs. He couldn’t tell how far he had walked. Distance lost meaning. Direction blurred.

  Then he heard Lee’s voice.

  “Keep moving.”

  There was no laughter. No teasing. Only seriousness.

  “I thought about it earlier,” Lee continued, his voice echoing through the fog. “How to help you understand Magic.”

  Damian swallowed and kept walking, rubbing at his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

  “The best way,” Lee said, “is to live it. Inhale it. Survive it.”

  Before Damian could respond, a strong arm seized him and forced him down. His knees hit the ground hard. He knew instantly who it was.

  Lee crouched beside him.

  “Meditate,” Lee ordered.

  Damian obeyed.

  “Treat every inch of this like a tree,” Lee said. “Just like the principal taught. But this time, you are the roots.”

  The fog thickened.

  “And Magic?” Lee continued. “The branches.”

  Damian felt it then.

  The pressure.

  The connection.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The weight of something vast pressing against him from every direction—not crushing, not yet, but testing.

  “Feel it attach to you,” Lee said.

  He laughed softly.

  “Because this is going to be fun.”

  The laughter faded into something darker.

  “This will be your routine,” Lee said. “Days. Weeks. Maybe months.”

  Damian didn’t move.

  He breathed.

  And for the first time, Magic didn’t feel like something distant or theoretical.

  It felt close.

  Alive.

  And unforgiving.

  The first month was hell.

  Every single day, Damian entered that warehouse and sat submerged in Magic. Dark purple fog soaked into his lungs, his skin, his bones. He suffered. He vomited. Sometimes blood followed. More than once, his vision went black.

  He never quit.

  Alongside that, he continued refining his killing intent. He learned not only how it felt, but how to move it—how to let it wrap around his body, sharpen his instincts, and reinforce his strikes. When combined with The World Is My Canvas

  Unexpectedly, his Soul Seed benefited as well.

  The two consciousness techniques fed into one another. One stabilized his emotions and sharpened his mind. The other expanded his perception outward, allowing him to sense killing intent in others while honing his own. Together, they created balance where imbalance should have existed.

  Lee also sparred with him daily.

  At first, it wasn’t sparring at all. It was Damian being thrown, slammed, and crushed into the ground. But over time, Damian began to see it. Lee’s style looked reckless—wild, overwhelming—but it was anything but sloppy. Every aggressive push concealed precision. Every apparent opening was bait. His master fought by forcing opponents into mistakes, trapping them under relentless pressure.

  Damian learned.

  Outside of training, he maintained his connection with Kevin. They ate together often, talked, and occasionally trained lightly. It was useful—socially and strategically.

  He continued visiting the library as well. Even though he would never walk the demonic sorcery path, Damian studied it obsessively.

  To defeat something, you had to understand it.

  The second month changed everything.

  Lee finally explained how Damian would cultivate.

  “You’ll force your meridians open,” Lee said calmly. “Break them. Destroy them. Then rebuild them in a way that would be considered wrong.”

  For Magic cultivators, that was the foundation.

  “If you stop halfway,” Lee continued, “you’ll either die—or never cultivate again.”

  That was when Damian truly understood what Lee meant by survival.

  Still, he didn’t hesitate.

  By then, Damian had reached the first step of Bloodshaper Murder Art

  But there was a cost.

  Overuse drained him physically and mentally. It dulled emotions. Detached him from himself. Dangerous—but manageable, especially with the support of his evolved Soul Seed.

  That, too, had advanced.

  The second stage of his spiritual technique caused his Soul Seed to thicken and expand, forming something like a cocoon around his consciousness. It shielded him from mental attacks and illusions, sharpened his thoughts further, and softened the backlash from techniques with mental strain.

  Training never slowed.

  Lee taught him survival techniques that required no qi at all—tracking, disguise, pressure points, and the most basic principles of assassination. Dirty tricks. Feints. Deception.

  Damian had no moral objections.

  Lee, it became clear, was an expert at staying alive.

  Then came the third month.

  The day he would attempt to become a Magic cultivator.

  Damian sat shirtless in the center of the warehouse. His hair was tied back. Candles surrounded him, each one oozing thick purple smoke that pooled low to the ground.

  Lee stood beside him, holding a box.

