That night, Lin Feng sat cross-legged in silence, breath steady, thoughts clear.
With a single breath, his consciousness sank inward — into the depths of his Mind Core.
The world inside was vast and still. A deep spiritual sea lay below, and at its center floated a glowing sphere of light, surrounded by eleven shining threads—thin, radiant filaments that moved with silent grace.
Each thread pulsed with its own rhythm. Some brighter. Some dimmer. Each carried the weight of unseen potential.
These were his Soul Threads. Most cultivators possessed five spiritual threads within their Mind Core. Seven marked talent. Nine were the sign of a genius. Ten? Rare. But eleven…
Eleven was something else entirely.
Even now, Lin Feng didn't fully understand it. He only knew what it had cost him.
He had never told anyone. Not about the eleven threads in his Mind Core.
Even in the Tianxu Realm, where powerful clans boasted bloodline gifts and strange constitutions, no one ever spoke of an Eleven-Thread Mind Core. Because no one else had it.
And because those who might understand... were dangerous.
I remember.
Two figures. Faces hidden. Black Qi rolling off their cloaks like smoke.
They didn't speak. They didn't ask. They simply attacked.
It was the first time he truly felt fear tear through his soul.
Not because he was weak—
But because he was worth taking.
"Not again," he whispered.
The memory passed. The cold stayed.
He inhaled, steadying his breath.
"The blade of revenge sharpens in silence. When it sings... they'll know they chased a shadow and awakened a storm."
Even now, energy moved sluggishly through the eleven threads in his Mind Core. What another cultivator might absorb in a breath, Lin Feng needed ten. Greater control came with a price—and no one else knew. He'd never told a soul.
He turned his focus toward the far side of his Mind Core—where a different structure hovered in silence.
---
A floating platform of stone and jade drifted just above the dark waters. Ancient scrolls wrapped in chains, glyphs carved into crystal, and glowing jade slips circled around a slowly turning monolith. This was not his own cultivation—it was the soul legacy passed down by Xian Wu.
Each technique radiated faint spiritual light, sealed behind layered runes. When Lin Feng reached toward one, a thread of light from his soul flickered, signaling a connection—but only when the technique permitted it.
He stepped forward mentally, eyeing the jade slips with sword insignias. The high-tier ones pulsed with refined killing intent.
"Too advanced… My core's still unstable. I can't risk it yet."
He shifted downward to the simpler techniques—lower-tier arts with no prestige, no brilliance.
One caught his eye. Its title was faded, nearly erased, but the pressure coming from it was not.
He reached out—and the world shuddered.
In a flash, he found himself standing in a hazy realm, sword-shaped shadows swirling like mist around him.
A figure emerged from the fog—vague, translucent, holding a plain iron sword. It didn't speak. It simply stepped forward, blade raised.
The intent was clear: fight.
Before Lin Feng could even summon doubt, the phantom slashed toward him.
His instinct reacted. A blade formed in his hand—drawn not from a sheath, but his will.
Steel clashed.
The figure's strikes were heavy, basic—but relentless. Each movement pressed on Lin Feng's mind like a hammer on iron. His breath shortened. His control wavered.
But with each exchange… he understood more.
"It's not fighting me to protect the technique…"
"It's teaching me."
He adjusted. Matched the rhythm. Swung low when the phantom overextended. Read its weight. Matched its timing.
Slash by slash, he began to learn—not from words, not from scrolls, but through survival.
At last, his sword slipped past the phantom's guard, slicing its chest.
It staggered. Nodded.
Then dissolved into a mist of light, which flowed into Lin Feng's soul threads like ink in water.
Suddenly, the runes around the jade slip in the Mind Core flickered—then opened.
The technique had been engraved into him.
"This wasn't a defense… It was a test."
"The technique itself—what little of it lingered in this world—was searching. Not protecting itself. Testing."
He exhaled slowly, sweat dampening his back even in the real world.
But he wasn't finished.
Lin Feng's gaze shifted to the higher-tier sword techniques above the monolith. Their spiritual light was refined, complex—too deep for his current level.
He reached toward one cautiously.
The runes flared to life with a snap. A wave of soul pressure slammed into him. The eleven threads in his Mind Core strained under the backlash, and he instinctively withdrew.
"I'm not ready… It won't kill me, but…"
The technique didn't reject him out of cruelty. It was waiting—for the right bearer.
"Even these legacies are alive in their own way."
He turned away and moved toward the other side of the platform—where alchemy-related techniques hovered in a dim halo of medicinal fragrance.
His original reason for entering the Mind Core wasn't swordplay. He'd come searching for basic pill recipes—something he could attempt soon. He'd never refined a pill before, but he would need to. Sooner than later.
He scanned the array of jade slips and scrolls, searching for beginner-level guides. Most were either damaged or too complex. A few required tools he didn't own.
But one caught his attention—barely visible in the corner of the platform.
A half-burnt scroll floated in silence, its edges charred, most of its glyphs long faded.
When he touched it, the scroll reacted.
A flicker of flame spiraled upward—not real fire, but a projection of a technique. Symbols pulsed within the ember, vibrating with soul patterns.
The scroll wasn't a pill formula after all.
It was a flame control method.
Lin Feng frowned—but didn't pull back. Something deep in his soul recognized the structure. This wasn't an ordinary alchemy method. It carried Xian Wu's mark.
A soul technique—meant to refine and guide fire with surgical control, not brute force.
The scroll cracked, and its ember sank into his Mind Core.
