Time in the **Stone Sack** became an endless, bone-chilling torture. The cold of the stone seeped into his marrow, hunger gnawed him with a hollowness sharper than any blade. The darkness was so thick Xi Ran sometimes doubted his eyes were open. His only link to the world was the scrape of the door's viewing slit opening once a day and the ladle of icy water he grabbed with trembling hands, careful not to spill a drop. The guard never spoke.
Xi Ran clung to two anchors. The first – the faint **emerald glimmer** in the wall crack. Barely perceptible, only visible for a split second when the light from the slit hit it at a specific angle. But Xi Ran knew – it was there. His personal beacon in the abyssal dark. It reminded him of ***Sight!***, of the resin, of his father, of a world beyond these walls.
The second anchor was more terrifying and... stranger. It was the **Cold**. Not just the stone's chill. But that same **needlepoint cold** that had pierced him upon contact with the water. With every sip, every touch of his wet hand to wall or floor, cold stabbed him with thousands of invisible needles. At first, it was unbearable. He curled into a ball, teeth clenched against a scream. But screaming was useless. No one would hear. No one would help.
So he tried to do what he'd been uselessly taught in the Sect – **concentrate**. Not on Qi circulation, which he lacked, but on the sensation itself. On this piercing, *living* cold emanating from the water and stone. He imagined it not as an enemy, but as... a current. Wild, thorny, but *real*. The only thing filling his empty, starving body besides pain.
Days blurred. Hunger faded to a background hum, but the cold never relented. And one day, during an especially vicious assault, when the needles seemed to pierce him to the marrow, Xi Ran didn't curl up. He *straightened* in the dark. He *let* the cold in. Without resistance. Like he'd once let in the swamp's smells.
And something happened. The **Needlepoint Cold** didn't vanish. But it... *shifted*. From thousands of stabbing needles, it coalesced into a single **powerful, icy torrent** rushing down his arms, legs, spine. Not bringing relief, nor inflicting new pain. It was like a mountain river – untamed, pure, *strong*. And within this torrent, Xi Ran sensed... **energy**. Not the warm, familiar vortex of other disciples, but icy, sharp, yet *tangible*. The energy of the mountain itself, the water, the darkness of the Stone Sack.
***Sight!*** – it didn't sound, but *manifested*. Not a flash of light, but **clarity of sensation**. He understood: this cold wasn't just punishment. It was a *resource*. Twisted, painful, but the only one available here. And it could be *guided*. Not for cultivation in the usual sense, but for... survival. For hardening his body against the cold itself.
He began to experiment. Instead of shivering, he consciously invoked the sensation of the current, focusing on the points where the cold bit deepest – palms, soles, center of his chest. He imagined this icy torrent washing over his bones, tightening his muscles, driving out weakness. It was agonizing. Required monstrous concentration. But when he managed to hold the current for even a few breaths, his body... *fortified*. The shivering subsided. A phantom sensation of strength emerged, capable of resisting the pressure of stone and darkness. His **Early Flesh Bone** physique, tempered by this icy hell, was beginning to change, hardening in an unusual, painful way. He named this process **"Needlepoint Cold"** – not a technique, but a state of survival.
***
Meanwhile, in the outer world, **Lin Feng** lived in his own private hell. Fear of the Shadow Master gnawed at him worse than Xi Ran's hunger. The **purple-tinged pebble-artifact** in his pocket burned his skin, a constant reminder of the deadline – less than a week until the full moon.
The Dry Leaf Repository wasn't just a storeroom. It was the heart of the sect's ancient knowledge, however decayed. It lay in a dungeon beneath the main hall, protected by **formations** – invisible patterns of spiritual power woven into the walls and floor. Unauthorized contact should trigger a deafening alarm and a paralyzing effect.
Lin Feng bided his time. He studied the guards' patrol schedules near the locked door to the dungeon. He spotted a weakness: the guard shift changed precisely at midnight, leaving the corridor deserted for three minutes. Three minutes – to approach the door, bypass the formations... *if* the artifact worked.