  “This is how it works,” Lee said calmly. “I’ll help you open and destroy every meridian. You endure the reconstruction.”

  He met Damian’s eyes.

  “Ready?”

  Damian didn’t speak.

  He nodded.

  First, Lee had him focus on gathering qi into his meridians, forcing them to swell and strain. It made what came next possible.

  Then Lee opened the box.

  Inside were needles—long, thin, sharp. Almost like sewing needles.

  One by one, Lee drove them into Damian’s body.

  Each insertion was agony. His body burned. Blood spilled freely. With every needle, something inside him failed—systems shutting down, strength bleeding away.

  The process lasted twenty minutes.

  Damian blacked out repeatedly. His body wouldn’t let him escape. Each time he faded, pain dragged him back.

  The final needle broke him.

  Every inch of his body felt wrong.

  That was when Lee told him to breathe.

  “Inhale the smoke.”

  Tears mixed with blood as Damian obeyed. The purple smoke slid into him, wrapped around his veins, soaked into bone and marrow. Slowly—agonizingly—his meridians began to rebuild.

  One by one.

  Each felt like an hour. Maybe more.

  His fingernails tore into his thighs. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even hear Lee anymore, though he saw his lips moving—encouraging him.

  Eventually, the needles began to eject themselves.

  One.

  Then another.

  Hours passed. Sunlight crept across the warehouse floor, then vanished again.

  When the last needle fell free, Damian collapsed.

  He was exhausted. Broken. Empty.

  And yet—

  Something was different.

  Magic flowed through him.

  Not like normal qi. Not weak. Not distant.

  Alien. Dense. Alive.

  On instinct alone, Damian activated The World Is My Canvas

  Lee knelt beside him, smiling.

  “Welcome to the World of Magic.”

  Damian couldn’t move—but he could listen.

  Lee explained the backlash. How low-realm Magic cultivators couldn’t contain too much energy. How it had to be released through techniques. And how Damian was lucky—the breathing method Lee taught him had originally belonged to Lee’s master, then had been refined over time into something capable of offense, defense, and support.

  For now, it was survival.

  Lee looked down at him.

  “I’m proud of you, my disciple.”

  Then he asked quietly, “What do you desire?”

  Damian gathered every shred of strength he had left and answered without hesitation, voice raw and absolute.

  “True freedom.”

  About fifteen minutes passed while Damian lay on the ground.

  The feeling was strange. His body felt drained, his lips slightly bloodied, his muscles aching from the strain. Yet beneath the exhaustion was something else he couldn’t quite explain.

  It was… incredible.

  For the first time in his life, he could truly feel Magic.

  It was like breathing after being underwater his entire life.

  When Damian slowly opened his eyes, the world looked different.

  Threads of Heaven and Earth stretched through the air around him, faint strands of energy flowing endlessly through the environment. They twisted, intersected, and pulsed with quiet life, waiting to be grasped, shaped, and manipulated.

  It made sense now.

  Of course Magic cultivators could create such unique techniques. To wield Magic meant understanding Heaven and Earth in a way normal cultivators never could. Their perception of the world itself was fundamentally different.

  After another minute, Damian finally pushed himself to his feet.

  He looked toward Lee with a smug, exhausted smile. Still breathing heavily, he bowed slightly.

  “Thank you, Master.”

  Lee stared at him with an expression that suggested he very much wanted to flick Damian’s forehead with all his strength. Self-restraint was clearly the only thing stopping him.

  Still, he smiled.

  “Well,” Lee said casually, stretching his shoulders, “welcome to the world of Magic… my disciple.”

  He studied Damian carefully.

  “Seeing that you survived, I suppose we can go into more detail. After all, there’s no turning back for you now.”

  Lee raised three fingers.

  “In our world, there are three things you must focus on during your journey.”

  “First—Arts

  “These are the major frameworks of Magic cultivation. Large systems created by cultivators and often passed down through generations. An Art defines how you interact with Magic, how you fight, and how your path develops over time. My technique, The World Is My Canvas

  He raised a second finger.

  “Second—Techniques

  “Techniques are smaller applications of Magic. Useful tools. Combat methods. Support methods. There’s no universal baseline, but there are several common ones most Magic cultivators learn before they go out and embarrass themselves.”

