Zheng Xie lowered himself slowly, crouching until his eyes were level with Wu Zhu's limp, helpless form. The wind danced around them, rustling the tall grass and scattered petals, but there was no serenity in the air anymore. Only the cold inevitability of cruelty.
His voice was honey-dipped, smooth as velvet, yet now it shimmered with unmistakable malice.
"Wu Zhu… don't take it to heart," he murmured, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from the trembling boy's forehead with mock tenderness. "It's already going to be ripped out anyway."
He smiled—a gentle, almost pitiful smile. The kind a man might give to a stray dog he was about to kick into a pit. "I really didn't want to kill you, you know. I soul-searched you because I suspected something odd. And what did I find? Memories. Strange, fragmented… impossible memories. A life not of this world."
His eyes narrowed, studying Wu Zhu like a curious scholar studying an ancient script.
"Memories of a place called Earth… and of novels. Cultivation novels. Some absurd, some profound—but all rich with insight. I must admit, I was fascinated." He chuckled to himself, the sound light and delighted, as if he'd just found a new hobby. "The cultivation ones especially. They were so detailed, so specific… concepts of Dao I had never even considered, realms of power far beyond what this world dares to dream."
Zheng Xie leaned in further, his breath brushing Wu Zhu's cheek. His gaze never left him—mocking, cold, hungry.
"And the best part?" he whispered. "You didn't even realize what you carried. All those novels you devoured in that past life? They've become etched into your soul. You forgot, but I saw them. Every page. Every phrase. Every insight. The Dao they pursued—refinement, will, heart, transcendence—it's all real. Or at least real enough for me to make use of."
Wu Zhu couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't beg. Even blinking was beyond him. His body was paralyzed, locked in some terrifying stillness. But his mind spun wildly, thrashing against the cage of flesh.
He had underestimated Zheng Xie.
Completely.
He thought he was just a side character. A minor stepping stone in a bigger plot. But the man before him now—he gave off the air of a final boss. A main antagonist hiding beneath layers of calm calculation and feigned civility.
Zheng Xie's smile widened as if he could read the realization in Wu Zhu's eyes.
"I'm not like those brutish protagonists in your novels," he said conversationally, almost cheerfully. "I don't kill out of pride or anger. I don't destroy entire sects just because someone insulted my tea. No, no. I'm from a righteous family, remember? I was raised properly. I value bonds. I treasure… tools."
He tilted his head, sighing wistfully. "I had hoped you could be one. A little pawn. A whisperer of alien wisdom. But…"
His gaze turned icy. "You're trash. Utterly useless."
He stood up slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his robe. "You have eyes for Ling Xue. Hilarious. Truly. I don't even want that woman. But I do want her clan. The Ling Family is valuable. Their assets, their influence. Their ties. To claim them, I need her."
He sighed, sounding almost regretful. "If you were useful, I would've left the Ling Family behind without a second thought. But alas… you don't even have the desire to work hard. No golden finger. No system. No unsealed bloodline. Just a worm clinging to delusions."
Zheng Xie raised his hand casually, palm open toward the sky, fingers spread as if embracing sunlight.
"Your death, in the end, is entirely your fault. Not mine. You should have been better."
And then he smiled, a genuine one this time, like a man offering final prayers before an execution.
"Thank you for all the information, though. Truly. Your memories are more valuable than Heaven itself. As such—" he brought his hand down like a blade, "—I will kill you swiftly."
A flash of light. A burst of force.
And then silence.
His hand pierced Wu Zhu's chest effortlessly. There was a soft, wet crunch, the sound of ribs breaking, flesh tearing, and then the squelch of his heart being torn free.
Zheng Xie stood tall, blood dripping from his fingers, holding the still-beating organ aloft. With a flick of disdain, he tossed it to the ground like refuse.
Red splattered across Wu Zhu's sky-colored robe, staining the blue with deep crimson. The flowers around him, once blooming bright and proud, were now soaked with blood. Their scent mixed with the coppery sting of death.
Zheng Xie didn't flinch. Not even a twitch.
