Within the grotto, the air grew heavy. The two opposing streams of primeval essence—one cold and yielding, the other hot and aggressive—chased each other within Meng Ru's aperture like two warring dragons. A tremor ran through his body, a calculated performance of instability. His brow glistened with a sheen of "sweat," and his breathing became ragged.
'The performance is set,' his inner thoughts remained a placid lake of logic. 'Now, for the execution.'
With a silent command, he drove the two warring energies towards the barrier of his aperture wall. But just before impact, he siphoned off a tenth part of the chaotic, clashing energy. This was the masterstroke of his plan. The bulk of his power, nine parts in ten, remained focused on the true objective: the breakthrough. The siphoned-off portion, however, was pure, weaponized misdirection.
He guided this chaotic energy, this "leakage," through his meridians and out of his body. It manifested as a visible, unstable aura of shimmering silver light, pulsing erratically around him. Then, with a precision that belied the chaotic display, he aimed this stream of energy not randomly, but directly at the bedrock of the grotto wall, in the precise direction of the abandoned monitoring formation.
At the same time, the main body of his power—the nine-tenths he had retained—crashed against his aperture wall. But it was not a simple crash. Following the true, harmonious principles he had devised, the water-and-fire-aspected energies did not just collide; they fused.
Boom!
Two explosions happened in the same instant, one external and one internal.
Externally, on the western face of Feng Yin's peak, a forgotten, dust-covered formation suddenly blazed with a blinding white light. The "leaked" energy from Meng Ru's "failed" control surged through its ancient pathways, overloading it in a spectacular, harmless detonation of light and qi. It was a beacon of failure, a brilliant firework display announcing to the entire sect that Feng Yin's new disciple had lost control during his critical breakthrough.
Internally, the explosion was one of sublime perfection. The fusion of the two energies created a resonance so pure, so powerful, that the barrier between Rank one and Rank two did not shatter—it dissolved. It vanished like mist in the morning sun.
A profound transformation occurred. Meng Ru's entire primeval sea of silver-white essence began to boil, compress, and purify itself. The silver faded, replaced by a clear, vibrant, light red hue. It was the color of a new dawn, the color of Rank two primeval essence. His aperture, unharmed and flawless, expanded slightly, now filled with a power that was qualitatively superior in every way.
The breakthrough was a success. A perfect success.
Back in the grotto, the chaotic aura around Meng Ru vanished. He slumped forward, breathing heavily, his face pale—the perfect picture of a cultivator who had barely survived a near-catastrophic ordeal. He had succeeded, but at a great "cost."
He knew that miles away, his audience would be drawing their conclusions. Elder Bai would see the light show and sneer, his suspicions confirmed: the boy was a reckless fool, given a treasure he couldn't handle. Feng Yin would be furious at the public display of incompetence, his investment seemingly on the verge of ruin.
This was the narrative Meng Ru had painted for them.
The secret riddle was left hanging in the air, unseen by all. How could a disciple who lost control so spectacularly still manage to succeed in his breakthrough? The most logical answer, for his observers, would be luck. Dumb, blind luck.
Meng Ru slowly sat up, a faint, imperceptible smile touching the corner of his mind. He had not only advanced his cultivation; he had deepened his camouflage. He had turned his own advancement into a tool of deception, leaving his enemies more confident than ever in their flawed assessment of him. And in the world of cultivation, there was no greater weapon than an enemy's ignorance.