Seeing Gu Silan leave the hall, the elders begin dispersing one by one.
Soon, only the Zou family members remain.
Silence hangs thick.
One finally breaks it—voice low and strained:
"…What do we do now?"
Their entire plan lies in ruins.
Gu Silan was meant to be broken—her Dao foundation shattered, her cultivation drained through forced dual cultivation. Zou Meng was supposed to absorb her fortune, physique, and potential, becoming the rightful wielder of the Divine Weapon.
Instead—
*Gu Silan advanced.
Zou Meng died.*
Everything reversed.
Another clenches his fists and growls, teeth grinding:
"I want to kill her."
But no one echoes the sentiment.
Because they all know—
Any intentional harm toward Gu Silan will awaken the Divine Weapon.
And once awakened… it would not be the Zou family's tool.
It would choose its true heir.
Her.
So they grit their teeth and swallow their rage.
Someone mutters:
"…We can't touch her. Not now."
The Sect Master—Zou family by blood, power by cultivation—finally speaks, voice steady:
"Zou Meng is gone. But his child remains. That child carries both Gu blood and Zou blood. If raised properly, they may one day be recognised by the Divine Weapon."
An elder nods slowly.
"For that… we must separate Gu Silan from the child."
The Sect Master's gaze sharpens.
"Yes. But not now. We act only after the birth."
She flicks her sleeve, shifting the topic:
"For now, we must address something far more concerning."
Her expression darkens.
"Someone dared to attack us."
A sect that has ruled this demi-plane for generations—challenged openly.
The hall grows tense.
She turns to an elder—her uncle by blood, but weaker in cultivation.
"What have you learned?"
The elder bows, expression stiff.
"According to our investigation, the attackers were all… flesh and blood puppets."
He stops, letting the implication hang.
The Sect Master finishes it coldly:
"So—we know nothing."
Her gaze sharpens like a blade.
"Second Uncle… are you getting old? Must I consider a replacement?"
The elder freezes—colour draining from his face.
Replacement…
In their world, that word meant forced retirement, loss of influence, status, and possibly life.
He bows deeper, voice strained:
"Sect Master… allow me more time. One week. I will uncover something."
But her stare does not soften.
His panic grows.
He scans the hall—hoping for support.
No one speaks.
Everyone avoids his gaze.
Finally, voice trembling, he yields:
"Three days. In three days, I will identify the responsible party."
Only then does the Sect Master smile—bright, flawless, dangerous.
"Good."
Moments later, the meeting ends.
The Zou family leaves in silence—fear, anger, and uncertainty twisting among them.
---
Elsewhere.
Far from the banners and lanterns, in a shadowed clearing deep in the forest—
Demon Merin stands.
Before him, three figures kneel, trembling.
Their cultivation is sealed, their bodies shaking—not just from fear, but from the suffocating demonic pressure around them.
In Demon Merin's hand rests a strange, pulsating substance—white, semi-liquid, semi-living, shifting like a trembling slime.
It quivers with faint internal light, as if aware.
In this demi-plane, cultivation is unlike the outside world.
Here, everything revolves around the Transformation Dao.
Those who inhabit this realm are not human—not truly. Their outward form resembles humans, but their lineage is ancient and scaled.
They are the Spirit Dragon Clan.
Their advancement depends not on meridians or qi circulation, but on their ability to transform.
Only when a cultivator can transform not just externally but down to the cellular level—shaping a stable Dao Body—can they break through into the true Dao Stage.
But the process is perilous.
A Spirit Dragon must train transformation thousands of times to stabilise a single shift—each attempt risking mutation, backlash, or instability.
One misstep, and the body collapses.
The only aid on this dangerous road is the slime in Merin's hand.
This creature—called a Life Slime—contains natural, instinctive transformation structure within its living body. Before reaching the Dao Space Realm, young cultivators train their transformation through the slime, allowing their cellular structure to learn safely.
Which is why the three kneeling in front of Merin tremble—not from fear alone, but awe.
They expected punishment.
Instead, Merin studies the Life Slime.
His spiritual sense sinks into its body.
Within its living core, he senses the pure imprint of the Transformation Dao—raw, instinctual, untouched by thought or technique.
A perfect natural blueprint.
He withdraws his consciousness and flicks his sleeve.
"You three may leave."
Relief floods their eyes. They bow deeply and rush away as if escaping death.
Merin no longer pays attention.
He sits cross-legged, holding the trembling Life Slime in one palm, and continues comprehending its unique life structure.
Time stretches.
Months pass, and Gu Silan gives birth to a daughter.
Rumours stir—celebration mixed with suspicion.
But joy does not last.
An incident follows.
A "mistake."
One orchestrated deliberately by those who still resent what happened to separate her from her daughter.
The punishment is swift.
Gu Silan is sent to the Frozen Fierce Land—a desolate wasteland at the northern edge of the world. There, an ancient frozen energy permeates the land.
In that region:
Cultivation becomes impossible.*
Qi stagnates.*
Dao foundations crack under the cold.*
Anyone below the Quasi-Supreme Realm risks permanent damage remaining there.
For most, the Frozen Fierce Land is a death sentence.
But Gu Silan stands alone beneath the blizzard sky—and discovers something unexpected.
Her body responds differently.
Her Resentment Battle Body absorbs a trace of the frozen energy—slowly, painfully, but steadily.
