Morning light slipped through the narrow cracks of the dorm window, slicing pale bars across Damian’s room. He blinked awake slowly, the warmth on his face reminding him what day it was.

  Today was the day he would choose his first technique.

  A small knot tightened in his stomach. Anyone would be nervous. Your first technique wasn’t just a skill you practiced when you had time. It became part of you. It shaped your habits, your instincts, your future. A good art could change your destiny. A bad one could lock you into a dead end so early you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

  And after today? Everything of real value would cost sect points, favors, or luck. He couldn’t count on luck. He couldn’t even count on his plan with the librarian working out the way his grandfather predicted.

  So his first technique needed to be solid.

  He took a long shower, letting the warm water rinse the last traces of yesterday off his skin—the taste of blood, the ache in his joints, the faint phantom pressure of Tian’s presence still clinging to his memory. When he was done, he dressed in the Eternal Dawn uniform: a dark blue and gray robe with a silver-thread collar. He tied his hair back neatly, steadied his breathing, and stepped outside.

  Noise greeted him immediately.

  Footsteps. Laughter. Nervous banter drifting through the morning air. The sweet scent of spiritual flowers from the garden pathways mixed with fresh daylight, giving the male dorm district an almost peaceful ambiance.

  It was nice.

  Almost wholesome.

  New friendships were forming everywhere. Recruits clustered in little groups as if they’d known each other for years, sharing stories and dream-filled predictions. Their eyes were bright. Their smiles came easy.

  Damian smiled faintly.

  He knew better.

  Those same cheerful faces would one day stab each other in the back for a better technique, a rare treasure, a chance to curry favor with a clan elder… or simply because jealousy was easier than self-improvement. Cultivation didn’t create betrayal, it just rewarded it.

  Maybe that made him jaded. But life had taught him too many lessons to ignore.

  When his father’s medical issues first surfaced, Damian had watched people disappear overnight. Men who called themselves brothers. Comrades. Sworn allies. Some vanished without a word. Others returned only when they smelled weakness, demanding techniques or secret arts in exchange for “protection.”

  If not for his mother’s reputation—her ability to repair artifacts, craft pills, and win gratitude quietly from cultivators who mattered—the Blackwood family would’ve been devoured.

  Those memories didn’t fade. They sharpened.

  By the time the towering doors of the library came into view, his wandering thoughts had cooled into focus.

  The library was massive—less like a building and more like a mansion built to swallow students whole. Three guards stood at the entrance, each radiating a dangerous calm. Damian couldn’t sense their realms at all, which meant only one thing: he was too far beneath them to even feel the difference.

  As he approached, one guard stepped forward and raised a hand.

  Damian didn’t flinch. He simply reached into his robe and handed over his ID. The guard examined it, nodded silently, and returned it. The tension among the three guards eased at once, and Damian felt something like a quiet approval wash over him—an invisible “go ahead.”

  He stepped inside.

  And froze.

  A sea of people flooded the main hall.

  Students rushed between shelves like desperate scavengers, grabbing books in handfuls, arguing in whispers, flipping pages so fast it sounded like insect wings. The air buzzed with panic and greed disguised as “ambition.”

  So this is how seriously they take it…

  Damian exhaled through his nose and started moving.

  He searched methodically. At first, it was endless elemental arts—fire, wind, lightning variants. Not surprising, given the principal’s reputation as an elemental specialist.

  Useful for anyone with a proper core.

  Useless for him.

  Sword techniques came next, many clearly contributed or approved under Elder Duan’s influence. Most leaned defensive—guarding, countering, endurance styles rather than explosive offense. Damian found himself thinking about Duan’s crippled arm and the legendary duel that had ended his rise.

  Losing everything in a single battle.

  Having to rebuild in the twilight years of life.

  It made him think of his father. And his grandfather.

  He kept moving.

  Body cultivation manuals appeared in thick rows—most of them basic, sensible, safe.

  Then he stopped.

