Azrael woke to the smell of burnt cloth and something vaguely unpleasant.
He sat up, disoriented for a moment, then looked down at himself. His outer sect robes were scorched and torn, hanging off his body in charred strips. The fabric around his shoulders and chest had completely disintegrated, leaving him half-naked.
"Well, that's new," he muttered.
His body felt different. Stronger. Cleaner. When he looked at his skin, there was no sign of the impurities that supposedly leaked out during cultivation breakthroughs. The Fire Law integration must have burned them away along with his clothes.
The stench, however, remained. The cave smelled like someone had set a garbage fire.
"Great. I finally advance in cultivation and I stink up my own home."
He stood, and his legs felt steady. More than steady—powerful. His lean, malnourished frame had filled out slightly. His muscles were more defined, his posture straighter. When he looked at his reflection in the small bronze mirror on his desk, even his face had changed. Sharper jawline. Clearer skin. More symmetrical features.
"Huh. Cultivation really does make you prettier."
His body thrummed with energy. His qi flowed smoothly, effortlessly through his meridians. His mind was sharp and clear, more focused than he'd ever felt in either of his lives.
"Status," he said experimentally.
The interface appeared:
[STATUS]
Name: Azrael Void
Realm: Qi Condensation - Layer 5
Foundation: Trash-Tier → Acceptable-Tier (Improving)
Talent: Heaven-Defying Comprehension
Laws Comprehended:
Fire Law: 24%
Combat Power: Can contend with Early Foundation Establishment
Azrael stared at the display.
"Layer 5? I jumped two layers in one night?"
That wasn't normal. Even he knew that. Most outer disciples took months or even years to advance a single layer. He'd done it in his sleep.
"I'm still at Qi Condensation Layer 5," he said slowly. "But I can fight someone at Foundation Establishment? That's a major realms above me."
He looked at his hands. They didn't look particularly different, maybe slightly less bony. But when he focused, he could feel the Fire Law woven through his very being. It pulsed in his blood, reinforced his bones, sharpened his mind. He understood fire at a level that most cultivators never reached.
"24% comprehension," he murmured. "Still so much more to learn."
His stomach growled, interrupting his contemplation.
Right. He hadn't eaten in over a day. His body had burned through a lot of energy during the integration.
Azrael looked around his cave. There was no kitchen. No bathroom. No running water. Cultivators apparently didn't need such mundane things—they just used qi to clean themselves and absorbed spiritual energy from the air instead of eating.
Mortals dug wells and bathed like normal people. Cultivators were too good for that.
"I need to clean up," he muttered.
He circulated his qi, trying to use it to clean himself the way he'd seen in Azrael Voss's memories. It sort of worked—the qi swept away some of the grime and sweat, but it felt clumsy and inefficient.
The problem was his breathing technique and qi control technique. Or rather, the lack of one.
The sect didn't give scribes proper breathing techniques. Copyists were just expected to clumsily absorb qi from the air and stuff it into their dantian, hoping for a breakthrough someday. It was the cultivation equivalent of trying to fill a bucket with a spoon while blindfolded.
"I need a proper breathing technique," Azrael decided. "Something I can study and improve."
He couldn't just comprehend something from nothing. His Heaven-Defying Comprehension needed a foundation to work with, something to analyze and perfect. Without a technique to study, he was stuck with crude basics.
His stomach growled again.
Fine. Food first. Or rather, spiritual energy absorption. He sat down and began the clumsy breathing pattern that Azrael Voss had used, drawing in wisps of spiritual qi from the air. It helped a bit—the hunger faded slightly—but it was terribly inefficient.
After half an hour of this unsatisfying cultivation, Azrael gave up and got dressed. He had a job to do.
He pulled on a fresh set of outer sect robes from his small wardrobe—basic gray and blue garments that marked him as bottom-tier. Then he carefully packed the ten completed copies of the Basic Fire Palm technique into a leather satchel.
Time to visit Elder Feng.
The Celestial Peak Sect was beautiful in the morning light.
Azrael had spent most of his time as Azrael Voss locked in his cave, copying manuals and trying not to starve. He'd never really appreciated the sect's grandeur.
