Night slowly crawled over Cloud Veil Mountain. The cold mist returned, covering the wooden roofs and rough stone paths like a thin ghostly blanket. The outer settlement grew quiet. No laughter. Only a few weak oil lamps burned in lonely huts.
Most low-realm cultivators were already asleep. Tomorrow they would wake before sunrise, walk into the mountain, and work for a handful of spirit stones again. Cutting spirit wood, picking herbs, hunting weak beasts, selling scraps. Life here was simple, harsh, and heavy. If you missed one day, you starved. If you missed three days, you owed tax. And debt to Cloud Veil Faction meant punishment. Nobody wanted that.
But inside one small wooden hut, a lamp still burned.
Long Tan sat cross-legged on the floor, his saber resting beside him, silent like a loyal dog. The room was small, worn, but warm. Su Lan was there too, sorting herbs with gentle hands. She worked slowly, like someone afraid to lose even a single leaf. Spirit herbs were money, survival, hope.
She looked at Long Tan, worry hidden behind calm eyes.
"You really want to try tonight?" she whispered.
"Yes," he answered softly. "It's time."
"If anything feels wrong… stop. Please."
He gave a faint smile. "I will come back."
She didn't believe it fully, but she nodded anyway. Silent promises were normal here. She stood, walked outside, and closed the door gently behind her. The hut grew quiet. Only the lamp and Long Tan remained.
He reached under the floorboard and pulled out a clay jar—old, dusty, sealed with wax. His hidden wine, brewed long ago from spirit fruit and mountain water, fermented under tree roots. It had saved his life once. Maybe it would again.
He uncorked it and breathed in the sharp bitter smell. Then he drank. The warmth spread through his chest, flowed into his veins, and gathered slowly in his dantian. He closed his eyes. Hidden Flow Breathing Art activated silently. His aura sank, disappearing from the world. He became like still water, like a stone in mist.
Qi moved. Slow first, then faster. His core filled. The pressure built until—he hit a wall. The peak of third-stage Qi Condensation. A cold, hard ceiling. A place where talent decided who moved forward and who stayed behind forever.
"As expected," he thought. "I'm stuck."
He pushed again. Nothing. The wall remained. He had seen this wall for years. He had bled against it, cried silently against it, swallowed bitterness against it. This time felt no different.
But tonight, he had one more card.
He focused inside his dantian. A small ordinary-looking wine gourd rested there. It didn't shine or glow, but it hummed faintly like something breathing. Inside it was a tiny bit of spring wine water—created after the thunderstorm blessed him.
He originally wanted to drink it tomorrow. But now… now he wanted to test fate.
He guided a thread of that water up. It touched his tongue. The taste was clear, clean, light. Like pure morning dew.
For one second, nothing happened.
Then everything exploded.
Qi surged violently through his meridians. His body jerked. Heat shot through his veins. Pain stabbed him like burning needles. His bones felt hammered, his lungs squeezed, his heart pounded like thunder.
"It's working," he thought, jaw tight. "And it hurts."
The energy smashed against the bottleneck again and again. His breath turned heavy. Muscles trembled. His eyes watered. Sweat rolled down his back. He bit down hard on his tongue to avoid making a sound.
No noise.
Noise meant danger.
Noise meant attention.
Attention meant death.
Cultivators living outside protection needed to hide progress, not flaunt it.
The pressure increased. His meridians stretched painfully. Black sticky liquid oozed from his pores, drop by drop. It smelled rotten, like dead fish left in the sun. Years of impurities forced out.
His skin itched and burned. His body shook. His vision blurred. His chest felt like it was splitting. Then deeper pain arrived—soul pain. It felt like invisible claws pulling his spirit apart.
He wanted to gasp, scream, fall. But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Wouldn't move.
"If I stop now," he thought, "I will become crippled."
"If I scream, she will rush in."
"If others hear, trouble will come."
"I must endure."
He gritted his teeth until blood filled his mouth. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer blow. His bones creaked. His body trembled like a bowstring pulled too far.
"Just one more push," he told himself.
He forced all his Qi forward. All his will. All his stubbornness. Every second felt like a lifetime. Then—something inside him cracked.
Not a real sound, but a feeling.
A wall falling.
A chain breaking.
His core expanded. A warm wave spread through him. He crossed the barrier.
Fourth stage Qi Condensation.
He did it.
For one heartbeat, joy flickered in his eyes.
Then everything went dark.
His body collapsed. His forehead hit the wooden floor. His breathing weakened. Black impurities covered his skin like tar. The lamp flame shook in the cold air, almost dying.
Outside, wind blew harder. Something moved in the dark night, footsteps soft and slow. Someone approached the hut.
Inside, Long Tan lay still, unconscious, silent, defenseless.
The gourd inside his dantian pulsed once, faint like a heartbeat.
Then nothing.