The wound itched.
Not on the surface — deeper. Under the skin.
Like something had moved in and started pacing.
Riven pressed two fingers against it. The warmth hadn't gone down. If anything, it was rising.
Night Fang venom always took its time.
That was the point.
They weren't made to kill. Not unless you were careless, or slow, or already half-dead.
They were made to remind you.
What kind of sect does this??
Every night in the Venomthread Sect carried that possibility: a low growl in the dark, a scrape of claws against stone, the sharp sting of something fast and fanged.
No announcements. No schedule.
Just enough surprise to keep your instincts sharpened.
Sleep, if you wanted. But sleep lightly.
Riven had heard that the Night Fangs were bred in tunnels beneath the medical pavilion.
Rumor said their venom changed every month. Kept the antidotes expensive.
Rumor was probably right.
The antidote existed. Of course it did.
Available to all. For a price.
Merit points, mostly. But also reputation.
The moment you asked for the antidote, your name was added to the Failure Board —
a large, very public slab of polished black stone listing the last ten disciples who'd been bitten.
No one wanted their name on that wall.
Of course Riven wasn't an exception. He couldn't afford to look bad.
Couldn't risk losing privileges. Couldn't afford to seem incompetent.
Another pulse of heat. His skin twitched.
No more stalling. He had to move.
"How the hell did the towel stay on,"
Riven muttered under his breath, grimacing as he pushed himself up.
His shoulder screamed. His ribs complained. But the towel?
Miraculously still wrapped around his waist like nothing had happened.
He took a moment to breathe.
Then started toward the door — slow, uneven steps, like someone trying not to spill a very full cup.
The mess he'd dropped was still scattered across the floor:
The robes. The knife. The ointment jar.
But he was only looking for one thing.
The padded case.
He found it half-open near the edge of the room, right where it had landed.
His fingers closed around it and carried it to the bed.
He sat down cross-legged and let the case rest in his lap.
One breath. Then another.
Then opened it.
The Frostdew Flower sat cold in his hand.
It wasn't an antidote. Not really.
It was meant to purge the body — flood it with cold energy, press outward, and force everything it touched to the surface:
Impurities. Waste. And possibly poison.
As long as he used it before the venom settled too deep, there was a chance.
He could kill two birds with one flower.
Clean his system. Break through. Maybe not have to ask for antidote.
He didn't stop to think about how trying this with a cracked rib and a bloodstream full of monster spit might not be the wisest idea.
If anyone else heard what he was about to attempt, they'd probably say he'd lost his mind.
But Riven didn't see it that way.
He didn't want the luxury of waiting until the time seemed just right.
And maybe — just maybe — that's what would make him a real cultivator.
Urgency. Desperation. The willingness to leap before you're ready.
Everyone talked about cultivation like it was a gift.
A golden path. A route to power, respect, immortality.
They didn't mention the rest of it.
What it really was —
was work.
Constant, thankless, bone-deep work.
And it took time.
A lot of time.
For most, too much.
You didn't wake up one day flinging fireballs.
You started small. Quiet.
First, you trained the body — strength, breath, control.
Then you learned to sense qi: the invisible energy that flowed through the world like currents under a still lake.
After that came the hard part.
Guiding it.
Opening the internal gates.
Carving the spiritual veins.
You couldn't skip steps.
Not unless you wanted to shatter yourself from the inside out.
That was the foundation.
Riven had spent the past five months building his.
Quietly. Obsessively.
And now — only one wall remained.
The biggest one.
The so called Inner Essence Realm.
The start of real cultivation.
Where qi didn't just sit exist around you — it moved with you. Inside you.
Laced through bone and breath.
Became yours.
But to reach that state, qi had to move freely — in and out.
And for that, the body's pores had to open.
Every single one.
Every cultivation method had its own belief about how to force them open.
His — the Frozen Gale Codex — used frostdew essence, drawn from the flower he'd fought to acquire.
He inhaled — slow, deliberate — as the petals crumbled between his fingers, dissolving into a cold mist that slipped past his lips and sank into his lungs.
The cold hit instantly. Not a surface chill — deeper.
It sank into his bones, flooded his lungs, coiled through every nerve like liquid ice.
"Shh."
His breath caught.
Teeth grit.
He dropped into trance before the pain could catch up.
The frostdew essence moved on its own. Flowing. Expanding. Pressing outward through muscle and marrow.
Then came the purge.
A deep ache bloomed across his body — slow, unbearable, ancient.
Like something buried beneath his skin had been waiting for this exact moment to start digging its way out.
Is this really the best way to do it?
His pores burned.
Not on the surface. From the inside.
The Frozen Gale Codex had warned about this part.
Had laid out exactly how to channel the flower's essence once it entered the body.
Not control it — you couldn't.
But guide it.
Just enough that it didn't tear you apart.
He followed the steps. Focused on the channels. Directed the ice-laced energy to flow upward and outward, spiraling through the routes his body had carved over the last six months.
Slowly, the pressure in his limbs began to build — then ease — then build again.
And beneath it all…
A twinge.
The poison.
It sat like a stone in his shoulder — stubborn, hot.
He focused what essence he could that way. Held the line.
For a long moment — nothing.
Then—
A spike of pain. Sharp.
The skin around the bite flushed a deeper violet — then paled.
The ache eased. The venom, pushed out.
His breath caught.
It was working.
"Hah."
He didn't stop.
He followed the cold to the end.
Let it reach into every corner of his body — until the pressure reached its peak.
Until the bottleneck opened.
And then—
Shift.
It was like a lock turning inside his chest.
A slow, silent click — and suddenly, the world felt different.
The barrier between body and air blurred.
The pores opened.
And into that space, something flowed.
Not the flower's essence.
Not frost.
Qi.
Not just felt — received.
It sank into his skin like breath drawn through a second set of lungs.
No longer theory. No longer still.
His qi.
It stirred. Moved.
Like a current. Like a hum. Like something alive.
He had stepped into the Inner Essence Realm.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The world hadn't changed. Not really.
But he had.
The air felt clearer.
The shadows more distant.
His own body… sharper.
Like the weight it carried now had direction.
Was my room always so bright?
Then — a new ache.
His waist.
He looked down.
Blood.
A slow trickle, leaking from the earlier wound — the one the ointment had sealed.
Except now, it was open again.
The frostdew purge hadn't spared it.
It had pushed the medicine out along with everything else.
He stared at the thin streak of red running down his side.
Sighed.
Leaned back until his shoulders touched the wall.
His whole body throbbed.
His hand still shook.
But…
He'd done it.
He was in.
He was a cultivator.
Finally.
His gaze dropped to the blood again.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"…I'm going to need more ointment."