The thick morning fog clinging to the Duskwind Mountains was a blessing, a final curtain drawn between Arin and the seismic chaos he had left behind. He stood on the edge of the foothills. The sprawling territory of the Duskwind Sect was behind him; the unknown kingdoms of the north lay before him.
He was no longer running from a threat; he was walking toward one.
Arin focused on his new core, taking a deep, conscious breath. The air entered his lungs, but unlike before, the faint, ambient Qi was not instantly devoured by a desperate Mark. Instead, his Marrow-Sealed frame took the energy and, with an utterly seamless process, channelled it to the very marrow of his bones. The process was utterly seamless. Here, the divine runes quietly converted the raw Qi into a highly potent, stable spiritual reserve that flowed directly to his unified dantian.
For the first time since the Mark was imprinted, Arin felt a continuous, sustaining flow of energy. His core wasn't just stable; it was self-sufficient. His power was no longer a debt he owed to the goddess, but a constant, internal dividend generated by his own transformed body.
He felt a deep sense of permanence. The stone-like density of the Bone-Forged stage was now innate, covered by fully healed skin. The scars of his last transformation were gone, replaced by a smooth, almost unnatural resilience.
His internal inventory was simple but profound. He had the complete foundation of the Fourth Divine Mark. He had a physical body that was tough and resilient. And he had his spiritual bank: the remaining petals of the Cloud-Drifting Bloom, carefully sealed in the oiled fabric, enough fuel to force at least two more major ascensions when the time for sacrifice came again.
His immediate concern was anonymity. A high-level Elder was hunting him now, searching for a powerful, spiritual anomaly. His rags were gone; he had found an abandoned camp used by travelling merchants and scavenged a set of simple, functional brown trousers and a drab tunic the uniform of a common traveller.
His next act was critical. He focused his will on the crescent Mark at his collarbone. The mark was divine, visible, and deeply symbolic. He could not erase it, but he could conceal it. He willed the flow of his refined Marrow-Sealed energy to surround the mark, creating a layer of smooth, low-frequency Qi that dampened the mark's visual brilliance. The crescent faded from a silver-grey luminescence to a faint, dark scar—still visible upon close inspection, but easily missed by the casual glance. He had shed the cursed brand for the guise of the unremarkable.
With the security settled, Arin turned to the matter of his destination. Lyra.
His memory of her final months in the Labourer Corps was fragmented, but persistent. She had been asking questions, quietly trading favours for information on the Northern Trade Cities massive, cosmopolitan hubs where goods flowed between the kingdoms and the sea. She spoke of a rumoured underground organisation that helped those with 'difficult pasts' escape the influence of the major sects.
Lyra, with her keen intelligence and survival instinct, would have gone to the largest nexus point possible—a place of chaos, money, and anonymity. The most logical target was Port Zenith, a sprawling coastal city famous for its lawlessness and its connection to the sea trade, located weeks away across the Northern Plains.
The journey was the challenge. The distance was immense, and the direct path ran along the King's Road the most heavily monitored trade route in the region, patrolled by the local kingdom's soldiers and frequented by high-level merchant cultivators who would instantly recognise his Qi signature if he slipped up.
He could choose the slow, safe path through the desolate wilderness, but that would cost him valuable weeks and risk being trapped by the Duskwind Sect's aerial sweeps.
Defiance is speed. Defiance is risk.
Arin chose the direct route. He would walk the King's Road. He would rely on the invisibility of his low-Qi disguise, the perfection of his Blood-Engraved stealth, and the rock-like endurance of his Bone-Forged defence. He would use the chaos of the crowd to hide, confronting the threat of civilisation head-on.
He checked his few remaining items: the stolen manual, his remaining petals, and his knife. He took one final look at the majestic, cruel mountains of the Duskwind Sect, now veiled in the morning mist, a silent promise of future vengeance.
He turned and stepped onto the rutted dirt of the main road. The cultivation world was vast and brutal, ruled by power Arin had only begun to comprehend. But he was no longer a slave or a captive. He was a predator walking among his prey, a creature of chaos and divine power hidden in plain sight.
The open road was his now.