CHAPTER 21

  The last stalk of spirit herb was finally watered.

  Yang Feng brushed the fine beads of sweat from his forehead and lifted his gaze toward the sky. Mountain winds carried the cool breath of early autumn, sweeping a few drifting bamboo leaves across the air.

  It was noon.

  Brilliant sunlight bathed the summit of One-Sword Peak. The air here possessed a strange balance — cool from the high autumn wind, yet warm beneath the midday sun. Cold and warmth coexisted without clashing, without overpowering one another.

  Yang Feng set the two wooden buckets back beside the underground pool.

  He stepped out of the Cave Abode with a simple thought in mind: what next?

  “I should report to Senior Sister Su Xueni.”

  The thought had barely formed when a familiar figure was already standing outside the entrance.

  Two large carp dangled from her hand.

  “Hey. Little errand boy, why did you take so long?”

  “Normally I finish watering the whole spirit herb garden in one Shichen. Were you slacking?”

  Liao Jiran’s tone was impossible to read. Whether she was scolding him or merely teasing, Yang Feng could not quite tell.

  “It is my first day. I am not yet accustomed. please be patient, Sister Jiran.”

  She tilted her head, then laughed lightly.

  “Hahaha… I was only teasing you. On my first day, I spent nearly half a day just watering a few stalks.”

  Her eyes swept over him.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  “It’s been several days since you’ve eaten properly, hasn’t it?”

  “Here.”

  She handed the two carp to him, and her expression turned unexpectedly serious.

  “Prepare them yourself. Eat, rest a little. In one shichen, bring your wooden sword to the training ground.”

  “I’ll teach you the first five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art.”

  She blinked.

  “It won’t be free.”

  “The jade slip for the introductory five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art cost me five hundred contribution points at the Scripture Pavilion, kid.”

  She raised two fingers and gave them a slight shake in front of him.

  “So… you owe me seven hundred contribution points.”

  Yang Feng looked at the fish in her hand, then at her smiling face.

  “Thank you, Sister Jiran.”

  She paused.

  She had expected bargaining. A complaint. At least some hesitation.

  Instead, he accepted it cleanly.

  “You’re not even going to ask whether I’m worth seven hundred points?”

  “The first five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art already cost over five hundred in the outer sect,” Yang Feng replied calmly. “Instruction included… it is not excessive.”

  Liao Jiran narrowed her eyes at him, then chuckled.

  “So you’re not stupid, kid.”

  “If I teach you, I lose my time. Time on One-Sword Peak is not cheap.”

  With that, she turned and left, whistling lightly as she walked away.

  In her mind, a single calculation echoed with satisfaction.

  A jade slip she had long since memorized by heart… exchanged for seven hundred contribution points.

  A fine profit indeed.

  Inside the Cave Abode,

  After roasting the two carp, Yang Feng quickly devoured them. Four consecutive days without proper food had driven his hunger to the edge of frenzy. The two large fish were like a sudden downpour upon land long parched by drought.

  When he finished, he rubbed his stomach lightly. But his expression gradually turned serious.

  The dantian of his Mortal Foundation felt stretched tight.

  Not because of the food.

  But because of the Spiritual Qi here.

  The Spiritual Qi atop One-Sword Peak was far denser than that within the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower. For someone who had already stepped into Foundation, the tower, which was designed for Qi Refinement, no longer held much use. More precisely, it could no longer meet the needs of a Foundation dantian.

  Yang Feng had sensed the change in his dantian the moment he first set foot upon One-Sword Peak. The dense Spiritual Qi here seeped into his meridians with every breath he took. But at the time, he had no space to concern himself with it.

  Now, in the quiet stillness, the dantian began to make itself known.

  It demanded expansion.

  Was he about to break through after only one night and half a day on the peak?

  That was not the case. A Foundation dantian did not function like one in Qi Refinement.

  Refined Spiritual Qi condensed into liquid form, gathering within the dantian as liquid Qi. This liquid Qi served as both the source of combat power and the steady nourishment of the dantian’s walls, thickening them layer by layer over time.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  When liquid Qi permeated the dantian long enough, a new structural layer would gradually form. In total, nine layers were required to reach Great Perfection. Every three layers constituted a minor realm; nine layers marked the limit of the Foundation stage.

