He was back in the grove of colossal, luminous green leaves. The characters from the library's scrolls marched across them in disciplined, warring columns.
The psychedelic caterpillars appeared, more magnificent than before. One, a fiery crimson, chomped down on the Tiger's Claw Fist. Another, a deep, swirling blue, began to devour the Flowing River Kick. A third, shimmering and almost invisible like polished silver, consumed The Way of the Silent Step. They were not just eating; they were deconstructing, breaking down the rigid doctrines into their purest, most essential concepts.
As before, they began to excrete shimmering, liquid threads of pure, unadulterated color. The fiery red of explosive power. The deep blue of fluid motion. The shimmering silver of subtle misdirection.
The chipmunks descended, their eyes bright with frantic, creative energy. They gathered the threads and scurried to the loom of moonlight, their chittering chant beginning anew, a frantic, creative mantra that resonated in his soul.
"Write! Write! Write! Write! Write!"
But this time, they were not weaving a flat, static tapestry. Their tiny paws moved with a new, three-dimensional grace. They looped the red thread of power through the blue thread of motion, binding them together with the silver thread of subtlety. They were not creating a pattern; they were building a creature.
From the loom of light, a new form emerged. A butterfly, its body a shimmering silver, its wings a breathtaking mosaic of fiery red and deep blue. It was a living contradiction, a creature of both delicate grace and ferocious power.
The moment its form was complete, it detached from the loom. It did not simply fly; it danced. It was a whirlwind of motion. A weightless drift to the side (Silent Step) flowed instantly into a sharp, slicing kick with its leg that mirrored the edge of a wing (Flowing River Kick). Its wings beat the air in a rapid, blurring flutter that was not for flight, but was a flurry of impossibly fast, stinging blows (Tiger's Claw Fist).
As the butterfly danced its martial art, Lei Man's consciousness was pulled from his observer's perch. He merged with the creature. He became the butterfly. He felt the Qi circulate in a complex, beautiful new pattern, a pattern that could shift from explosive to fluid to subtle in a single breath. He felt the weightless grace of the footwork, the sharp, cutting power of his kicks, the blurring speed of his hand strikes. He wasn't learning the technique; he was experiencing it as a fundamental truth.
He blinked.
He was on the floor of the reading alcove, the side of his face pressed against a cool, bamboo scroll. A thin line of drool connected his lip to a diagram of the Mountain-Shattering Strike. It was dark outside the library windows. Hours had passed in what felt like an eternity of enlightened dance. The chipmunks' chant still echoed in his mind.
He scrambled to his feet, a frantic, creative energy seizing him. He didn't need to write it down this time; the knowledge was etched into his muscles, into his very soul. He moved to a small, open space between the towering bookshelves, the memory of the butterfly's dance guiding him.
He took a breath and fell into the first stance. His body moved with an alien grace. A step that should have been a simple pivot became a weightless, silent drift to the side. He lashed out with a kick, and it was not a blunt, forceful blow, but a sharp, fluid arc that sliced through the air. He followed with a series of rapid hand strikes, and his arms were a blur, his fists landing on the empty air with sharp, stinging snaps.
He moved through the forms, a dance of deadly grace. He was the butterfly. He was fluid, then explosive. Evasive, then aggressive. It was a perfect synthesis, a technique born from the digested essence of a dozen contradictory masters.
He came to a stop, his chest heaving, his body thrumming with a new, controlled power. He finally had a way to channel the chaotic energy within him. The technique needed a name, and he already knew what it was.
Flowing Butterfly Art.
He was no longer just a cultivator with a strange trip-induced power. He was a martial artist. And he was the sole practitioner of an art that did not exist anywhere else in this crazy cultivation world.
The Flowing Butterfly Art was a masterpiece of motion, a deadly dance waiting for a partner. But Lei Man knew, as he practiced the fluid forms in the seclusion of his courtyard, that the art was just an empty vessel. The technique was the riverbed; he needed a flood of Qi to fill it, to give it the power to smash through rock and carve canyons. His gluttonous cultivation method was effective, but slow. He needed another jolt, another leap forward.
With the remainder of his silver clinking in his pouch, he returned to The Gnarled Root. The old alchemist looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the young noble return so soon.
"More Jade Sprouts?" the alchemist asked, his voice a dry rasp.
"Something stronger," Lei Man replied, his confidence bolstered by his recent successes.
The alchemist raised a skeptical eyebrow but turned and retrieved a different box. This one was lacquered black. He opened it to reveal a small cluster of five delicate, orange flowers. They seemed to radiate a gentle, tangible warmth.
