It had all started so simply.
He had handed Zhao Yan ten spirit stones and returned to his hut, intending to enjoy a meal of freshly roasted meat. But just as he was about to take his first bite, a sharp, piercing sword cry split the air.
Startled, he rushed outside — only to see one of the swords buried in the sword grave, begin to tremble.
Then, before his eyes, it rose with terrifying speed and flew across the sky, a crimson streak of steel, before crashing down with thunderous force on the distant hut.
Alarmed, the old man abandoned his meal and raced toward the explosion.
What he found left him speechless.
Zhao Yan sat amidst the ruins, drenched in blood, locked in deep meditation — and resting across his lap was the very crimson sword that had shattered the hut.
"Oh no!" the old man gasped, moving instinctively to help Zhao Yan — but before he could take a single step closer, the crimson sword lifted from Zhao Yan's lap and shot forward with blinding speed.
With a sharp crack, it struck his cane — an old weapon he'd carried for decades, refined and nurtured through countless battles — and shattered it in an instant.
The elder froze, eyes wide with disbelief. His trusted sword, broken like fragile wood… by a single, effortless strike.
The crimson blade hovered in the air, humming with an invisible power, circling Zhao Yan like a sentient blade.
The old man had seen many things in his time. But this... this defied them all.
Then the old man felt it.
A shift in the air. The spiritual energy in the surroundings, once dispersed and calm, had begun to surge.
It was being drawn toward Zhao Yan in a torrent — a vast, uncontrollable flood that gathered around him like a storm finding its center.
He glanced down.
The ten spirit stones he had lent Zhao Yan — all of them had turned to fine dust, utterly drained.
But that was nothing compared to what he saw next.
The energy pouring into Zhao Yan's body wasn't simply gathering — it was being refined, rapidly and violently.
Black liquid began to seep out of Zhao Yan's pores, dripping onto the scorched earth. Impurities, being forced out of his body.
His skin twitched, his muscles contracted — and then, slowly, began to reshape.
Tendons stretched. Bones creaked. Muscle fiber wove itself anew.
"He is transforming."
The old man stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by awe and caution.
He dared not interrupt. The crimson sword, though now quiet, still hovered nearby.
After a long while, it gently descended, coming to rest once more on Zhao Yan's lap.
And so, the old man waited.
One day passed. Then two. Then three.
Still, he remained.
Zhao Yan's body continued to change, each moment drawing him further away from what he once was.
A week passed. Then another. And finally — after four long weeks — Zhao Yan stirred.
His eyes fluttered open.
His breath was calm but deep, steady like the earth itself. His bloodied, torn, dirt-stained robes clung to a body entirely reborn.
Then, he looked around, bewildered.
"Senior... did you get shorter?" Zhao Yan asked, his voice laced with genuine confusion.
The old man blinked, and then suddenly burst into laughter — loud, unrestrained, echoing through the empty space around them.
He laughed not because the question was funny, but because he had no words left to explain what he was witnessing.
Still chuckling, he looked Zhao Yan over, shaking his head in disbelief."You... what in the heavens did you do?"
Zhao Yan furrowed his brow and thought for a moment.
"I just… cultivated the Sword Breathing Technique," he said slowly.
'Sword Breathing Technique?' The old man's expression froze.
He stared at Zhao Yan as though seeing a ghost, then let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"You really have no idea, do you?" he muttered.
"You were undergoing enlightenment."
Zhao Yan blinked.
"Enlightenment?" He repeated the word under his breath, as if tasting it for the first time. It felt distant, abstract — something from stories, not reality.
The old man simply gestured.
"Check your body."
Still uncertain, Zhao Yan closed his eyes and turned his focus inward.
What he saw made his heart skip a beat.
Beneath his lower abdomen, where a lump of spiritual energy used to be, now sat a brilliant white core — solid, luminous, and thrumming with immense power.
It pulsed with refined Qi, more vibrant than anything he had ever imagined.
His eyes flew open.
"What—?!" Zhao Yan gasped, disbelief clear in his voice.
Without hesitation, he summoned his status window.
L****** (Zhao Yan)
Age: 16
Cultivation: Qi Condensation - 1st Layer (0/20) (+)
Techniques: Phantom Step Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Plum Sword Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Sword Breathing Technique - Origin, Heavenly Sword Strike - Not Initiated (+), Devil Blade - Beginner (0/1000) (+), Silent Wind Technique - Beginner (0/10) (+), Energy Extraction technique - Origin
Revulsion Points: 8850
Pity Points: 751
"I… I broke through!" Zhao Yan shouted, his voice bursting with joy as he stared at the cultivation section of his status window.
His face lit up, overwhelmed by the realization — all that pain, all that endurance, had paid off.
Behind him, the old man simply sighed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Kids these days," he muttered under his breath, then turned away, covering his face with one hand.
"Alright, enough of that—just put some clothes on, will you?!"
Zhao Yan blinked, confused. "What do you mean? I'm wearing my—"
Then a cold breeze brushed against him.
He glanced down… and froze.
His pants were in tatters, barely holding together, and his lower half was completely exposed to the world.
His face went pale with horror as he awkwardly twisted his body, trying to hide what little dignity he had left.
"Senior! Just… wait a moment!"
In a panic, Zhao Yan scrambled through the remains of the ruined hut, shifting through broken wood, ash, and rubble until he found a pair of rough grey pants and a matching robe.
Without hesitation, he threw them on.
Once dressed, he took a cautious sniff of himself — and immediately recoiled.
A rancid, sour stench clung to his skin.
"Senior… where can I bathe?" he asked, trying not to gag at his own odor.
The old man finally turned around, giving him a quick once-over before answering,"North of here, there's a river. South side, another thatched hut with a bucket and well. Choose whichever suits you."
He waved a hand dismissively."Go on. We'll talk once you stop smelling like a beast."
Zhao Yan gave a sheepish bow and darted off toward the north.
The old man watched him disappear into the trees, his expression calm — yet tinged with something like regret.
"What a pity," he murmured to himself.
"He only possesses an immature Innate Physique…"
...