He looked down at the corpse—no, not corpse. Not yet—and murmured under his breath:
'You wouldn't die that easily, child of Heaven. That's why you interest me. You still have uses. Many, many uses.'
With a slow exhale, Zheng Xie wiped his hand through the air. The blood evaporated, sizzling into vapor and disappearing. His robe remained spotless, as if he'd never committed an act of violence at all.
He turned on his feet, walking away without a second glance.
Back to the wooden shed.
Back to the memories.
Inside, the air was still. A single wooden table stood in the center, and on it sat an ancient jade slip. Zheng Xie sat cross-legged before it, his expression composed, but his eyes burned with greed and excitement.
These memories weren't just strange tales. They were a roadmap. A treasure trove. He had seen a glimpse of them.
'Dao… Karma… Dao Hearts… even tribulation tempering, I saw it all in his mind. That Earth may not cultivate, but its stories—those ridiculous stories—they contain truth. Refined by countless readers, polished over generations. They're distilled ideals of what cultivation should be.'
He closed his eyes.
Images surged through his mind. Cultivation realms that surpassed mortality. Sword laws born of single thoughts. Characters who defied fate not with strength, but understanding.
Zheng Xie's breathing deepened.
'This… this is better than any golden finger. This is a legacy of infinite heavens.'
His lips curled into a satisfied smile.
'I should treat Ling Xue better. Just slightly better. She deserves some praise… for introducing me to the boy who unlocked the Heavens.'
He closed his eyes.
A breath in. The air around him trembled. Qi drifted inward, thin wisps coiling into his pores like threads pulled by unseen fingers.
He began to assimilate the Qi of the mountain, refining it into the embryonic cores within him. Zheng Xie was currently at the 2nd Layer of the Qi Condensation Realm.
As per his cultivation path, each breakthrough required the formation of a new core—crystalline constructs that represented each individual layer.
Two cores had already been established within his dantian, like twin stars orbiting a silent void. A third would come, in time, but not today. The process demanded patience, and more importantly, vast reserves of Qi.
But that wasn't why he had closed his eyes today.
Deep within his mind, a different kind of pursuit was underway—one far more dangerous, and far more rewarding. He had begun to delve into the depths of Wu Zhu's memories, harvested when he had soul-searched the boy not long ago.
Buried in those memories, amidst flashes of modern Earth and mundane life, were the novels Wu Zhu had read. Fictional cultivation stories—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—each detailing worlds eerily similar to his own.
Zheng Xie had been skeptical at first. He was a product of a righteous clan, born and raised under the doctrines of logic and law. The idea that entertainment pieces from another world could influence true Dao comprehension sounded ridiculous… but the more he reviewed those tales, the more convinced he became that there was a strange resonance between those fictions and reality.
Especially regarding the Dao.
Dao—the ineffable Truth behind existence. That which all cultivators pursued, knowingly or unknowingly. Some sought the Dao of the Sword, cleaving mountains and laws alike.
Others sought the Dao of Flame, of Ice, of Time, of Death. Zheng Xie, however, had always felt a subtle, aching pull toward something else. Something deeper. The Dao of the Soul.
It was taboo. Forbidden. Banished from most sects, hunted by all major families. But it was also the only path open to people like him—people with weak spiritual roots.
People deemed trash by society, fated to never climb past the lower realms. The soul path did not care for your lineage or talent. It only cared for your will, your conviction… and the price you were willing to pay.
So, in the silence of that humble shed, Zheng Xie drifted deeper into the stolen memories, fishing through the depths until a particular passage crystallized before his mind's eye.
"The flesh is but a vessel. The spirit, but a spark. But the soul… the soul is the eternal thread that weaves across lifetimes, beyond heavens, beyond fate."
"In the vast tapestry of the cultivation world, there exists one truth feared and revered alike—the soul is the root of all existence. It is neither matter nor energy, but essence. While Qi tempers the body and nourishes the meridians, it is the soul that bridges will and destiny, memory and identity, life and the beyond."
"The soul is both fragile and eternal. It may be torn, twisted, scattered—but it cannot be truly destroyed by worldly means. Even the weakest peasant holds within them a soul vast enough to house countless lives and infinite potential."