"Sun-Kissed Petals," the alchemist said, his voice holding a new note of caution. "Their energy is far more potent, like liquid sunlight. Extremely difficult to refine. One hundred silver."
It was almost everything he had left. "I'll take them," Lei Man said without hesitation, placing the heavy pouch on the counter. The alchemist counted out the coins, leaving Lei Man with a paltry handful of silver, barely enough for a few more meals.
Clutching the lacquered box, Lei Man didn't return to the estate. He knew what he had to do. He found a deserted, refuse-filled alley, the same one where he had been cornered before. The irony was not lost on him. This place of his first real danger was becoming the crucible of his rebirth.
He sat down amidst the filth, the box of Sun-Kissed Petals resting on his lap. This time, it was not an act of desperation, but a calculated risk. He opened the box, took a deep breath, and placed all five petals on his tongue.
The flavor was not bitter, but intensely, overwhelmingly warm, like swallowing a mouthful of pure, concentrated sunshine. The trip was instantaneous and violent. There was no green firestorm this time; he was in the heart of a forge. His meridians were the channels for molten gold, and his bones were the anvil. With every pulse of his heart, a titanic, unseen hammer slammed down, beating his body, compressing his muscles, and hardening his bones. The sound of the hammer was the only thing in his universe, a rhythmic, all-consuming CLANG that was both agony and creation.
The trip ended with a final, deafening blow that sent a shockwave through his entire being. He snapped back to reality, gasping for air in the grimy alley. The world was sharper, clearer. He felt an immense, powerful solidity in his own frame, as if his bones were now made of ironwood. A quick check of his dantian revealed a flame that was no longer just a flame, but a churning, miniature sun. He had smashed through the fourth level and landed squarely in the fifth level of Body Strengthening.
The elation lasted for a full ten seconds before the cold reality of his situation set in. He checked his coin pouch. Four silver coins. He was powerful, more powerful than he could have imagined just days ago, but he was also functionally broke. His unique cultivation path was an expensive addiction.
He needed a job.
He knew exactly where to go. He made his way to the rowdiest, most dangerous part of the city, to a large, imposing building made of dark wood and stone: the Mercenary Pavilion. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap ale, sweat, and oiled leather. Grizzled men and women with scars and cold eyes sized him up as he walked in, their gazes a mixture of contempt and predatory interest. A young, clean noble in a place like this was usually either a fool or a target.
Lei Man ignored them. He walked directly to the massive, chaotic bounty board that dominated the far wall. It was covered in requests: escort missions, debt collections, monster parts. Most were far too complex. But one, pinned near the bottom, caught his eye.
BEAST HUNT: Stone-Hide Boars in the Azure Hills. Vicious temperament. Tough hides required for armor smithing. 25 silver per untarnished hide. Open to all registered mercenaries.
It was simple, direct, and dangerous—perfect.
He pulled the notice from the board and took it to the grizzled, one-eyed clerk behind the counter. The man looked at the notice, then at Lei Man's slender frame and clean robes, and let out a short, barking laugh.
"You, little master? Hunting Stone-Hides? They'll turn you into paste before you can cry for your mother."
"I'd like to register," Lei Man said, his voice calm, his eyes steady.
The clerk's laugh died in his throat. There was no fear in the boy's gaze, only a flat, unnerving determination. He grunted, stamped the notice, and slid a wooden registration token across the counter. "One silver registration fee. Your funeral."
Lei Man paid, leaving him with three silver coins to his name. He was now an officially registered mercenary.
He walked out of the pavilion, leaving the whispers and mocking stares behind him. He looked past the city walls, towards the distant, hazy shape of the Azure Hills. He had a technique. He had the power. And now, he had a hunt. He was no longer just the Trash of House Lei; he was a hunter, and the wilderness was calling.
The Azure Hills were a riot of untamed life, and Lei Man, a fifth-level body cultivator, moved through them like a phantom. He found the Stone-Hide Boars near a muddy creek. They were formidable beasts, the size of small carts with hides like granite plates. A week ago, they would have been a death sentence.
Now, it was a dance.
The first boar charged, a rumbling avalanche of fury. Lei Man flowed. He initiated the Flowing Butterfly Art, drifting to the side of the charge. As the beast thundered past, he lashed out with a kick, his foot arcing like the edge of a wing, striking the unprotected joint of the boar's rear leg. There was a sharp crack, and the boar squealed, collapsing into a heap. The fight was over in seconds.
He dispatched three more with the same fluid efficiency, his art a perfect counter to their brute force. He worked quickly, skinning the beasts and harvesting the four untarnished hides. One hundred silver. His confidence soared. This was power.
