The darkness of the escape tunnel was a suffocating, earthy embrace. Shen Mo crawled on, his movements fueled by the last dregs of adrenaline and the single, low-grade Qi restoration pill he had taken. Each inch of progress is a monumental effort. Behind him, the muffled roars of the enraged Black Fangs were a fading memory, but the phantom pain in his back from the array's blast was a constant, fiery reminder of how close he had come to failure.
He finally emerged into the cool night air, tumbling out from a fissure hidden behind a thick curtain of thorny desert vines. He was miles away from the bandit camp, in a part of the badlands that was even more desolate and labyrinthine. He didn't stop. He pushed himself to his feet, hoisted the chest, and forced his battered body into a stumbling run, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the hornet's nest he had just kicked.
He traveled for two full hours, a ghost running on fumes, before he finally allowed himself to collapse. He found a shallow cave carved into the base of a towering mesa, a place barely large enough to shelter him from the elements and conceal him from prying eyes. He rolled a large boulder to partially block the entrance, a flimsy but necessary precaution. Only then, shrouded in darkness and silence, did he finally succumb to the crippling exhaustion.
His sleep was not restful. It was a chaotic storm of fragmented images: the sneering face of Mad Dog Kang, the cold, mirrored void of the Toll Taker's veil, and the memory of the Ferryman leader Scythe's life fading from his eyes. He was a killer in a world of killers, a pawn in a game where the players and the rules were hidden from him. The betrayal gnawed at him, a poison more potent than any he had encountered. Who had warned Kang? Who wanted him dead? Was it the mysterious client, playing both sides? Or was there a traitor within the impenetrable walls of The Paid Ferrymen?
He awoke hours later, the twin moons casting long, pale shadows across the badlands. The pain in his body had settled into a deep, pervasive ache. His Qi reserves were critically low, and his mind was clouded with fatigue and suspicion. He knew he needed to meditate, to heal, but first, he had to assess his gains. A mercenary's habit, beaten into him by years of living hand-to-mouth, was to always count the spoils of victory.
He sat cross-legged and dumped the contents of Mad Dog Kang's storage pouch onto the dusty cave floor. It was a bandit lord's treasure, crude but substantial. There was a small pile of mid-grade spirit stones, maybe two hundred in total. There were a few low-level cultivation manuals for brutish, earth-elemental techniques, and a collection of mismatched spiritual artifacts, none of which were of particularly high quality. It was the hoard of a thug who valued quantity over quality.
Then his eyes fell on a small, lacquered wooden box tucked into a corner of the pouch. It was of far better quality than anything else, clearly out of place. It felt cool to the touch, and a faint, almost imperceptible aura of ancient desolation seemed to emanate from it. This was not something Kang would have acquired by raiding a simple merchant caravan. This was something different.
His curiosity piqued, he carefully opened the box.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded black silk, was a single feather.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was about a foot long, shaped like a primary flight feather, but it was the color of a starless, moonless night. It was so perfectly black that it seemed to drink the faint moonlight entering the cave, a sliver of absolute void. It was impossibly light, yet when he reached out to touch it, he felt a strange, spiritual weight pressing down on his senses. The aura of ancient desolation was stronger now, a feeling of immense loneliness, of a being that had witnessed the birth and death of stars.
He picked it up. The moment his fingers made contact, a jolt of ice-cold energy shot up his arm and directly into his sea of consciousness. His vision went black, and the cave, the badlands, the entire world, dissolved around him.
He was floating in an endless, silent void. Before him, a colossal eye opened. It was a slit-pupiled, crimson eye, a perfect match to his own, but it was the size of a mountain. In its depths, he saw galaxies swirl and die. A wave of pure, undiluted knowledge, ancient and profound, washed over him, bypassing his thoughts and embedding itself directly into his soul. It was not a language of words, but of pure concept.
He felt the presence of the creature the feather had come from—a Myriad Shadow Raven, a divine beast from an era long forgotten, a creature that could fold shadows into reality and create perfect reflections of itself to traverse the cosmos. The information was a mere fragment of its innate power, a single drop of blood from a vast, unknowable ocean, shed and preserved in this single feather.
The technique imprinted itself upon his mind: [Myriad Shadow Soul Art].
The vision faded, and he found himself back in the cave, gasping for breath, the black feather lying innocently in his palm. His head throbbed with the sheer weight of the information he had just received. It was a technique that defied the common sense of cultivation. It was not an illusion. It was a method to create real, tangible, and permanent clones of himself.
The principles were both simple and terrifyingly complex. For each major cultivation realm he had successfully traversed, he could manifest one perfect clone. He had passed through the Qi Condensation Realm and was now in the Foundation Establishment Realm. He could, therefore, create two clones. These clones, once created, were permanent fixtures of his soul. They could be stored within a unique soul-space created by the technique, a pocket dimension inside his own body, but they could never be undone or reabsorbed.
The technique came with a strict set of unbreakable rules. It could only be learned by a cultivator in the Foundation Establishment Realm; the soul of a Qi Condensation practitioner was too weak to handle the strain, while the solidified Golden Core of a Core Formation expert made the soul division process lethally dangerous. Furthermore, upon breaking through to a new major realm, the user was forced to create a new clone immediately. This prevented any loopholes, such as waiting until the peak of a realm to create a clone at its maximum power.
But the drawbacks, detailed with cold, impartial clarity, were severe and everlasting.
First, the mental strain. To maintain a single consciousness across multiple, independent bodies was an immense burden on the soul and mind. While the clones were out, he would be processing twice, or even three times, the normal sensory input. A simple conversation would feel like three conversations happening at once. A battle would be a chaotic storm of information that could overwhelm and shatter a weaker mind.