The outer sect was built into the mountainside itself, a sprawling complex of caves, pavilions, and training grounds carved from white stone and dark wood. Waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs, their mist catching the sunlight and creating small rainbows. Ancient trees with golden leaves grew from impossible angles, their roots digging into solid rock.
Disciples in gray robes were already training in the open courtyards. Some practiced sword forms, their blades humming through the air. Others sat in meditation circles, absorbing the morning qi. A few were sparring on raised platforms, exchanging blows that would shatter normal humans.
Azrael passed the Enforcement Hall, a stern building where rule-breakers were punished. Then the Mission Hall, where disciples could take jobs for contribution points. The Alchemy Pavilion, where rich disciples bought pills to accelerate their cultivation. The Technique Pavilion, where techniques could be purchased with contribution points or spirit stones.
Everything cost something. Contribution points, spirit stones, favors. The sect was generous with housing and basic resources, but anything beyond survival had a price.
Finally, he reached the Sect Library.
It was the largest building in the outer sect—a massive three-story structure that dominated the central plaza. The first floor was open to all disciples and contained basic techniques and cultivation knowledge. The second floor required inner disciple status. The third floor was restricted to core disciples and elders.
Azrael had only ever been allowed in the basement.
The scribes worked in the basement and a backyard area, copying manuals in dim lamplight for spirit stones. It was honest work, but it was lonely and tedious.
He entered through the side entrance and descended the stairs. The basement was a long room filled with desks, inkpots, and stacks of scrolls. A dozen other scribes were already there, hunched over their work.
At the far end sat Elder Feng.
Elder Feng was a middle-aged man with graying hair and the tired expression of someone who'd spent centuries managing other people's paperwork. He was a Foundation Establishment cultivator—not particularly powerful, but more than strong enough to oversee scribes. His job was to review completed copies, accept the good ones, and discard the bad ones.
Several scribes were already lined up to submit their work.
Azrael joined the queue and watched as Elder Feng inspected each manual with a critical eye. Most were accepted with a nod and a small pouch of spirit stones. A few were rejected with a disappointed shake of the head and a curt explanation of the flaws.
"Sloppy strokes here. Ink too thick. Inconsistent spacing."
"This character is malformed. This one too. Rejected."
"Acceptable. Barely. Ten spirit stones."
The rejected scribes left with slumped shoulders. The accepted ones looked relieved.
Finally, it was Azrael's turn.
He placed his satchel on Elder Feng's desk and pulled out the ten copies of the Basic Fire Palm technique.
Elder Feng picked up the first manual and opened it.
He froze.
His eyes widened slightly as he scanned the page. Then the next page. Then the next. He set down the first manual and picked up the second, examining it with the same intense scrutiny.
Then the third.
The other scribes in line began to murmur. Elder Feng never took this long to review a submission.
After examining all ten manuals, Elder Feng looked up at Azrael with an expression of genuine surprise.
"Voss," he said slowly. "Where did you learn to write like this?"
Azrael had prepared for this question. The change in his calligraphy quality was too dramatic to go unnoticed.
"When I went down the mountain to visit my parents last week," he said, keeping his voice respectful, "my father's uncle was visiting. He's an imperial scholar in the capital. He saw me practicing and spent a few days teaching me proper techniques."
It was a believable lie. Imperial scholars were rare but not impossibly so, and they were known for their exceptional calligraphy. Having one in the family would explain the sudden improvement.
Elder Feng nodded slowly. "Ah. That explains it."
He looked down at the manuals again, then back at Azrael.
"Your work is exceptional. Flawless strokes, perfect spacing, beautiful composition. This is the highest quality I've seen from a scribe in... decades, honestly."
The other scribes' murmuring grew louder. A few shot Azrael envious looks.
Elder Feng stood up. "Azrael Voss, effective immediately, you are promoted to top-tier scribe."
Azrael kept his expression neutral, but internally he was grinning.
"Your new monthly stipend will be one hundred spirit stones," Elder Feng continued. "You will also receive a basic breathing technique, a movement technique of your choice, and priority access to copying assignments. Additionally, you'll be given your own private workspace instead of sharing the common area."