He was bundling the last hide when a sudden, unnatural silence fell over the forest. The air grew cold, heavy with a primal, slithering menace. He felt the gaze of a predator, ancient and utterly confident.
It struck from the canopy above, a blur of azure and silver, descending with a terrifying, sibilant hiss. He threw himself backwards, pure instinct driving him. He landed hard, the world tilting as he looked up. It was a snake. A colossal Azure Scale Constrictor, thirty feet long and as thick as his thigh. Its scales shimmered like a thousand sapphires, its eyes cold, intelligent chips of jade. The energy rolling off it was immense, a crushing pressure. This was a sixth-level vicious beast.
He had stumbled into its territory.
The snake struck again, its head a living spear. Lei Man moved, the Flowing Butterfly Art a desperate, chaotic flutter. He dodged, he weaved, but he was completely on the defensive. The snake was too fast, its body too fluid. A flick of its tail sent him skidding across the forest floor. A lunge he barely evaded still grazed his arm, its fangs tearing through his sleeve, leaving two fiery, bleeding cuts. Venom.
The snake, sensing his fading strength, saw its chance. It coiled, its massive body a blur, wrapping around him in an instant. The pressure was absolute. Air exploded from his lungs. His ribs creaked. Black spots danced in his vision. The snake's head rose before him, its jade eyes watching him die. This was a force he could not dance around, a problem he could not solve. The pressure, the venom, the absolute, crushing finality of it all... it was the perfect trigger.
A deep, synthesized bass note thumped in his soul. The world dissolved.
He was no longer in a forest, but standing on a stone bridge high in the clouds, spiked pillars rising into a stormy, purple sky. The crushing pressure of the snake's coils was still there, an invisible force squeezing the life from him. Across the bridge, wreathed in crackling blue lightning, was the snake—but it was different. It stood semi-erect, its form now vaguely humanoid, its jade eyes glowing with malevolent intelligence.
A deep, disembodied voice echoed through the heavens, a voice ripped straight from the arcade halls of his past life.
"FIGHT!"
A frantic, driving techno beat kicked in, a familiar rhythm that was both terrifying and exhilarating. OOH OOOH OOH OOH OOOH!
The snake-man hissed and lunged, its fists blurring. Lei Man, his body still constricted by the phantom pressure, could barely move. A brutal punch slammed into his ribs, and the world flashed white with pain. Another strike sent him staggering. A health bar, vibrant and green, materialized in his peripheral vision, a huge chunk of it vanishing with each blow.
OOH OOOH OOH OOH OOOH! The music was a relentless, pounding force.
He was losing. He was too slow, too weak. The snake-man was a flurry of azure scales and lightning-fast strikes. It was toying with him. His health bar dwindled to a tiny, flashing sliver of red. The phantom pressure intensified, squeezing the last of his will.
"FINISH HIM!"
The snake-man's body began to glow, coiling for a final, devastating attack. This was it. Game over. But in that moment of absolute despair, something new appeared in his mind's eye. A list. A list of special moves he didn't know he had. It scrolled past with blinding speed—Tiger Claw Fury... Mountain Breaker...—all useless, requiring power he didn't have. But at the very bottom, one option pulsed with a faint, desperate light:
Butterfly's Sting: Requires 1% Health. Costs 100% of available Qi. Pierces a single point of weakness.
It was a suicide move. A final, all-or-nothing gambit.
The snake-man lunged, its fanged mouth open wide, a fatality in motion.
Lei Man didn't think. He chose the move. The techno beat reached a crescendo. He focused his entire being, all the chaos and power of his trip, into a single, screaming point.
"MORTAL KOMBATTT!"
The world snapped back into reality with a gasp. He was lying on a bed of damp leaves, his body a symphony of agony. The pressure was gone. A few feet away lay the colossal body of the Azure Scale Constrictor, its magnificent head twisted at an unnatural angle.
He crawled over to it, his body screaming in protest. There, just behind the snake's jade-like eye, where a single scale was almost imperceptibly misaligned, was a single, bloody puncture wound. It was a wound of impossible precision, a strike that had pierced the beast's brain and severed its spine.
He looked down at his right hand. His index and middle fingers were bent at a horrifying angle, the bones shattered.
He didn't remember doing it. In the heart of his trip, prompted by a ghostly announcer, his body had performed a miracle. It had focused all his remaining Qi into a single, two-fingered strike, a "fatality" of his own, and found the one chance in a million to win the fight.
He collapsed back onto the leaves, a delirious, pain-filled laugh escaping his lips. He was broken, poisoned, and barely conscious. But he was alive. And the dead king of the forest, with its priceless venom, its valuable beast core, and its hide worth a fortune, lay beside him. This power was going to kill him, but he was winning the game.