Second, and far more crippling, was the permanent effect on his cultivation. The clones were not free. They were a part of his soul, a part of his Dao Foundation. The moment they were created, his cultivation speed would be permanently divided by the number of bodies he was sustaining. With one clone created, his speed would be forever halved. With two, it would be permanently cut to a third of its normal rate, whether they were manifested or stored away in his soul-space. It was a monumental, irreversible price. To gain power in the present, he would have to permanently sacrifice the speed of his advancement in the future.
Shen Mo stared at the feather, his mind reeling. This was a power that could redefine his existence as an assassin. He could have a clone stand guard while he cultivated. He could send a clone to scout a target's compound while he planned the infiltration from miles away. He could use them in battle, flanking an enemy who thought they were facing a single opponent. The strategic possibilities were endless.
But the cost... to permanently cripple his cultivation speed was a terrifying prospect in a world where strength was everything.
He weighed his options. He was a Bronze Oarsman in a deadly organization. He had been betrayed, and a mysterious, powerful enemy was now aware of his existence. His own strength was not enough. He needed more. He needed an edge that no one could predict. The risk was immense, the decision final. But the risk of remaining weak was even greater.
He made his decision.
He placed the black feather on the ground before him. The creation process, according to the imprinted knowledge, was a fairly straightforward process for such a divine technique, the main thing was needing this black feather and slivers of his own life force to give the clones form. He was already injured and depleted, making this a dangerous, even foolish, endeavor. But he had to know. He had to see this power for himself.
He sat cross-legged and began to channel his Qi, following the alien, intricate pathways of the [Myriad Shadow Soul Art]. He drew a thread of silvery-white Qi from his dantian and guided it into the black feather. The feather began to glow with a soft, dark light, pulsing like a black heart.
He then focused inward, drawing upon the fundamental essence of his journey. He reached for the foundation he had built in the Qi Condensation Realm—the memory of a mortal boy struggling to feel the flow of Qi, the triumph of the first successful cycle, the slow, arduous climb through the nine levels. He pulled a sliver of this conceptual foundation, a spiritual echo of that entire realm, and infused it into the pulsing feather.
A torrent of his Qi was sucked from his body into the feather, leaving him feeling drained and hollow. A swirling vortex of shadow, darker than the cave itself, erupted from the feather and coalesced on the ground beside him. The shadow writhed and solidified, slowly taking on a human form. It was a perfect copy of himself—the same height, the same build, the same white hair and crimson eyes—but it was bare, a featureless mannequin of shadow and Qi.
The process was not yet complete. He then reached for the foundation of his current realm, the Foundation Establishment he had forged through countless battles. He pulled another sliver of his essence, this one stronger, sharper, and infused with the cold intent of a killer. He fed it, along with another massive wave of his Qi, into the feather.
A second vortex of shadow erupted, forming another perfect copy on his other side, just as bare as the first.
He slumped forward, panting, sweat beading on his brow. He felt weak, his Qi reserves utterly depleted, and there was a deep, soul-wearying exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue.
Before him stood two figures. They were him. He could feel them, see through their eyes, control their limbs as easily as his own. He willed one to take a step forward, and it did. He willed the other to draw its sword, but its hand closed on empty air. Of course. The technique created a perfect copy of his body and soul, not his possessions. His robes, his sword, his veil amulet—they were his alone. The clones were naked canvases.
A strange, disorienting sensation washed over him. He was seeing the cave from three different perspectives at once. The input was jarring, a chaotic flood of information that made his head spin. He quickly focused, forcing the two new perspectives into the back of his mind, treating them as peripheral awareness rather than primary input. The dizziness subsided, but a dull throb remained. This was the mental strain the technique had warned of. It would take time to master.
He looked at his creations. They were not illusions. They were real, permanent, and completely unequipped.
"Ghost 1," he thought, focusing his intent on the clone to his right. "Ghost 2," he directed at the one on his left.
The names settled, a simple way to differentiate them in his own mind.
He stood up, his body aching. The path ahead was fraught with new dangers, but now he was no longer alone. He rummaged through Scythe's storage pouch and his own, finding two spare sets of simple traveling clothes, not the enchanted robes of the Ferrymen. He had them dress. It was a poor substitute, but better than nothing. Acquiring two more sets of proper gear, two more shadow veil amulets, and most importantly, two swords identical to Glimmer, just became his top priority.
He turned to his new extensions of self. He needed to recover, and he needed to get back to Blacksand Oasis to report his success and begin his own quiet investigation.
"Ghost 1," he commanded silently, "you will take the lead. You are unarmed, so rely on stealth. Your only purpose is to scout our path back to the city. Ensure it is clear of any pursuit from the Black Fangs or any other potential threats. Do not engage anyone."
"Ghost 2," he ordered the other, "you will take the rear guard. Remain vigilant, but stay hidden. I need to enter deep meditation to heal my injuries and restore my Qi."
The two clones gave a slight, synchronized nod. Ghost 1 slipped out of the cave entrance, its movements as silent and fluid as his own, and melted into the night. Ghost 2 found a high, shadowed ledge near the entrance, concealing itself perfectly, its veiled face turned towards the darkness, an unarmed but tireless sentinel.
Shen Mo sat back down, Kang's storage pouch beside him. For the first time since the battle, he felt a measure of security. He closed his eyes, sinking his consciousness into the familiar pathways of his cultivation technique. As he began the slow, arduous process of healing, his mind was a complex tapestry of three distinct viewpoints: the silent, focused meditation of his main body, the patient, watchful gaze of his guard, and the swift, ghostly passage of his scout as it moved through the moonlit desolation of the badlands. The cost was great, but the power was undeniable.