Thousand Spirit World: The Storm Continent.
Merin wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, breath steady but heavy. He grips the pick again and drives it hard into the Nether Spiritual Stone vine, sparks of alien light scattering across the dim cavern walls.
Years ago, when he first boarded the flying boat convoy bound for Lángdiàn City, he never imagined this fate.
Only days into the journey, the convoy was ambushed. Merin crossed blades with an Immortal Lord of equal realm, but his defeat was swift and merciless.
Bound, beaten, and his cultivation sealed, he was thrown into the depths of this mine—a prisoner to dig up Nether Spiritual Stones, a rare ore infused with alien energy.
But the mine is not a tomb. There are exits, though each cruel in its own way.
The first path: surrender one hundred thousand Nether Spiritual Stones. Few ever see such wealth, and fewer still manage to save it while trapped here.
The second path: step into the life-and-death arena and fight until crowned champion. Victory means freedom. Defeat means your bones join the dust beneath the stage.
The third path: cultivate the Nine Nether Body Technique to the eighth stage within a thousand years.
Merin has only been here for thirty-two years, yet already he has broken through to the third stage. The progress should be a triumph, but instead it weighs on him like a chain.
The first three stages—known as the "easy stages"—devoured three decades of his life. How much longer would the next five demand?
He exhales slowly, resting on his shoulder, caught in a dilemma he cannot ignore.
He has no confidence in reaching the eighth stage of the Nine Nether Body Technique within a thousand years. Even the thought leaves a hollow weight in his chest.
The first way—handing over one hundred thousand Nether Spiritual Stones—he does not even consider. In his entire lifespan, how could he mine that many? Today's harvest is only three stones. One he will hand over, two he will keep for cultivation.
The numbers alone are cruel.
A miner is fortunate to extract two or three stones in a day, and even that comes with a cost.
The mine is flooded with Nether gas—poison to all living things.
It gnaws at flesh, corrodes spirit, and shaves years from a cultivator's lifespan.
The only protection is advancing in the Nine Nether Body Technique, hardening the body against the gas.
Without it, the mine swallows you whole.
The second way—fighting in the life and death arena—pulls at his thoughts like a shadow.
There, at least, the rules are simple: kill or be killed. Yet fear coils inside him.
What is the worst outcome? Death. And death… should not frighten him.
For he was supposed to be a clone.
But he is not a mere fragment anymore.
Though still tied to the main body, sharing its essence, he has grown into something separate, something that thinks and decides for itself.
That independence brings freedom—but also fear.
Because now, death would be his own.
Merin returns to his cave, a hollow he carved with his own hands into the barren mountain outside the mine.
The Nine Nether Sect sets no restrictions on where the miners rest, so long as one Nether Spiritual Stone is delivered every day.
Beyond that, life is a cage without walls. With his cultivation sealed and the mine buried deep in the wilderness, escape is nothing more than a wish.
He lowers himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone. In his palm, the two Nether Spiritual Stones gleam faintly, their alien energy pulsing like a dark heart. Slowly, he draws that energy into his body.
The Nine Nether Body Technique is his only path forward. A ten-stage art, said to reach the Immortal Emperor Realm. But for the miners, only the first eight stages are revealed, a leash disguised as a gift. Reaching the eighth stage means the chains of miner life are cut—but only to trade them for the Nine Nether Sect's yoke as an outer disciple.
It is a cruel cycle. Every miner knows it. None were volunteers; all were taken, captured, and shackled. Resentment festers in every heart, and hatred of the Nine Nether Sect burns like an open wound.
Yet here he sits, pulling the venomous energy of the Nether Stones into his body, choosing to sharpen the very blade that cut him.
But he knows the cruel truth—after reaching the eighth stage, he will not be free. He will only exchange the chains of a miner for the brand of the Nine Nether Sect. Outer disciple or slave, the difference is only in name.
The sect does not care about hatred. To them, hatred is fuel, and despair is a leash.
They are an evil sect ruled by multiple Dao Stage cultivators, towering monsters whose shadows alone crush rebellion. Even if he escapes, what then?
A single man cannot hope for revenge. The only path is to keep climbing, to keep swallowing poison, to keep walking forward until either he becomes one of them or death claims him.
Merin exhales, the taste of Nether energy still bitter in his lungs. His eyes open, glowing faintly with a dim, corrupted light.
"Now," he mutters under his breath, "to practice the Nine Nether Body Technique."
He closes his eyes again, and his flesh trembles as he guides the alien current through his veins.
The technique is cruel, each circulation cutting into his marrow, refining his blood, reshaping his bones.
The stones' venom claws at his spirit, trying to corrode his will, but Merin forces it down with gritted teeth.
Every breath feels like a step deeper into a swamp, but still he persists.
He calls it the most difficult technique because nothing in his past compares.
The first stage had demanded he transform every bone in his body into Nine Nether Bones. To achieve this, he was forced to draw the poisonous essence of the Nether Stones into his marrow, tempering it again and again until his skeleton became as hard as black iron.
But the price was steep. Nether energy eats at life itself, and every second it lingered in his body, it cut away at his lifespan. Even as an Immortal Lord with abundant years, he had lost thirty years to complete that stage, the time vanishing like sand through open fingers.
Worse still, controlling the venomous current was like wrestling a living beast.
Once, during bone forging, his grip slipped.
The energy tore through his channels like a raging flood and shredded his organs.
He remembers the agony vividly—blood filling his throat, vision blurring as his lungs screamed and his liver seared. It took him months to crawl back from that mistake.