"But beware—soul cultivators walk a narrow path. The stronger the soul, the more it attracts Heaven's tribulation, karmic backlash, and the wrath of forgotten entities. To master the Dao of Soul is to face the reflection of all one's lives and choices."
"As the ancients say:
"To master the sword is to cut the world.
To master fire is to burn the world.
But to master the soul... is to tear apart oneself.
Fight against the heavens."
Zheng Xie's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile.
"Even the weakest peasant holds within them a soul vast enough to house countless lives and infinite potential…"
He repeated the line like a mantra.
"Isn't that the very reason I pursue soul cultivation—even if the world calls it heresy? I was born without talent, shackled by weak roots, fated to be mediocre in the eyes of the heavens. But why should I accept that? Why should I grovel beneath the boots of those who call themselves chosen?"
"If there's a way to surpass them all, I will take it—even if I must walk alone."
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
A flickering light, ghostly and pale, radiated from the depths of his pupils. It wasn't Qi—it wasn't even spirit energy. It was something purer. Spectral essence. His soul force had stirred. It rippled out from his body in waves, faintly distorting the air around him.
If any soul cultivator had been nearby, they would've fallen to their knees in terror.
Zheng Xie, on the surface, was nothing more than a 2nd Layer Qi Condensation cultivator—a young man of above-average intelligence and decent willpower. But the truth was far more monstrous.
His orthodox cultivation was low, true. But his soul cultivation had already reached the Resonant Soul Realm—a level equivalent to the Nascent Soul Realm, albeit weaker in certain or many aspects.
But it was a strength he couldn't use.
At least, not openly.
Soul cultivation was punishable by death.
It was one of the only universally enforced taboos among all the major sects, clans, and divine families. Anyone caught wielding soul-based techniques was exterminated without trial.
Even the mere detection of soul-force manipulation could invite a purge from one of the High Clans. And they had methods—spells, arrays, soul-scrying techniques—that could detect even the faintest trace of forbidden power.
As such, unless Zheng Xie found himself in a life-or-death situation in a completely isolated, surveillance-free environment, his greatest power was effectively useless.
But still…
That didn't mean it would always remain that way.
One day, when he was strong enough to challenge the heavens themselves—when no clan or sect could afford to bear his wrath—he would walk under the sun with his soul ablaze.
And on that day, the world would remember the name Zheng Xie not as a cultivator… but as a calamity.
For now, though, he returned to silence. Truthfully he didn't desire to kill indiscriminately or kill in general but life wasn't a fairytale he could live without staining his hands red.
His gaze dimmed, and the spectral light faded.
There were more memories to sort through—more novelized insights to comprehend. Each cultivation world, each protagonist, each Dao pursuit—they were pieces of a greater puzzle. He didn't just want power. He wanted understanding.
And that was far more dangerous.
Because when Zheng Xie walked the path of the soul, he did not do so to merely grow stronger.
He did so to transcend.
But there existed a method—a hidden path—that could allow him to convert his soul cultivation into a form of orthodox cultivation recognized by the world. A method that would let him disguise his forbidden path under a different name. A single secret technique… belonging to none other than the Ling family.
A manual whispered about in rumors, coveted by many, obtained by none.
Through the tangled web of spies, informants, and shadow cultivators spread across the central continent—contacts he had cultivated through careful investment, subtle exchanges, and more than one debt paid in blood—Zheng Xie had confirmed its existence.
This technique wasn't some copy or degraded legacy scroll. It was a true ancestral inheritance—an ancient soul-rewriting manual passed down only through the main bloodline of the Ling clan.
And so he had turned his gaze toward Ling Xue, the ice-blooded princess of the Ling family.
She was the key.
He couldn't buy the manual. It wasn't for sale. He couldn't steal it—no intruder had ever left the Ling estate with their soul intact. The only feasible method was to marry into the clan, earn their trust, and become one of their own.
A long plan. A patient one. But a necessary one.
He had begun cultivating proximity, letting whispers reach the right ears, planting seeds of interest through intermediaries. Slowly, his name had reached Ling Xue. He had arranged encounters, orchestrated coincidences, and even crafted situations to make her curious about him.
