The hour that followed the deacon's ominous announcement was a blur of chaos and shoving. Lin Feng, the amplified voice still echoing in his ears and a strange, painful vibration surging from his dantian like a newly awakened beast, barely had time to return to his corner in the barracks. There was nothing to prepare. His only possession of value was the shovel he'd left leaning against the outer wall of the pen, and his "wealth" consisted of half a ration of stale bread and the vague hope of not dying too humiliatingly.
"An hour to prepare for the slaughterhouse," he thought with a wry smile as he was swept along with the mass of outer disciples toward the western edge of the sect. "Such generosity. Almost enough time to write a will, if I had anything to bequeath or anyone who cared."
The portal to the Umbral Ridge was nothing more than the edge of an ancient, dark, and twisted forest, whose shadows seemed like eager claws ready to snatch the unwary. A stench of rot, damp earth, and a primordial fear hung in the air, a perfume promising an anonymous death.
"Move it, scum!" The voice of the deacon with the centipede-shaped scar cracked like a whip. "The Trial has begun! Prove the sect doesn't waste its rice on parasites! Those who survive and bring back decent beast cores might, just might, aspire to clean the inner disciples' stables! An honor!"
A brutal shove, and the gray tide of worn-out robes was vomited into the forest's hungry maw.
Pandemonium was instantaneous. Screams of pure terror mingled with the guttural roars of beasts erupting from the undergrowth like materialized nightmares. Lin Feng saw a young man, barely older than himself, who moments before had been trying to instill courage in a smaller group with tales of heroism, torn in two by the jaws of a Black-Tusked Boar the size of a small cart. Blood and viscera painted a grotesque picture on the fallen leaves. Another disciple, his face contorted and eyes wide with panic, tripped on a root and was mercilessly trampled by the stampede of his own "martial brothers" fleeing to save their skins.
Lin Feng, however, didn't join the blind rush. The strange energy burning painfully in his dantian, that "seed of chaos" which had sprouted the night before, seemed to have sharpened his senses to an almost painful degree, but it had also infused him with an eerie calm amidst the frenzy. The world around him seemed to move with terrifying clarity, every scream, every snap of branches, every metallic scent of blood registered with a precision he had never experienced before.
With an agility that would have surprised anyone who knew him as the "clumsy Lin Feng," he slipped to one side, using the body of a portly disciple, who was howling like a pig in a slaughterhouse, as a momentary shield against a flanking charge from a giant badger-like beast with razor-sharp claws. His trusty shovel, the "Dao" of his previous existence, "accidentally"—or so it would have seemed to a casual observer—found its way into the path of another desperate youth trying to push past him, sending him tumbling to the ground with a curse. Lin Feng didn't even look back. He plunged into the densest undergrowth, moving like a shadow, the pain in his dantian a constant ember that, paradoxically, kept him incredibly focused, every nerve thrumming with primal alertness.
Once he was at what he considered a safe distance from the initial slaughter, he stopped, leaning against the trunk of a gnarled tree covered in poisonous-looking moss, his breathing ragged but controlled. The energy in his dantian was still a whirlwind of pain and nascent power, a force he didn't understand, couldn't control, but which, somehow, was keeping him alive, changing him.
"Alright, Lin Feng," he told himself, his inner voice tinged with that dark humor which was his only solace. "You've survived the first five minutes. A new personal best. Now, let's consult the 'Scrap's Hunting Manual (and Practical Guide to Not Becoming Breakfast for Someone Bigger with More Teeth).'"
He took a moment to formulate his principles of survival, a mixture of cynicism and brutal pragmatism:
"Rule Number One of the Scrap's Manual: Where there are heroes and great beasts, there are also large pools of blood and many anonymous corpses. Stay away from all of them. Glory is for those with celestial life insurance or a Grand Elder uncle. You have a shovel."
"Rule Number Two: The Ideal Prey is One That Inspires Pity, Not Terror. Look for targets that, upon seeing you, feel a surge of superiority and lower their guard. Or better yet, creatures whose only defensive skill is to appear more pathetic than you. Spirit rabbits that faint from fright are a good start. Crystal larvae that can barely crawl are also strong contenders."