"Thank you, Elder Feng," Azrael said, bowing respectfully.
The envy in the other scribes' eyes was almost tangible now. A hundred spirit stones per month was more than some inner disciples earned. The breathing technique alone was worth at least two hundred spirit stones on the market.
One scribe—a thin man with a perpetual scowl named Ren—looked like he wanted to protest, but wisely kept his mouth shut. You didn't argue with elders.
Elder Feng pulled out a jade slip and a small scroll from his desk. "Here's the breathing technique and a voucher for the movement technique. Take it to the Technique Pavilion and choose whichever basic movement art suits you."
Azrael accepted both with another bow.
"Now then," Elder Feng said, addressing all the scribes present. "I've called you all here today because it's that time of year. The inner sect recruitment is coming up."
Several scribes groaned. Azrael perked up.
"The outer sect recruitment just passed, so now we need to prepare for the inner disciples. That means copying manuals from the second floor of the library—inner disciple techniques. We have one week to complete the work."
More groans.
"You'll report to the library backyard every morning at 8 AM and work until 9 PM. Lunch breaks will be provided. You'll be rewarded based on the number of acceptable copies you produce."
Azrael's mind was already racing. The second floor. Inner disciple techniques. Thousands of different methods to study and comprehend.
This was perfect.
The other scribes were grumbling about hand cramps and long hours. Azrael was trying not to look too excited.
"Follow me," Elder Feng said.
He led the group through a door at the back of the basement, up a flight of stairs, and out into a large courtyard behind the library. It was a peaceful space with stone tables, meditation mats, and shade from ancient trees. Clearly set up for scribes to work outdoors during mass copying projects.
Tables were already arranged with fresh paper, inkpots, and spirit ink. Each scribe was assigned a station.
Azrael was given a section slightly separated from the others—the benefit of being top-tier, apparently. His table was larger, his chair more comfortable, and he had access to a wider variety of spirit inks and paper qualities.
"Voss," Elder Feng called out. "Because of your exceptional skill and speed, you'll be handling the bulk of the copying work. We need over three thousand different manuals copied, five copies each."
Azrael's eyes widened slightly. "Over fifteen thousand total copies in one week?"
"I know it sounds like a lot, but you'll be working with other scribes—"
"I can do it," Azrael said.
Elder Feng blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I can handle it alone. All fifteen thousand copies."
The other scribes turned to stare at him like he'd grown a second head.
Elder Feng frowned. "Voss, that's... that's over two thousand copies per day. Even the fastest scribe would need—"
"I understand, Elder. I can do it."
There was a long pause. Elder Feng studied him carefully, then shrugged. "Very well. If you fail, the other scribes will split the remaining work. But if you succeed..." He smiled slightly. "Your reward will be substantial. Five spirit stones per acceptable copy."
Azrael did the math instantly. Fifteen thousand copies at five spirit stones each. Seventy-five thousand spirit stones.
That was more wealth than most Foundation Establishment cultivators accumulated in a lifetime.
"I accept," Azrael said calmly.
Elder Feng gestured to a massive pile of manuals stacked against the courtyard wall. "Those are the originals. Fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, poison, metal, wood, light, dark, and various other elemental techniques. There are also conceptual techniques, auxiliary skills, formation manuals, alchemy recipes, weapon arts. Everything an inner disciple might need."
He pulled out one particularly worn manual. "This is rare—a space-element blade cutting technique. Be extremely careful with it."
Azrael nodded, accepting the manual reverently. Space techniques were legendary.
"Begin whenever you're ready," Elder Feng said. "I'll check your progress each evening."
The elder left, and the other scribes scattered to their own stations, occasionally glancing at Azrael with expressions ranging from pity to schadenfreude. They were clearly waiting for him to fail.
Azrael sat down, cracked his knuckles, and picked up the first manual.
It was an auxiliary technique called "Memory Palace Foundation Method"—a mental cultivation skill that helped cultivators organize and store information in their minds.
Perfect.
[END CHAPTER 3]