Days passed.
For Gu Silan, life inside the Spiritual Transformation Sect changed little from the life she escaped.
She woke early.
Worked until exhaustion.
Received no praise—only orders.
A servant disciple in name, and a labourer in truth.
At night, when others slept, she cultivated with what little strength she had left.
Her assigned technique—*Spiritual Absorption Technique*—was slow and ordinary. But it was all she was allowed, so she practised it diligently.
The *Resentment Battle Body* remained buried in her mind—a haunting, foreign technique she did not dare trust.
She did not know who placed it there.
She did not know its origin.
She only knew one thing:
*Cultivators who practised unknown techniques died.*
Or worse.
So she ignored it.
At least at first.
But curiosity gnawed at her.
And in stolen moments—times when work ended early, or supervisors looked elsewhere—she visited the sect library, pretending to search for basic cultivation knowledge.
In truth, she searched for answers.
And eventually, she found something useful—not the technique itself, but *knowledge of how such techniques functioned.*
With that understanding, she finally began practising just the *first step*.
The beginning was simple yet terrifying:
*Create a rune using one's own resentment.*
Not borrowed resentment.
Not harvested emotion.
Her own.
She spent two nights wrestling with the shape of the rune—its edges unclear, its structure refusing to stabilise.
Only when she truly *remembered everything*—every humiliation, every ignored plea, every false accusation, every bruise—did it form.
Refinement came faster.
It took two days for the rune to complete.
And when it did—
She changed.
At first, the shift was subtle: while cultivating, her spiritual absorption increased by ten per cent.
For most disciples, ten per cent meant little.
But for her—
Starved of time
Starved of techniques
Starved of opportunity—
Ten per cent was enormous.
It lit a spark of hope.
---
The next morning, she left her small servant dormitory to begin work—and paused.
Something felt different.
Within the voices and footsteps around her, emotions brushed against her consciousness.
Not words.
Not thoughts.
*Intent.*
She felt hostility from one disciple passing her on the path.
Disgust from another.
Amusement—cruel and sharp—from someone behind her.
Then something deeper:
Three distinct presences.
All tied to her.
All watching.
For days, she observed quietly—pretending nothing changed.
She listened.
She observed patterns.
She tested reactions.
Until finally, she confirmed her suspicion:
*Three people were tracking her.*
Not openly.
Not clumsily.
Professionally.
As though she were an asset.
Or a threat.
This only deepened her confusion.
Why monitor a lowly servant disciple?
She had no answers.
And no one to ask.
So she endured.
Worked.
Cultivated.
Improved slowly.
And every night, when the world grew quiet—
She refined the rune
and swallowed her resentment
turning pain into strength.
--------
Months passed after Gu Silan had been carried away from the underground cavern.
Deep within the demi-plane, Demon Merin continued his comprehension. But as time went on, the clarity he once felt began to dull—his insight slipping further from the flow of the *Transformation Dao* rather than closer.
Forced comprehension without stimulus was stagnation.
He felt it.
Acknowledged it.
And stopped.
To move forward, he needed *contrast*—real change, real emotion, real transformation.
So he rose from meditation and left the cavern.
---
He travelled.
Through mountains blanketed in fog.
Through barren wastelands where no bird dared fly.
Through villages forgotten by the world.
And everywhere he went, he observed.
People lived.
People changed.
People broke.
Among them, he noticed a pattern:
Some children—abandoned, orphaned, abused or forgotten—carried *strong emotional spirituality.*
Resentment.
Fear.
Grief.
Hope buried beneath despair.
Their emotions were sharp—clear enough to make the environment tremble faintly around them.
Transformation potential.
He gathered them—never coercing, only appearing before them when they were pushed past endurance.
Some followed out of desperation.
Some out of hatred.
Some because they had nowhere else to go.
Soon, a small group walked behind him—barefoot, hollow-eyed, awakened by suffering.
He led them deep into a secluded forest drenched in the essence of the demi-plane.
There, beneath old trees and starlight, he taught them:
*Demon Transformation Technique.*
A method he forged from his Demon Intent and the faint Supreme Transformation Dao that lingered in the realm.
Not a technique for peace.
Not for balance.
But for those whose hearts could no longer remain human.
This technique took their pain, their injustice, their broken identity—
And turned it into power.
A method where one sheds weakness
to forge a second, stronger self.
Not born a demon—
But *become* one through will and transformation.
---
Years passed.
The children grew.
Their eyes sharpened.
Their resentment tempered.
Their spirits burned.
From helpless survivors…
To cultivators.
One by one, they stepped into the *First Stage Extraordinary* realm—fusing emotion, transformation, and cultivation.
And then, as Merin intended, they did *not* stay.
They left the forest.
Entered society.
Changed fate—first quietly, then boldly.
Some took disciples.
Some formed small groups.
Some carved their mark into the demi-plane.
And slowly—
like ripples spreading across a still pond—
The *Demon Transformation Technique spread.*
Through its growth, Demon Merin deepened his understanding of the *Transformation Dao.* The technique itself was a *quasi–First Stage Extraordinary technique*—meaning it guided disciples through the Mortal Stage, but to step into the *first extraordinary realm*, every cultivator had to *add something of their own.*
A personal imprint.
A defining emotion.
A piece of their identity.
So once his early disciples broke through, the Demon Transformation Technique began evolving into countless branches:
* *Angry Tiger Transformation Technique*
* *Ferocious Bull Transformation Technique*
* *Elegant Swan Transformation Technique*
* *Silent Grief Scale Transformation Technique* *(emotion: sorrow)*
And many more.
Each time someone reached the first extraordinary stage, a *new variation* appeared—an echo of their personality and emotional core, forming a unique transformation.
This was intentional.
Demon Merin enforced a rule:
> *No one was allowed access to any transformation art except the base Demon Transformation Technique until they reached the Mortal limit.*
Only after stepping into the First Stage Extraordinary could they shape their own form.
And as these new branches emerged, Demon Merin carefully studied each variation—observing how emotions, forms, and identities shifted.
From their perspectives, he comprehended the Transformation Dao layer by layer, angle by angle.
---
As his disciples multiplied, Merin did not neglect his own preparation.
A Saint needed more than cultivation and Dao.
A Saint needed a *personal weapon.*
From the Saint stage onward, every weapon carried its own Dao.
Using one that conflicted with his would weaken him—or worse, injure him.
He gathered materials slowly.
Rare ores.
Ancient bones.
Forbidden essences.
But he still lacked *Saint-grade material* to forge the core.
So while teaching his disciples and perfecting his understanding, he continued to search—patient and relentless.
---
Meanwhile—
*The true Merin* inside the Dream Space refined his path further.
After months of structuring laws and correcting internal conflict, his Dao reached stability. Now, he could add any new law without risking collapse or imbalance.
His Dao—*Virtual-Realization Dao*—had fully entered the *Blooming Stage.*
With the foundation complete, he resumed experimentation on the soul fragments within his *Virtual Engine*, exploring emotion, identity, memory, and the boundary between consciousness and construct.
---
While both Merins advanced along their separate paths—
*outside, in the Battlefield Realm—
The world changed.*
The realm trembled.
A suffocating presence seeped into the Battlefield Realm—followed by countless more, each older, colder,
and more terrifying.
The *Race for the Supreme Throne* no longer belonged to the new generation alone.
The *old monsters awakened.*
And with the Battlefield Realm fully opening, even the long-sleeping *Forbidden Supremes* stirred—
Because the greatest feast in existence was forming:
*The birth of a new Supreme.*