  Once all nine layers were complete, the liquid Qi would begin to condense further. No longer flowing freely, it would be compressed toward the center. This process was known as Core Condensation.

  When all liquid Qi was compressed into a solid, golden mass, and the dantian underwent complete restructuring, that was the step into the Golden Core realm.

  In theory, that was how it worked.

  In practice, the process required immense time. Some inner sect disciples spent years without breaking through even a single layer, particularly those of Heaven Foundation, whose dantians were vast and capable of containing immense reserves.

  But Yang Feng was different.

  As an early-stage Mortal Foundation cultivator, his dantian was comparatively small and not yet fully stabilized. When the dense Spiritual Qi of One-Sword Peak rapidly condensed into liquid Qi within him, there was not enough space for it to accumulate gradually.

  It was forced to expand.

  If it did not, it would crack.

  He had no choice but to break through to the First Layer of Early Stage Mortal Foundation. But this “breakthrough” was not an advance.

  It was survival.

  Yang Feng sat down cross-legged, placing both hands before his lower abdomen. He slowly regulated his breathing and began drawing the surrounding Spiritual Qi into his body.

  He could clearly feel the liquid Qi within his dantian striking against its inner walls. With every breath, the volume increased by a fraction. The walls of his dantian, still thin and not yet fully accustomed to this new environment, began to burn with a faint, searing sensation.

  If it continued without expansion, it would crack on its own.

  Yang Feng steadied his mind.

  He did not rush to circulate the liquid Qi through his meridians. Instead, he deliberately kept it within the dantian, forcing it to flow tightly along the inner walls.

  The liquid Qi moved like a dense, weighty current, turning slowly in a confined space.

  Time passed in measured breaths.

  The walls of the dantian trembled faintly, like thin soil long soaked by water, gradually softening under sustained pressure.

  Advancing a single layer in Foundation was not an eruption. It was the formation of another structural layer.

  Yang Feng guided the liquid Qi with precision, compressing it toward a single point along the inner wall. The pressure gathered and did not disperse.

  A swelling tension spread outward.

  Then the wall of the dantian quivered.

  A new structural layer formed.

  There was no burst of radiant light. No overwhelming surge of aura. Only the quiet expansion of space within.

  The liquid Qi that had been pressing inward immediately loosened. The strain eased.

  Yang Feng released a slow breath.

  This was merely the First Layer of Early Stage Mortal Foundation.

  Not a great advancement. Only the stabilization of a fragile base.

  Yet he understood one thing clearly. In an environment where Spiritual Qi was as dense as that of One-Sword Peak, the pace at which his structural layers formed would not resemble that of others.

  Not because he was a genius.

  But because his dantian was too small to endure gradual accumulation.

  He would either continue expanding,

  or be crushed by his own liquid Qi.

  Yang Feng opened his eyes.

  Midday light still shone brightly beyond the Cave Abode.

  Nearly one shichen had passed.

  He rose to his feet, picked up the wooden sword, and stepped out.

  The sky had begun to pale.

  Evening wind descended from the summit, carrying a thin chill as it swept across the vast training ground. The banners hanging along the stone corridors swayed gently, rustling like muted whispers.

  Yang Feng walked forward, one step at a time.

  Under tenfold gravity, each step still felt as though he were treading through thick mud. Yet compared to his first days, when he had to grit his teeth to regulate every breath and tighten every muscle simply to remain standing, he had changed.

  His posture was no longer stiff like a plank bound straight.

  He no longer needed to pour his entire will into maintaining balance.

  His steps had begun to resemble those of an ordinary person.

  Only slightly.

  But to him, that slight change was real progress.

  At the center of the training ground, Liao Jiran was practicing her sword.

  Yang Feng halted.

  He had seen many disciples perform the Heavenly Sword Art — the eighteen inherited forms of the sect. Yet in the outer sect, most trained only the first five. The remaining forms existed like sealed doors, spoken of more than witnessed.

  But the sword art Liao Jiran was displaying now was not the Heavenly Sword Art.

  Her blade did not move in rapid bursts, nor did it seek to dazzle.

  Each sweep drew the surrounding Spiritual Qi toward the edge, forcing it inward and compressing it into a dense sheath of azure light, the unmistakable hue of Foundation Spiritual Power.