And then—
Wu Zhu happened.
A boy with no background. A stranger who didn't belong to any family. And yet, somehow, Ling Xue's attention had shifted overnight. Her gaze, once cold and unattainable, had landed firmly on Wu Zhu.
Infatuation?
No. Zheng Xie had studied her too deeply for such a surface-level misjudgment. Ling Xue didn't look at Wu Zhu like a person. She looked at him like an artifact—an object that defied understanding. Not someone she wanted to love, but someone she wanted to own.
That made Zheng Xie suspicious.
He'd considered the obvious. Perhaps Wu Zhu had some unique physique, a hidden bloodline, or a special destiny tied to ancient inheritance. But when Zheng Xie soul-searched him—carefully, surgically—he found nothing of the sort.
No divine root. No mutated soul. No immortal inheritance sealed within the blood.
And that… shook him.
'Then what was it she saw in him?'
He had turned that question over a thousand times in his head. Wu Zhu was arrogant, naive, and reckless. A fool with too much luck and too little understanding. And yet, Ling Xue, whose perception and instincts were known even among the High Clans, had chosen to fixate on him.
There had to be something.
"Now, the only one who can answer that question is Ling Xue herself," he thought, his fingers curling into a fist. "But that's a matter for later. Right now, the most endearing thing is…"
The memories.
Zheng Xie inhaled slowly. The scent of dry wood and moss surrounded him, grounding his thoughts. But within his mind, he stood amidst a storm of ancient battles, philosophical insights, and countless breakthroughs—all memories not his own.
They were real.
Not illusions. Not half-formed dreams. Every technique, every clash of Dao, every shard of comprehension he absorbed from Wu Zhu's fragmented soul was genuine. It felt as if a thousand cultivators had entrusted him with their legacies.
Different powerhouses. Different Daos. Different paths.
Dao of Blades. Dao of Poison. Dao of Karma. Dao of Void. Dao of Thunder, Wind, Silence, and Rebirth.
He possessed the experience of lifetimes… a library of insight that any sect would slaughter kingdoms to obtain. If he wanted, he could begin walking the path of any Dao that had ever been conceptualized.
But that… was dangerous.
Because the moment he tried to comprehend more than one Dao at the same depth, his body would begin to reject itself. Daoic rejection—a metaphysical law known to all cultivators.
It wasn't a matter of will. It was a matter of cosmic incompatibility.
The world recognized three cultivation paths: Orthodox cultivation—recognized, respected, and taught. Body tempering—the path of the physical, often accompanied by brutal training and pain.
And finally… the forbidden paths: Demonic cultivation and Soul cultivation. Each had its own laws. And mixing Dao energies—especially deep comprehension-level ones—led to Daoic interference.
Two opposing insights could not co-exist within the same core. Even the most talented cultivators were reduced to dust trying.
He could, of course, learn techniques from different paths. Basic arts. Foundational skills. But without true Daoic insight, they were little more than tools—useful, but not transformative.
So he had to choose.
The Dao of Soul had already taken root in him. It wasn't something he could walk away from. His very soul structure had begun to warp and shift under its influence. Trying to suppress it now would only result in fragmentation, or worse, eternal spiritual damnation.
But there was no need, soul cultivation was different, the Dao of Soul didn't interfere with the body as such…
That meant… he had one more slot.
He could allow only one other Dao to enter his. A second Dao that would define his path moving forward.
From the mountain of legacies now residing in his mind, he had to choose.
And this wasn't like flipping through books in a library. Reading and comprehening were two vastly different things. Many sect disciples were handed scrolls of incredible value, only to remain at the same level for years because their minds couldn't understand what their eyes read.
Comprehension was key.
The Dao was not knowledge—it was insight. It was resonance. A cultivator didn't choose the Dao. The Dao chose the cultivator.
And Zheng Xie was on the verge of understanding that and making the Dao choose him.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing.
A thousand Daos whispered to him—each like a lover calling from the darkness.
But he could only walk with one.
And when he found it…
He would become it.