The night after the battle by the river was long and cold.
Wang Chung's wounds stung with every breath, but he didn't stop moving. He had learned the hard way that stillness invited death.
He walked deeper into the northern mountains, where the trees grew twisted and black, and the air carried an ancient chill. The faint pulse of the bead within his soul guided him, beating like a second heart.
It was strange. The bead had never led him before — but now, it thrummed with quiet purpose, pulling him northward.
By dawn, he stood before a collapsed stone gate. Vines crawled across broken pillars, and the faint scent of ash lingered in the air. Faded characters were carved above the entrance — nearly erased by time — yet a few still glimmered faintly in the morning mist.
> Temple of the Silent Sky.
Wang Chung frowned. "A temple?"
He stepped inside carefully. The air was heavy, dense with spiritual energy — not pure, but old. Forgotten. The kind that clung to ruins long after their masters were gone.
He walked past shattered statues and cracked floors until he reached the central hall.
At its heart stood a stone altar covered in dust. Upon it rested a single, half-burned scroll.
The moment Wang Chung's eyes landed on it, the bead within his soul pulsed violently — as though warning him, or calling to it.
He stepped closer.
The scroll seemed ordinary — no spiritual energy emanated from it — yet something about it drew him in.
He brushed away the dust and unrolled it.
Instantly, a cold light flared from the ink. A surge of ancient qi erupted from the scroll, filling the hall with ghostly whispers.
> "Those who seek power beyond heaven… must bear the curse beneath it…"
The voice echoed inside Wang Chung's mind. His vision blurred, and for a moment he felt as though his soul was being pulled into another world.
Mountains floated upside down. Rivers of stars flowed through the sky. At the center of it all was a man standing upon a golden lotus, his back facing the heavens. His white hair drifted like clouds, his eyes closed as if asleep — or dead.
The man spoke without moving his lips.
> "If you've found this scroll… then fate has already chosen your path."
> "The Silent Sky Art — a technique that defies heaven's balance. It refines qi not through absorption, but through devouring. Every breath you take… will consume the essence of the world around you."
The vision shattered.
Wang Chung gasped, stumbling back as the scroll disintegrated into ash between his fingers.
But before it vanished completely, a single rune of light entered his forehead — burning, then sinking deep into his sea of consciousness.
He could feel it — a new cultivation method had been imprinted in his mind.
He sat down cross-legged on the cold stone floor, suppressing the pain in his body. Slowly, he began to follow the first line of the Silent Sky Art.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the air around him began to twist.
A faint stream of mist flowed into his body — not spiritual qi, but the essence of life itself from the air, from the earth, from the decaying temple around him.
He trembled. It was too much, too fast. The bead in his soul pulsed, purifying the violent energy before it could tear his meridians apart.
The two forces — the bead and the technique — began to synchronize.
For the first time since his sect's destruction, Wang Chung's cultivation broke through smoothly — silently — into the Fifth Level of Body Refinement.
But the moment he opened his eyes, a chill ran down his spine.
The temple had grown quiet — too quiet. Even the faint whispers of spirits had vanished.
Outside, the forest was dead silent.
He stood, realizing with horror that every plant and tree within ten meters had withered into dust.
> "Devouring the world's essence…" Wang Chung whispered. "This is a cursed art indeed."
Yet deep inside, he couldn't stop the faint spark of excitement from flickering to life.
For the first time, he had found a true cultivation technique — one powerful enough to defy even the heavens themselves.
He clenched his fists, his white hair brushing against his shoulders as he whispered under his breath:
> "If the heavens will not grant me strength, then I will take it myself."
The path of the Celestial Immortal Emperor continued — silent, ruthless, and defiant.