  Damian snorted quietly but stayed silent.

  Lee smirked and continued.

  “The first technique is called Magic Bullet

  He lifted his hand and pointed forward.

  “It’s simple. Gather Magic into your finger and release it as a projectile. At your current level, it’ll hit with roughly the same force as being struck by a metal ball.”

  He shrugged.

  “It won’t kill most cultivators outright, but it can decide a fight, break concentration, or create an opening. Against opponents at similar realms, it will hurt.”

  Lee raised another finger.

  “The second technique is Magic Compass

  “This one is more practical. You release small waves of Magic around your body, creating something similar to echolocation. It lets you detect movement nearby, sense presences, and avoid ambushes.”

  He smirked slightly.

  “This one is my own creation. You’re inheriting it.”

  He raised the third finger.

  “The last one is something I developed when I was younger.”

  “Magic Fog

  Damian blinked.

  Lee demonstrated slightly, gathering Magic into his chest.

  “You gather Magic in your stomach and release it through your breath. The fog obscures vision and distorts perception.”

  He paused before adding, “It can also cause backlash to cultivators who aren’t Magic users, especially if they stay inside it too long.”

  Lee shrugged.

  “It’s useful for escapes, battlefield confusion, or buying yourself time. Just don’t make me look bad with it.”

  He lowered his hand.

  “And finally…”

  Lee’s voice shifted.

  “The most interesting thing about Magic cultivators.”

  “Methods

  Damian leaned forward slightly.

  Lee continued.

  “Methods are permanent effects created by certain techniques, breakthroughs, experiments, or long exposure to specific forms of Magic. They alter the body, cultivation, or even the mind. Unlike Techniques, they aren’t activated. They become part of you.”

  He tapped his chest.

  “I once heard about a Magic cultivator who possessed a method called Blessing of Magic

  Lee shrugged.

  “But every Method has a cost.”

  “In his case, his body didn’t naturally strengthen from Magic the way others of our path did. Physically, he was weaker than the average Magic cultivator.”

  Lee looked at Damian seriously.

  “At your current realm, Methods aren’t something you need to worry about yet.”

  He sighed.

  “And unfortunately, there is no single path to discovering them. My master had no interest in experimentation, and during my early years I was too focused on developing my own Art.”

  He shrugged again.

  “For you, though… there might be Methods out there that could benefit you greatly.”

  Lee’s expression hardened slightly.

  “But don’t get greedy.”

  “It’s easy to stack Methods. When their negative effects overlap… you can permanently ruin your cultivation.”

  Damian nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

  Without even realizing it, his fingers began moving slightly.

  A thin thread of Magic gathered in his palm.

  It was clumsy. Weak.

  But instinctive.

  Lee noticed.

  He didn’t say anything—but inside, he felt a flicker of hope.

  Damian might actually survive this path.

  Lee stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s talk about my Art.”

  “As I told you before, The World Is My Canvas

  Lee pointed toward Damian.

  “Mine follows that same foundation… but diverges.”

  “I only reforged my body enough to survive Magic. After that, I focused entirely on manipulating the environment around me.”

  He gestured outward.

  “For me, my control radius is around thirty to forty feet.”

  He glanced at Damian.

  “For you? Maybe five feet for now.”

  Lee grinned.

  “Outside your body.”

  “With that range, you can enhance your physical abilities. Strength, durability, speed.”

  He tapped Damian’s forehead.

  “And when combined with your consciousness technique, you might even be able to challenge body cultivators.”

  Lee continued.

  “But the real strength lies in control.”

  “You can form shields around your body. Later, you’ll be able to create multiple floating shields to block attacks, poison, and other techniques. Eventually, if your understanding is deep enough, the environment itself becomes part of your Art.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “But there’s no point going too deep right now.”

  Lee cracked his knuckles.

  “Let’s start with the basics.”

  And just like that, another round of training began.

  This time, however, it was far more structured—and far more useful.

  Damian still had a few weeks before the mission gates reopened. From what Kevin had mentioned, the external threat was either resolved or nearly finished.

  Which meant one thing.

  Damian had been given extra time.

  Time to truly learn Magic.

  And he intended to use every second of it.