"Rule Number Three: A Core in the Bag (however minuscule) is Worth More Than a Hundred Sect Promises. Accumulate what you can, but don't risk your neck for a core that would barely get you a moldy bun. Your life, however miserable, is the only asset you truly possess. Don't sell it cheap for the approval of a deacon with garlic breath."
With these golden rules etched in his mind, Lin Feng began his "glorious hunt" through the Umbral Ridge. He moved with a stealth and cunning born from years of being last in line, of having to fight for every scrap. His senses, now strangely sharpened by the painful energy in his dantian, allowed him to detect the slightest rustle of a leaf, the subtle scent of a beast's nest, or the vibration of the earth beneath the paws of an approaching creature.
His prey, as planned, was the epitome of insignificance in the cultivation world. He found a nest of Moon-Fur Spirit Rabbits, creatures whose only notable defense was surprising speed over short distances and a consummate skill for playing dead—a tactic Lin Feng couldn't help but admire for its sheer pragmatic genius. After patiently observing their escape patterns, he managed to corner three against a dense thicket of thorns and dispatched them with quick, precise blows from his shovel. Their cores were the size of lentils and emitted a spiritual glow so faint he almost had to squint to see it. "A treasure for the annals of history," he muttered with a wry smile.
Later, his attention was drawn by a soft buzzing. Hidden in the corollas of deep blue flowers growing at the foot of a gnarled tree, he discovered a colony of low-grade Spirit Honey Bees. Their honey was slightly nutritious, and their stings, though painful, weren't lethal if one was quick. Lin Feng, recalling a passage from a text on "Edible Flora and Fauna for the Desperate Cultivator," improvised a small smoker with damp herbs and his tinderbox, managing to drive off most of the bees and collect a piece of honeycomb dripping with pale, fragrant honey. "Gourmet dinner," he thought, licking his fingers. The bees' cores, if they could even be called that, were nearly invisible specks of light.
He even managed to unearth, after arduous digging with his "Dao of the Shovel"—where Glob (the as-yet unmanifested entity) would have been most useful—a family of Stardust Moles, blind, slow creatures whose tunnels sometimes brought small mineral fragments with trace spiritual energy to the surface. Their meat was surprisingly tender and tasty if roasted over slow embers, though their "cores" were more like lightly charged specks of dust.
During his "productive" day, he witnessed several scenes that reaffirmed the wisdom of his approach. He saw a group of three outer disciples, who had previously mocked his cowardice, try to hunt a Jade-Horned Deer, an elegant but notoriously fast beast with a powerful kick. The result was two disciples with broken bones and the deer escaping unscathed, leaving the "heroes" cursing their luck. Lin Feng walked past, whistling an off-key tune.
Thus, he accumulated a small and rather pathetic bag of the lowest quality beast cores and some common medicinal herbs. "With this vast fortune," he thought with an ironic smile as he weighed the nearly silent bag, "perhaps I can buy myself a second-hand coffin. Or, if I'm optimistic, bribe the kitchen deacon not to spit in my gruel bowl for a week."
It was while he was "triumphantly" examining a suspicious-looking berry (which he decided not to eat after the energy in his dantian provoked a warning retch) that he felt it. First, an almost imperceptible tremor in the ground beneath his feet, like the beating of a giant, distant heart. Then, the distant echo of a series of massive explosions, a sound like mountains collapsing, which sent the forest birds taking flight in a terrified cloud. And finally, a wave of spiritual power so vast, so pure, and so intensely cold that it made his Chaotic Heart clench painfully in his dantian, only to then begin vibrating with a strange and dangerous excitement, like a suicidal moth drawn to a flame that was both the promise of light and the certainty of annihilation.
"That..." Lin Feng swallowed, the berry falling from his numb fingers, "...is definitely not a rabbit. Not even a very, very big one with a very bad temper that decided to learn how to use explosives."
Curiosity, that dangerous and seductive siren that had led more cultivators to their graves than all the beasts and rival sects combined, fought a brief but intense battle against his ingrained survival instinct. This time, curiosity—fueled perhaps by a subconscious need to calibrate the true scale of power in this world, to understand the peak of the shit mountain he currently stood upon—won by a narrow margin.