  What stood out was not merely the clarity of her Sword Qi.

  It was the rhythm of the technique itself.

  With every strike, her Spiritual Power rolled forward like ocean waves against reefstone, not in a single violent surge but in layered tides, each stacking upon the last.

  The more she struck, the more it accumulated.

  The more it accumulated, the heavier it pressed.

  Yang Feng did not dare speak.

  Not out of fear.

  But because he could sense the concentration within each of her movements. It was like a rising tide; a single misplaced stone could disturb its rhythm.

  Only when the Sword Qi dispersed and the azure light receded like a retreating tide did Liao Jiran turn her head.

  “How long have you been standing there, kid?”

  Yang Feng started slightly and clasped his hands.

  “Greetings, Sister Jiran. I have only been watching for a short while.”

  She smiled.

  It was not arrogance, merely a youthful confidence.

  “What do you think of this sword art?”

  Yang Feng could not help himself.

  “It’s incredible.”

  He meant it.

  “Your Sword Qi… I can see it clearly.”

  “It clings to the blade.”

  “And the Spiritual Power your technique unleashes rolls forward like the sea.”

  “What is this sword art called?”

  Liao Jiran flicked the tip of her blade lightly, her eyes brightening.

  “Hehe. This is a sword art my master selected for me personally.”

  There was unmistakable pride in her tone.

  “It is called…”

  She paused briefly, then enunciated each word clearly.

  “Divine Tidal Pillar Sword Art.”

  “They say that when mastered, one’s Spiritual Power rises like a swelling tide. Each strike grows heavier than the last.”

  “The final move compresses all Spiritual Power into a towering pillar, hiding the blade within.”

  “The opponent sees the waves… but not the sword.”

  “And when the blade emerges from within that pillar of power, it is nearly impossible to evade.”

  She rotated her wrist slightly, and the surrounding Spiritual Qi trembled again.

  “For now, I can only guide the Spiritual Power into its outward form. I cannot yet make it surge like a true tide.”

  “This sword art consumes an absurd amount of Spiritual Power,” she added.

  “They say… only upon stepping into the Divine Transformation realm can its full power truly be unleashed.”

  Yang Feng frowned slightly.

  “Then why are you still learning it?” he asked, without calculation or hidden meaning. The question came naturally.

  In his mind, if something consumed too much, risked too much, and lay too far beyond reach, then the wiser choice would always be a steadier path.

  Liao Jiran did not hesitate.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She smiled.

  “If one does not aim for the summit in a lifetime of cultivation, then what is the point of learning the sword at all?”

  Her gaze lifted toward the sky, now gradually deepening into a gray-blue dusk.

  “My goal is to climb step by step, until I reach Divine Transformation.”

  “And then I will see…”

  “whether the Heavenly Dao is truly as terrifying as people claim.”

  A thunderclap split across the sky.

  The sound rolled over the peak and through the mountain, and a sudden gust swept across the training grounds, as though heaven and earth had answered her words.

  Yang Feng felt a faint jolt, though it was not the thunder that unsettled him. It was the certainty in her voice. She had spoken without the slightest hesitation.

  He looked at Liao Jiran for a long moment.

  There was no jest in her eyes, no reckless bravado. Only a calm, unquestioned confidence, as if the path she spoke of had already long been decided within her.

  In that instant, Yang Feng understood something clearly. The distance between them did not lie in cultivation realm, but in purpose.

  He had never aimed for the harder road. He had chosen the path that would let him survive one more day, to extend his journey a little further in a world that showed no mercy to the weak. Challenging the Heavenly Dao, facing lightning tribulation, dreaming of Divine Transformation—those had never once taken shape in his mind.

  His choices were not wrong. They had simply been born from a single instinct: to survive.

  She was different.

  She chose a sword art that devoured Spiritual Power, one whose full might could only be realized upon entering Divine Transformation. Not because she needed it, but because it was the direction she wished to walk.

  Yang Feng slowly tightened his hand.

  There was no jealousy in his heart, nor any sense of inferiority. Only a quiet recognition.

  She was looking toward the heavens.

  He was still learning how not to be crushed by the earth beneath his feet.