The night before the attempt, he didn't sleep. His **Late Iron Bones** didn't save him from cold sweat born of fear. He stood in the shadow of a pillar, a hundred paces from the Repository's massive stone door. In his hand, the purpling pebble. He clutched it until his knuckles whitened, mentally pleading for its power: *Dull the formations! Help me!*
At exactly midnight, two guards yawned, turned, and left for their shift change. The corridor plunged into silence, broken only by flickering torchlight. Lin Feng slid from the shadows. Every step echoed loudly in his ears. He sprinted to the door. Ancient symbols etched into it glowed faintly in the half-light – a sign of active formations.
He pressed the pebble against the door's center, where the symbols were most intricate. The artifact's **purple glow** intensified, spreading over the stone like liquid grime. The symbols beneath it *flickered*, their light becoming uneven, sickly. A faint hissing sounded, like hot metal plunged into water. The formations... *resisted* the alien force, but the artifact was clearly suppressing them, creating a temporary "hole" in the defense.
*Now!* Lin Feng screamed mentally. He didn't try to open the door (it was locked by a complex mechanism). His goal was different. He probed the wall *beside* the door frame with his finger, where the artifact's purple light concentrated most intensely. The stone here felt... less dense? Or was it a trick of the light?
With trembling hands, he drew a thin, hardened steel pry bar (stolen from the forge). Inserted its tip into a barely visible crack between blocks where the artifact pointed. Summoned all the strength of his **Iron Bones**. Muscles bulged, tendons strained like bowstrings. The stone yielded! Not easily, with a dreadful scraping sound, but a **false block** the size of a man's head shifted! Behind it gaped a dark niche.
Lin Feng's heart hammered wildly. He thrust his hand into the niche, felt not stone, but something... **rough, like old leather**. A scroll! He yanked it out without looking, shoved it inside his robe. Pushed the block back – it thudded into place. Snatched the artifact away from the door. The purple light vanished; the door's symbols glowed steadily again.
Lin Feng scrambled back from the door like a scalded cat, pressing against the opposite wall, gasping for air. Footsteps! The guards were returning! He darted into the nearest dark archway, his heart threatening to burst. He watched the guards pass by, not even glancing at the Repository door. All clear.
Success! He'd done it! Relief, sweet and intoxicating, flooded him. He pulled out the scroll – small, worn, made of unfamiliar leather, covered in faded lines. A map? A fragment? Didn't matter. The task was complete. Now, just to deliver it to the Master...
***
In the Stone Sack, Xi Ran faced his own crisis. The latest ladle of water slammed into him with **Needlepoint Cold**. He let the current in, tried to guide it along his spine, fortifying his back. But this time, the cold was stronger. More savage. It wouldn't obey, bucking against his control like a wild beast. Xi Ran felt the icy needles piercing his insides, his brain. The darkness spun. He was falling...
As he fell, his hand struck the stone floor. Sharp pain lanced through his palm – he'd pricked it on something small and sharp, likely a shard from someone's old clay jug. Warm blood welled on his skin.
And then ***Sight!*** activated with unprecedented force. Not a request – a command. An explosion of clarity in his mind. He *saw* not light, but... **structure**. The structure of the cold raging in his body. The structure of the stone beneath his hand. The structure of... the tiny drop of his own blood on the floor.
In his cold-distorted perception, these three structures *converged* at a single point – where the blood met the stone. And the impulse was crystal clear: *Here! Press!*
Instinctively, with his last ounce of will, Xi Ran slammed his bleeding palm onto the cold stone floor precisely at that point. And... **the stone yielded!** Not shifted, but seemed to *soften* momentarily beneath his fingers. And with that yielding movement of stone, the **Needlepoint Cold** inside him... *surged out*. Not causing pain, but in a powerful, icy exhalation through the point where palm met stone. His body shuddered, freed from the icy grip. It felt lighter. Empty, but without the torturous prickling.
He lay there, breathing heavily, pressing his hand to the spot on the floor that now felt strangely warm. Blood mingled with stone dust. What had that been? A breakthrough in controlling the "Needlepoint Cold"? Or had ***Sight!*** shown him something more? A weak point not just in his own state, but... in the stone? In the formation? In the very reality of this cursed place?
He didn't know. But he knew he'd found another key. A key forged from cold, blood, and desperation. And this key could unlock not just the door to survival, but perhaps something far more important, hidden within the very heart of the Stone Sack. He clenched his bloody hand into a fist. The pain was a paltry price for this knowledge.