  A title, bold and almost obscene:

  Path of the Eternal Slaughter Body

  The name alone sent a chill through him. He opened it, and the more he read, the wider his eyes grew.

  It was insane.

  A body cultivation method that rejected natural cultivation laws entirely. Instead of circulating Qi smoothly, it used pain and damage as fuel, converting suffering into a volatile energy called Slaughter Qi. Each layer of technique demanded harsher injury, harsher recovery, harsher defiance—like a path built for someone who wanted to fight the world and make the world apologize.

  In a perfect world, Damian would’ve taken it on the spot.

  But the longer he stared at the pages, the clearer the reality became.

  There was no flexibility here.

  No room for secondary paths.

  No room for secrecy.

  If he chose this technique, it would consume him. Mind, body, time. It would paint him as a certain kind of cultivator, the kind that drew attention even when he didn’t want it.

  He hesitated.

  A hand reached past him and grabbed the book.

  A girl.

  Average height, lightly tanned skin, long brown hair spilling down her back. Damian recognized her instantly—one of the melee fighters from the tournament. Fast. Sharp. Aggressive.

  Promising.

  It suited her.

  Damian let the book go without a fight and continued searching.

  He moved through more sword arts, more body arts, more elemental manuals—

  Until something different caught his eye.

  A silver-black cover with a title that made his pulse tick upward.

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  Realm of the Sovereign Spirit

  He opened it and felt that quiet click of recognition. Not excitement. Not greed.

  Relief.

  It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t built to overwhelm opponents in a single strike. It focused on consciousness, awareness, spiritual refinement—the kind of foundation that bypassed his flawed dantian instead of running straight into it.

  Even better, it was flexible.

  It wouldn’t block him from pursuing other arts.

  It wouldn’t expose him.

  It wouldn’t demand he become one specific thing.

  It was simply a solid base.

  The text explained its origins: an older sect that specialized in soul cultivation. Not prestigious enough to inspire worship, not obscure enough to be worthless. A support technique meant to strengthen the mind and sharpen spiritual sense.

  Perfect.

  Nearby, he found a second book from the same lineage—a collection of supporting spirit techniques meant to improve mental resilience, strengthen awareness, and refine consciousness.

  He took both.

  Holding them close, he began walking toward the librarian’s desk.

  Each step, he forced his shoulders loose, his breathing even. Outward calm was a skill. His mind, however, was less cooperative.

  What if Lee attacked him?

  What if Lee exposed him?

  What if this whole plan turned into a disaster on day one?

  It would make for an interesting plot twist, Damian admitted. But surrounded by guards and elders in the heart of the sect, Lee wouldn’t dare reveal himself openly.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  And if Lee pretended he didn’t know anything?

  Damian could work with that too.

  Finally, it was his turn.

  He approached the counter wearing his easiest smile, the kind people trusted without thinking too hard, and set the two books down gently.

  Lee looked exactly like the reports described: a quiet man in his forties, short black hair threaded with gray, average build, thin glasses. His aura felt soft and harmless, almost timid.

  But Damian had lived long enough to know softness could be a disguise.

  Lee glanced at the titles, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “We don’t normally see students checking out these types of techniques anymore,” he said lightly, fingertips brushing the book spines. “These days everyone wants flashy arts. Techniques that kill with style.”

  Damian chuckled as if it was casual. “Not everyone is built for the art of soul cultivation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lee paused for just a heartbeat.

  Then he gave a wide, friendly smile. “I do. But personally, I’m more of an elemental type myself.”

  An obvious lie.

  Damian could tell instantly.

  Lee’s hands were too smooth—no calluses, no burn scars, none of the subtle damage that came from years of forcing elemental qi through a body. His posture didn’t match the way elemental cultivators carried themselves either. And his face—too calm. Too clean. Like someone who either killed from the shadows…

  Or someone so strong he didn’t struggle.

  A demonic sorcerer hiding behind glasses and a mild aura.

  The thought made Damian’s skin prickle, but he didn’t let it show.