Lines of runes embedded themselves within his spiritual threads.
"This… this isn't just for controlling fire."
"It's for preserving weak flames. Directing them precisely."
He sat stunned.
The soul technique wasn't strong. It was delicate—meticulous. Designed not for destruction, but for conservation.
"Even a dying ember could be useful… if controlled precisely enough."
Lin Feng had no furnace. No refined fire seed. What little he had was a degraded divine soul flame—weak and unstable. But with this technique...
He might be able to use it.
Not in battle. Not yet. But in pill refinement?
Perhaps.
His heart quieted.
"Sword techniques test your intent."
"Alchemy… devours your clarity."
But still—his body ached from the serpent-beast's venom, and his meridians had been strained to the edge during the escape. Deep in his soul, the eleven threads in his Mind Core flickered with chaotic remnants of energy.
So this is what's changed.
The threads are more responsive… but unstable.
Even the slightest surge of Qi threatens to tear through me.
If I can't control this, any breakthrough will be suicide.
He dared not attempt it—not now.
Even with eleven threads, his Mind Core needed time. And fuel.
What use was talent, if the realm itself starved him of what he needed most?
So he focused again.
Within the soul-space of inherited memory, he dove deeper—this time with purpose. Through the alchemy records passed down from Xian Wu, he began to search. Dozens of treatments surfaced in flickering script: soul harmonization elixirs, essence-condensing pills, spiritual root stabilizers.
Most were useless to him. They required celestial-grade herbs. Advanced cultivation. Furnaces he didn't own.
His temples throbbed. Ancient knowledge bore down on him like the weight of a thousand lives.
Then—finally—he found one.
A formula designed to stabilize strained meridians and nourish a fragile Mind Core. Not perfect. But designed for someone with barely enough Qi to stand.
Simple. Crude, even.
But it's something I can build on.
If this works… I can stabilize the second thread.
Maybe even awaken the third before winter.
He exhaled softly, and with practiced care, unfurled a spiritual scroll. He wrote down the ingredients—each name etched with quiet resolve.
"This should work… if I can find the herbs."
He had no spiritual garden. No rare stockpiles. But he had a method now.
And one last path forward.
His Mind Core trembled slightly. The eleven threads flickered, still unstable, strained by the new technique's structure. He withdrew from the scroll platform and let the space fade.
The floating monolith dimmed.
Back in the quiet room, Lin Feng opened his eyes.
His back was drenched in sweat.
But in his limbs, something subtle had changed.
A sword art echoed in his muscles, like phantom tension waiting to be drawn. And in the depths of his soul, a dying flame flickered quietly—no longer just fading, but guided now by something precise.
He had passed the test of a sword technique that still remembered its purpose.
And discovered a flame control art that might one day defy the heavens.
Morning light spilled across Greycloud City, warm and golden.
The streets stirred gently, as if waking from a long breath.
Lin Feng walked with steady breath, the chill of dawn still clinging to his sleeves.
His senses felt sharper—edges cleaner, breath deeper.
Something within him had settled overnight.
Chatter and iron carts filled the road to the inner market. Spice and sweat clung to the morning air.
As Lin Feng passed a cracked stone wall, a voice rang out—sharp, familiar, and unwelcome.
"Well, well… if it isn't the beggar prince," one youth called out, voice thick with scorn.
Three figures stepped into view, loose sect robes swaying, their smiles sharp with mockery.
One of them—a short-haired boy with a scar like a hook at his chin—spat onto the ground.
"Didn't think we'd see you again, Lin Feng. Figured you'd finally crawled into some ditch and died."
Lin Feng kept walking.
"Still pretending to be a cultivator?" another sneered, stepping in front of him. "Or just browsing for another cracked pill you can't afford?"
Their laughter buzzed like flies.
One reached out to shove him—Lin Feng's hand moved.
A flick. Barely visible.
The boy froze.
A shallow cut shimmered across his sleeve—close to skin, but deliberate.
His parrying rod slipped from his fingers and hit the street with a dull clatter.
He staggered, landing hard. Scrambled back on one hand, face twisted in shock.
Lin Feng stepped forward, shadow falling over him.
Then he smiled—just once. Cold. Unreadable.
And turned away.
"You…" the boy stammered. "You never fought like that before."
Lin Feng met his gaze—calm, unblinking.
"No. I didn't."
His voice held no anger. Only certainty.
"I was weak. Poor. Alone."
He stepped past them. "But now… every step I take—I earn."
The boys shifted aside, uncertainty cracking their bravado.
Then the scarred one moved. Quiet steps behind.
The air changed.
Not noise. Not motion. Just pressure.
Lin Feng didn't turn.
He paused—then shifted. Just enough to let one cold eye meet the boy behind him.
No threat. No fury.
Just calm. Absolute.
The boy's foot halted mid-step.
Something unseen pressed into his chest—quiet, suffocating.
"Zhao—stop," one of the others said sharply, the mockery drained from his voice.
The scarred boy blinked, as if snapping out of a daze. His jaw tightened.
"Tch. You think you're a cultivator now?" he muttered. "Then stay right here."
He jerked his chin toward the street behind them.
"We'll come back. Let's see if you're still standing when we do."
He turned and stalked off. The others followed.
One paused to help the fallen boy up, casting a final glare over his shoulder.
"You wait. You'll see."
Lin Feng tossed two coins behind him.
They clinked softly against stone.
"For treatment," he said.
And kept walking.
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