But in the end, he endured, and his bones now carry the cold echo of the Nether Stones, unbreakable and heavy with sinister strength.
The second stage proved crueller than the first.
If bones were the frame, then marrow was the wellspring of life, and now he had to poison that well and remake it into Nine Nether Marrow.
Each session began the same way: drawing the jagged essence of the Nether Stones into his blood, letting it seep into his marrow until every bone felt as though it were rotting from the inside.
The sensation was worse than breaking bones—it was as if his own body rejected him, his veins and marrow screaming to be purged.
The marrow governs vitality, the ceaseless cycle of blood.
Every breath he took while tempering felt like he was suffocating; every heartbeat slammed against his chest like a hammer.
His blood grew sluggish, blackened, and thick, sometimes forcing him to claw at his skin as the corrupted energy tried to burst out of his veins.
Controlling it was torment.
A single slip would cause the Nether energy to surge uncontrolled, devouring his vitality in a frenzy.
More than once, he collapsed, his body drained of warmth, feeling the chill of death crawling up his limbs.
Years bled away.
Every day was a battle against despair, every night a fight against the whisper of collapse.
In seven years, he finally succeeded, transforming all his marrow into Nine Nether Marrow. His blood now flows with a sinister vitality, dark yet inexhaustible, heavy with the aura of death.
But the cost was harsher than before. He lost forty-four years of his life in the process, years ripped from him like pages torn from a book.
Now, his marrow is strong enough to endure the venomous flood of Nether energy without collapse, yet he can feel the shadows of shortened time pressing down upon him.
The third stage was a crucible far beyond the marrow.
Now it was not only bone or marrow he had to temper, but the very flesh and blood that carried him. Every inch of skin, every muscle fibre, every drop of blood had to be drowned in Nether energy until they withered, died, and were reborn.
The process began with his flesh cracking open under the venomous essence, black veins spreading like roots across his skin.
At times, he looked less like a man and more like a corpse freshly dug from the earth.
His muscles stiffened, rotted, and tore themselves apart, only to slowly knit back together under his stubborn will.
His blood boiled constantly, the corrupted marrow pushing out tides of blackened liquid that steamed with a deathly aura.
Each time he shed this blood, his body grew leaner, harder, more resilient.
But the suffering stretched endlessly.
For sixteen long years, he fought against his own unravelling, his screams echoing through the barren mountain until his voice grew hoarse and hollow.
His lifespan drained faster than ever before, nearly seventy years devoured by the raging storm inside him.
Many times, he thought his flesh would simply collapse, that his body would melt into the very black sludge he was trying to refine.
Yet when the torment ended, his body was transformed.
His flesh became dense, his blood thick with Nether essence yet flowing smoothly, harmonised with the marrow and bones.
Now, when he inhaled Nether energy, it no longer cut at him like knives—it moved with him, as though the energy itself acknowledged his transformation.
More than that, his perception shifted.
With his body in tune with the Nine Nether current, he began to glimpse the faint traces of the law woven into the venomous energy itself.
They appeared as dim, writhing marks hidden within the black aura, like runes etched into the fabric of deathly power.
For the first time, he saw not just energy but the principle that birthed it—the Law that defined Nether energy's existence.
This was the reward for surviving the torment: affinity, control, and vision. The Nine Nether Body Technique was no longer merely tempering his body, but opening his eyes to truths few dared touch.
For eight years, Merin dared not take the next step.
The third stage had left scars deeper than flesh—he could still remember the moments where his body nearly dissolved into rot. The thought of turning the corrosive energy onto his organs, the most fragile and vital part of him, filled him with a fear that gnawed at his resolve. Death had brushed him once too closely, and he had no desire to meet it again so soon.
Instead, he chose to linger at the threshold, sitting in meditation, weaving his mind through the faint marks of law hidden in the Nether energy.
He believed if he could unravel those runes—if he could truly comprehend their meaning—then he would gain a mastery sharp enough to protect his life during the next refinement.
But the marks resisted him.
They were like scattered fragments of a puzzle with pieces missing, glimpses of meaning that slipped away whenever he tried to grasp them.
Each attempt left him with the hollow sense that something essential was absent, a key he did not yet possess.
One night, just as he forced himself into stillness again, a ripple cut through the silence of the wilderness. Shouts echoed faintly at first, then grew louder, carrying alarm and urgency.
Merin's eyes snapped open, his concentration broken. He frowned and rose to his feet, the aura around him still faintly reeking of Nether energy. The noise continued to swell, not the sounds of beasts but of men.
Cautiously, he stepped out of the cave he had carved into the barren mountain. The night wind carried dust and the dull glow of torches. He saw miners pouring from their own caves, eyes wide with excitement, sprinting toward a single direction in urgency.
Cautiously, he stepped out of the cave he had carved into the barren mountain.
A miner brushed past him, breath ragged, eyes burning with both fear and excitement. Merin caught his arm and demanded an answer. The man spat out the words between gasps, "An Inner Elder… here to preach."
Merin's heart jolted. He released the man and, without hesitation, began to run with the others. He knew well that an Inner Elder of the Nine Nether Sect would not waste time on hollow sermons of faith or obedience. Their preaching was never about belief—it was about cultivation.
Every miner knew these rare moments were lifelines, scraps of true guidance thrown into the pit to drive them harder.
For some, it meant discovering a key to survival. For others, it was the difference between rotting as a miner or clawing their way up the Nine Nether Body Technique.
Merin tightened his jaw. Even if he hated the Sect, even if every word from their mouths dripped poison, he could not afford to miss this chance.