  Still smiling, Damian replied, “Really? I couldn’t tell at all. But that’s what makes the cultivation world so interesting.”

  Lee laughed softly, as if Damian had said something charming rather than careful.

  He recorded the checkout, prepared the slip, and handed it over.

  “They all say that on their first day,” Lee said teasingly.

  Damian accepted it with a polite nod. “Then you’ll be seeing me a lot. I’m a dedicated studier—if nothing else.”

  He turned to leave.

  It had been a good first interaction. No hostility. No probing. Just quiet observation.

  Exactly what he wanted.

  Still, as he walked away, one question kept nudging at him:

  Did the principal know who he’d hired to run the library?

  A Nascent Soul cultivator like Tian Liyang should’ve been able to sense demonic energy.

  Unless he didn’t want to know.

  Or unless Lee was far more dangerous than Damian’s grandfather suspected.

  Either option made his stomach tighten.

  Damian returned to the dorm district, shut his door, and set the books on his desk.

  Before he could dive into cultivation, he had one more task.

  First years who weren’t chosen by an elder were expected to attend general lectures—basic principles, broad foundations, nothing advanced. The classes were usually pointless, but attendance mattered. It kept you from looking like a hermit, a troublemaker, or someone plotting something.

  Damian needed to keep his reputation neutral.

  And he needed to stop by the Pill Department.

  Compared to the massive library, the pill building was modest, almost quaint. It didn’t have visible security, but Damian knew better. Stealing from the pill department was suicide. The elder in charge was known to be temperamental, and offending pill masters could ruin a cultivator permanently with nothing more than “accidental” shortages.

  A kind-looking receptionist greeted him warmly. Damian played the polite student, exchanged a few jokes, smiled at the right moments. Eventually she handed him a small cloth bag.

  “Your monthly allotment—four pills.”

  For a student without backing, four pills was generosity.

  For Damian, they were useless.

  He couldn’t form a core. These pills wouldn’t change that.

  But they still had value.

  Trade value.

  Points value.

  And points meant techniques, access, resources.

  His ID token recorded every transaction. Missions, trades, contributions—numbers that would determine how far the sect allowed him to climb.

  He tucked the bag away and thanked her again before heading toward the lecture hall.

  The day wasn’t even halfway done.

  The lecture hall was smaller than he expected, clearly meant for first years, but it was clean and modern—polished stone floors, soft lighting, decent air circulation, neatly arranged desks.

  Damian took a seat in the back.

  Only a handful of students had arrived early. As more filtered in, he watched them quietly.

  Some whispered nervously.

  “Do you think the basics class is hard?”

  “I heard we have to open twelve meridians before the end of the month…”

  “Twelve? I can barely sense one!”

  Others were loud and overconfident, bragging about hometown victories and family techniques.

  And then there were the quiet ones—plain clothes, wide eyes, village-born students who’d never been in a room like this. Some of them probably had strong spirit roots just from growing up in qi-rich regions, but no real training to match it.

  Damian felt a faint, reluctant sympathy.

  No matter where you came from, this was the same road.

  His thoughts cut off when the door slid open.

  Elder Duan entered.

  He walked with rigid discipline, one sleeve empty where his crippled arm was hidden beneath the robe. His expression was stern and exhausted in a way Damian recognized—like a man who had once been forced to rebuild his entire identity.

  A hush fell over the room.

  Chatter buzzed for a few seconds more as late arrivals rushed in.

  Then Elder Duan lifted two fingers.

  A sharp burst of Sword Qi snapped through the air.

  Silence. Absolute. Immediate.

  “Welcome, first-years,” Elder Duan said, voice calm but carrying the firmness of steel. “Today begins your foundation in the Dao of cultivation.”

  Thin streams of sword qi wrapped around the papers in his hand. The sheets lifted, weightless, then drifted down onto each desk like feathers.

  Gasps filled the room.

  Even the arrogant ones shut up.

