The sun rose on the fourth day of the siege.
Inside the woodshed, Wuxu sat motionless. Through a rot-hole in the wall, he watched the disciples. He wasn't looking at them as gods or demons; he was analyzing them as biological machines with varying fuel capacities.
He scratched a chart onto the floorboards. In this era, the path to Heaven was broken. The sky was a ceiling that no one could breach.
1. The Vessel Stage: Qi Condensation (1^{st} - 9^{th} Layer)
The disciples surrounding the shed were here.
The Reality: They were merely enhanced mortals.
Capabilities: They could run as fast as horses and shatter stone with their fists. They could project small bursts of fire or wind, but they were bound to the earth.
The Flaw: They needed to eat, sleep, and breathe. If you cut their throat, they died. They were heavy, clumsy, and strictly ground-based.
2. The River Stage: Foundation Establishment (Elder Han)
Elder Han sat on a high stone wall overlooking the courtyard. He looked down not because he was floating, but because he had climbed up there.
The Reality: He had compressed the gas in his body into liquid.
Capabilities: He possessed Spiritual Sense (a radar for detecting life). He could manipulate objects from a distance (telekinesis) and suppress mortals with mental pressure. But he could not fly. No one in this realm could. Gravity still owned him.
The Flaw: He was arrogant but fragile. Without his liquid Qi to reinforce his skin, he was just an old man.
3. The Solid Stage: Golden Core (The Sect Patriarchs)
This was the absolute limit of the known world. The Patriarch of the Azure Cloud Sect was at this level.
The Reality: The liquid in the dantian crystallized into a solid sphere. Infinite stamina. They could fight for weeks without rest.
The Legend: It is said that at the peak of the Golden Core, one might be able to hover for a few seconds, or glide like a leaf. But true flight? That was a myth.
The Lost Realms (Speculation)
Ancient texts spoke of an era before the "Great Severing," where cultivators known as Nascent Souls or Spirit Severing masters could walk on the clouds and ignore gravity.
But those were just fairy tales now. In this age, the mud was deep, and everyone—even the Patriarchs—had to trudge through it.
Wuxu stopped scratching the floor.
"They are all prisoners," he whispered. "They pile up rocks to stand taller, but none of them can leave the ground."
Outside, Elder Han's patience snapped.
He had been sitting on the cold stone wall for three days. His legs were cramping. The dignity of a Foundation Establishment Elder was being eroded by a cripple in a shed.
"Enough," Han grunted, sliding down from the wall. He hit the ground with a heavy thud—proof of his mortality.
"Elder?" a disciple asked.
"We do not need to enter," Han said, dusting off his robes. "If he wants to hide in a box, let us crush the box."
Han raised his hand. He didn't summon lightning or meteors—such things were impossible for him. Instead, he used his telekinesis. He gripped the air around the shed and the heavy timber of the roof.
Technique: Iron Press.
He exerted his will, using his Liquid Qi to increase the atmospheric pressure and physically pull the structure down.
CREAAAAK.
The woodshed groaned. The supporting beams began to splinter under the invisible weight.
"Let's see if your bones are harder than oak," Han muttered.
Inside the shed, the ceiling began to descend.
The pressure spiked. For a normal human, this was lethal. The air became heavy, pressing against the eardrums, threatening to burst the lungs.
But Wuxu sat in the center of his 3-Chi Domain.
The crushing force hit the invisible boundary... and vanished.
Outside the line: The weight of a collapsing house.
Inside the line: Perfect stillness.
Wuxu watched a massive wooden beam snap. It crashed down, carrying a load of heavy tiles. It slammed into the floorboards—exactly two inches outside his circle.
Dust billowed up, choking the courtyard.
Han pushed harder, veins bulging on his neck. He wasn't a god; he was just a man lifting a heavy invisible weight. "Die!"
CRASH.
The entire shed imploded. The walls blew out, and the roof slammed flat against the ground.
The disciples cheered. "He is paste! No one survives that!"
But as the dust settled, the cheering died in their throats.
The rubble had formed a perfect, hollow ring.
In the center, sitting on clean, unbroken floorboards, was Wei Wuxu. He was untouched. The debris was piled high around him, forming a jagged wall, but not a single splinter had entered his personal space.
He looked like a king sitting in a crater.
Wuxu picked up a piece of the broken roof. He looked at Elder Han through the gap in the ruins.
"Is that your best?" Wuxu asked softly.
Han stepped back, his face pale. He was panting. The exertion had drained him.
"My pressure..." Han stammered. "Why didn't you flatten?"
"You rely on the weight of the world to fight for you," Wuxu said, tossing the wood aside. "You beg the air to crush me. You beg the earth to hold me."
Wuxu leaned forward.
"But inside here... the world doesn't listen to you."
Han felt a shiver of primal fear. This wasn't a cultivation technique. This was something else. A blind spot in reality.
"Reinforce the perimeter!" Han yelled, his voice cracking. "Do not let him step out! I want archers! I want fire oil!"
Han retreated behind the line of disciples. He was spooked. He needed to recover his Qi.
Inside the circle of rubble, Wuxu smiled.
He checked his internal clock.
[Shift Cooldown: 0 Days, 06 Hours.]
"Rest your legs, Han," Wuxu whispered, staring at the Elder who could not fly. "Because soon, you'll need to run."