Not enough to cultivate in comfort.
But enough to endure.
Enough to grow.
Enough to survive—where no one else could.
She continues cultivating the technique.
Slowly, painfully, she reaches the third stage.
Her grief becomes fuel.
Her exile becomes tempering.
Her hatred becomes direction.
The Zou Clan believes Gu Silan will rot into uselessness—her cultivation frozen, her Dao foundation crippled, her future shattered.
But the Resentment Battle Body does not follow ordinary logic.
It begins by absorbing resentment…
and in later stages, once the body adapts, it can absorb extreme energies—poison, fire, decay… and now, frozen hatred.
Gu Silan sits in the icy wasteland, snow burying her shoulders, wind howling like ghosts around her.
Her breath fogs the air, then freezes.
Yet she remains unmoving.
Her Resentment Battle Body stands only one step away from the Seventh Stage—the level equivalent to a Dao Space Realm body.
Now, as she absorbs the frozen resentment energy, the transformation begins.
Lines—thin, glowing, crimson—crawl across her skin.
A spiritual circuit forms.
It pulses once… twice…
And her cultivation surges.
This artificial circuit increases her talent, sharpening her comprehension and accelerating her spiritual absorption speed several-fold.
But the circuit is unstable.
Temporary.
To advance to the Seventh Stage, she must merge it with her natural spiritual circuit—the one every cultivator is born with.
She closes her eyes and begins.
Slowly… carefully… relentlessly.
The artificial circuit presses against the natural one.
At the point of fusion, crimson energy bursts from her pores—spiralling into the freezing wind and binding with it like chains of blood and ice.
Her hair begins to shift—
black fading into crimson
strand by strand
like blooming roses in snow.
Her skin crystallises with a faint sheen, reflecting light like faceted jade.
Her physical body adjusts—bones aligning, muscles refining, posture perfecting.
Then—the circuits merge.
There is no resistance.
No clash.
It is as if they were always meant to be one.
At the moment of completion, something else reveals itself:
A deeper spiritual circuit, hidden beneath the natural one—complex, ancient, powerful.
Understanding strikes.
"My body… is not mortal."
She remembers the sect's test—the result stamped coldly:
Mortal Body. No special traits.
Her eyes narrow.
"They lied."
Hatred rises—sharp enough to tear through the cold.
They stole her childhood.
They controlled her life.
They used her as a tool.
They separated her from her newborn daughter.
Her hatred reaches the sky.
Her voice is a whisper—but it carries the weight of execution:
"I will destroy them."
But she stops.
No hesitation.
Calculation.
"With my current strength… I can't yet."
Her gaze shifts to her transformed body.
"Then… let me see what it can do."
She focuses.
Her blood moves.
Not as liquid—but as particles.
She can control it down to the smallest structure.
She releases a thread of blood.
As soon as it touches the frozen air, the particles fuse with the frigid energy—melding, adapting, evolving.
In her mind, insights bloom.
Mysteries of the frozen Dao unravel—slowly, steadily, every hour deeper than the last.
A faint smile touches her lips.
Without hesitation, she walks forward—into harsher cold… greater danger… stronger transformation.
Behind her, the snow buries her footprints.
Ahead, the frozen land waits.
And Gu Silan steps into it—
not as prey,
But as a force sharpened by the world itself.
---
It takes two full years before Demon Merin completes his analysis of the slime's life-structure.
Two years of silence.
Two years of dismantling and rebuilding its essence.
Two years of refining his understanding of Transformation Dao.
And when he finally opens his eyes, his own Dao shifts—folding the new principles into itself.
Now he can transform perfectly.
Not just shape-shifting.
Not illusion.
A true, cellular-level rewrite of form—undetectable even by saints.
His demon identity is no longer a shackle.
He can be anyone.
That same research gives birth to something greater:
A technique strong enough to guide cultivators safely into the Dao Space Realm.
A method that allows transformation practice without destroying one's body, Dao foundation, or sanity.
The moment it is complete, he summons the three disciples closest to a breakthrough.
The door opens—and the sight that greets him would unsettle weaker cultivators.
The first disciple limps forward, his left leg a twisted goat limb, hooves scraping stone.
The second disciple's ears have become feline, twitching with irritation.
The third disciple is covered entirely in short silver fur, resembling a half-formed beast.
Their transformations had progressed too far—and now, they cannot return to their human form.
They respectfully kneel before him, heads lowered.
"Master…"
Their voices tremble—not from fear of him, but of themselves.
Their bodies are on the verge of losing control.
Demon Merin's expression remains calm.
Without speaking, he raises a finger.
A thread of spiritual light flickers—and the newly created technique imprints itself into their minds.
The three disciples shudder as understanding blooms in their consciousness.
They sit cross-legged before him.
Breathing slows.
Energy gathers.
And then—transformation begins.
He watches.
Bones shift.
Blood reorganises.
Organs reshape.
But this time—there is order.
No panic.
No chaos.
No wild mutation.
Their bodies cycle through endless forms—
metallic plating
wooden tendons
scales
wings
claws
stone skin
lightning patterns
feathers
smoke-form
—each change fleeting, refining, guided.
Demon Merin senses their Dao foundations stabilising.
Their spirit oceans expand.
Their life structures break apart and rebuild themselves with precision—no longer random, but intentional.