  “Qi,” Elder Duan continued, “is the energy of Heaven and Earth. It is the foundation that allows us to reach for the heavens themselves. Your first task as Foundation Realm cultivators is simple: open your twelve qi meridians. Until then, do not dream of anything beyond the basics.”

  Pens began scratching. Some students wrote so fast Damian could hear the panic in the sound.

  Damian listened too, even though the information meant little to him.

  He could open twelve meridians a hundred times and still never form a core.

  Still—knowledge was power.

  Elder Duan paced slowly.

  “Next. Artifacts and pills.”

  His hand flicked dismissively.

  “Do NOT rely on artifacts in battle unless you possess a rare talent for them. In my era, artifact users were considered the weakest path. Even now, dependence will cripple your growth. As for pills—taking too many, too early, or without control can destroy your foundation permanently.”

  A nervous student raised a hand. “E-Elder Duan… is it true people died from rushing cultivation?”

  Duan nodded grimly. “Many. Others survived and became crippled—unable to cultivate for the rest of their lives. Impatience has buried countless geniuses.”

  A murmur spread through the room.

  Then Elder Duan’s expression shifted. His jaw tightened, bitterness surfacing in his eyes like an old bruise.

  “Now… the Dao.”

  He looked up for a moment, as if facing a memory he disliked.

  “The Dao was once the guideline for understanding the heavens. In modern times, it has become the requirement for mastering powerful elements. In my era, most cultivators fought their way through challenges—learning through combat, skill, and countless battles.”

  His gaze grew distant.

  “But the era after mine—the so-called Generation of Dragons—changed everything. Their understanding surpassed ours. They discovered new truths, new paths, new techniques.”

  A student whispered, “Is he talking about the Immortal Sword era?”

  Elder Duan heard. He didn’t deny it.

  “Yes. The Immortal Sword—Lin Tianxuan.” His jaw tightened further. “The man I fought. The man who defeated me. The man whose mastery of Sword Qi and heavenly knowledge exceeded anything I could imagine.”

  He paused, eyes cold.

  “That battle was the beginning of the Dragon Era. The moment the heavens favored a new generation.”

  Damian clenched his fists under the desk.

  Thinking of his father—born into that same era, trying to weave poison, sword, and Dao together until his body failed—filled Damian with a tight, complicated anger.

  He had inherited neither his father’s talent nor his grandfather’s raw strength.

  Just a flaw and a future full of questions.

  Eventually, Elder Duan wrapped up the lecture.

  Students began shuffling out, relief and exhaustion mixing in the air.

  Damian stood and headed for the exit.

  Then Elder Duan’s voice cut through the movement.

  “Blackwood boy. Stay a moment.”

  Damian turned, surprise tightening his posture. The older man approached slowly.

  “I knew your father when he was young,” Duan said quietly. “Saw him rise. Heard about his… condition. I am sorry.”

  Damian bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Elder.”

  Duan studied him. “But you do not walk the sword path he followed. Why?”

  Damian couldn’t tell the truth. Not about the curse. Not about bloodline problems. Not about what his family really carried.

  So he offered something real enough to be believable.

  “I’m trying to find my own way, Elder,” Damian said, voice calm. “Just as he once did.”

  Elder Duan let out a slow, weary sigh.

  “A wise choice. The Dao is personal. No one can walk another man’s path forever.”

  Damian seized the opening and asked the question he actually cared about.

  “Elder… how did you understand the Dao? Truly understand it?”

  Duan laughed bitterly. “I didn’t. Not fully. By the time I tried, I was too old, too stubborn, too set in my ways. Even now, I chase that understanding.”

  He placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder, firm but not unkind.

  “If you want a real hint… learn what your body harmonizes with. Technique. Element. Style. When you know that, your Dao will begin to reveal itself.”

  He patted Damian’s back once and dismissed him.

  Damian stepped outside into the afternoon sunlight, mind heavy with questions and possibilities swirling like a storm.

  He turned toward the dorm path, walking slowly, thinking—