With the stealth of a ghost, his internal chaotic essence now acting as a sharp, instinctive danger sensor that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at every fluctuation of unknown energy, he headed towards the source of the commotion. He moved through the undergrowth like a shadow, climbed an ancient tree whose gnarled branches stretched out like the arms of an observant giant, and from that elevated and (he hoped) relatively safe position, he looked down into an icy valley opening up below, one not marked on any rudimentary map of the outer zones.
The sight left him breathless, the icy air trapped in his lungs.
It was as if winter itself had decided to unleash its most terrible fury and beauty in that single, isolated place. Icicles the size of siege lances, with strange bluish and purplish reflections, hung from ledges of ice that shimmered with an unnatural light. The ground was covered by a thick layer of frost that glittered as if millions of shattered diamonds had been scattered by an indifferent god's hand, and the very air seemed to tremble with a cold, cutting energy that promised a swift death to the unwary.
And in the center of that amphitheater of ice and primordial desolation, the battle was at its peak.
Xiao Lan.
It was her, unmistakable even at that distance, a figure of such grace and power she seemed alien to this mortal world. Clad in robes of a blue so deep they seemed like pieces of the night sky, her ink-black calligrapher's hair danced around her, not from the icy wind sweeping the valley, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the energy emanating from her being. Her sword, "Purifying Light," was a ray of pure white sunlight, a stroke of hope and divine fury amidst the glacial desolation, and her every movement was a perfect, lethal brushstroke on a canvas of icy destruction.
Her Purifying Fire was a manifestation of elemental purity and a power Lin Feng could barely begin to conceive from his position. It unfurled like a torrent of incandescent golden-white, so bright and overwhelming that even at the considerable distance he was, the intensity pained his eyes. The pure intent behind those flames seemed capable of incinerating not just flesh and bone, but any impurity, any shadow that stood in its path.
Her opponent was a Glacial Blizzard Beast, a monster at least ten meters tall, with snow-white fur streaked with blue, claws like scimitars of ice, and breath that froze the air around it. It was a creature at the peak of the Foundation Establishment Realm, a true tyrant of these frozen zones.
But Xiao Lan didn't fight alone. At her side, three figures in the blue robes of inner disciples moved in a coordinated formation. Lin Feng vaguely recognized them from his rare forays into the border areas of the inner sector. They were clearly Xiao Lan's elite team.
One was a serious-looking young man with steady movements, Senior Brother Wen, whose broadsword created earthen shields and deflected ice attacks with unflappable solidity. Another was a younger, more agile female disciple, Junior Sister Mei, who moved with a dancer's grace, launching light seals that seemed to restrict the beast's movements or empower Xiao Lan's flames. The third, Junior Brother Lei, was a whirlwind of energy, his spear crackling with lightning, his attacks bold and sometimes a bit reckless, always seeking an opening in the Blizzard Beast's defenses.
They worked well together, covering each other's weaknesses, but it was clear who was the core, the star around whom the others orbit. Xiao Lan was a natural calamity wrapped in divine grace. Her Purifying Fire danced, created, destroyed. A lotus of white and gold flames bloomed, incinerating the ice claws. A fire phoenix rose, forcing the beast to retreat with a roar of fury and pain.
Lin Feng watched, the painful and erratic energy in his dantian almost forgotten before such a spectacle. This was true cultivation. This was power. This was what it meant to be a "genius," a "Daughter of Heaven." A deep bitterness, mixed with an almost reverent fascination, washed over him. "So that's it," he thought. "No wonder I'm up here, hiding like a rat, while they redefine the art of war. She dances with a fire that could purify the very heavens. I... I'm still learning not to burn myself on the ashes of my own despair. The energy burning in my guts only brings me pain and confusion."
But it wasn't just envy he felt. His mind, honed by necessity, was analyzing. He observed Xiao Lan's exquisite control over her Qi, the way every ounce of energy was used with lethal efficiency. He saw how she anticipated the beast's movements, how she exploited the slightest opening. He saw her team's coordination, how they supported each other. Even in his misery, Lin Feng was a voracious student of survival and power. He was learning, filing away every detail, every movement, every fluctuation of energy his sharpened (and aching) senses could pick up.
The battle reached its climax. The Glacial Blizzard Beast, wounded and enraged, unleashed a primordial ice and snow storm, a vortex of frozen energy that threatened to engulf them all and turn the valley into a crystal tomb. Xiao Lan's three companions created a desperate defensive barrier, their faces pale with effort, their Qi reserves dangerously dwindling.
But it was Xiao Lan who rose amidst the storm, her figure shining like a sun in the heart of the harshest winter. Her sword, "Purifying Light," rose towards the valley's dark sky. And then, with a cry that was both a challenge and a judgment, she traced a single, elegant descending arc. A line of pure white fire, as thin as a hair yet imbued with inconceivable power, so concentrated it seemed to distort reality itself as it passed, cut through the blizzard as if it were mist and plunged deep into the beast's chest, right where Lin Feng, in his distant observation, had noticed the creature's energy seemed to fluctuate irregularly, as if its vital core resided there.
There was an instant of absolute silence, as if the universe held its breath. Then, the Glacial Blizzard Beast let out a final, terrible roar, a lament that seemed to carry all the cold of the valley with it, before collapsing with a crash that shook the mountains, its enormous body raising a cloud of snow and frost that took several minutes to settle.
Xiao Lan descended slowly, her breathing barely ragged, her face as cold and serene as the surface of a
frozen lake on a moonless night, though Lin Feng, even from his elevated position, thought he saw a fleeting flicker of exhaustion deep in her jade eyes. Her companions surrounded her instantly, their faces a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and almost religious adoration.
Lin Feng slowly exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had witnessed something extraordinary. Something that defined the word "power." And something profoundly terrifying in its magnificence.
He decided, with absolute certainty, that he had seen enough. "Too much noise for my liking," he muttered to himself, an ironic smirk curving his lips. "And definitely too many fangs and claws, even for a goddess of her caliber. Time to return to my much safer, and in its own way, lucrative hunt for silkworms and suicidally-inclined rabbits."
With a final glance at the distant figure of Xiao Lan, who now seemed to be giving instructions to her companions as they began to collect the beast's core and other valuable materials from its corpse, Lin Feng slipped from the tree with the agility of a shadow and disappeared into the undergrowth of the icy forest, his heart beating with a new and complex mix of emotions: bitterness, awe, a hint of envy that now felt more like a sting, and a growing, cold resolution beginning to solidify within him.
He returned to his low-level "hunting grounds," the image of Xiao Lan's power seared into his mind. The irony of his own situation—he, with that strange, painful energy writhing inside him, an energy he neither understood nor controlled, reduced to hunting spirit insects and rodents to survive—was almost comical if it weren't so tragic. But his usual dark humor was now tinged with a layer of steel.
"She dances with heavenly fire and commands the elements with the grace of an immortal," he thought as he expertly crushed the head of a particularly fat Crystal Caterpillar with the sharp edge of his shovel. "I... I'm still learning not to trip over my own feet while shoveling manure, and my greatest achievement is turning this tool into an extension of my patheticness." He held up the tiny crystal core, which barely emitted a glow. "But this thing in my dantian..." he touched his lower abdomen, feeling the painful yet potent and erratic throb of the dark energy within, "...this thing that burns and freezes me from the inside didn't awaken just for me to become the king of the sect's garbage collectors, nor the main supplier of fertilizer for their precious gardens."
A new, dangerous light glinted in his eyes, cold and calculating like the ice fragments surrounding him. The Spirit Beast Trial was long. It was full of "opportunities" for the bold, for the desperate, for those willing to dance with the unknown and use any tool at their disposal.
And he, Lin Feng, the fertilizer specialist, the misunderstood genius of the Dao of the Shovel, was a very, very fast learner.
Perhaps, just perhaps, his shovel could also serve to dig some graves a little larger than those for rabbits. Perhaps even for the occasional "snake" in disciple's skin who crossed his path. The thought drew a smile from him that didn't reach his eyes, a smile that promised trouble.