Flames devoured Mộc Loan village, painting a corner of the night sky crimson. But Mộc Phàm had no time to look back. Screams and the sounds of collapse still echoed in his ears, mingling with his own furious roar and the final image of his parents. The nameless stone in his cloth pouch remained warm, a harsh reminder of his loss and the origin of this power.
He ran wildly, without direction, without purpose, driven only by survival instinct and agony. The dense forest and treacherous slopes posed no challenge to his body, forged by "blood qi." He cut through the darkness, crossed dry streambeds, until the faint light of dawn emerged, painting the distant mountaintops pink.
Exhausted, Mộc Phàm collapsed beneath a large, ancient tree. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest aching. As the initial rage and fear subsided, the crushing pain of loss washed over him, drowning him. His parents were gone. The village was destroyed. He, Mộc Phàm, was now homeless, rootless, with nothing left to lose.
The nameless stone. He pulled it out, staring at its gray veins. It had granted him strength, but that very strength had made him a target, bringing tragedy to his family. He felt no regret. Only seething resentment. He had to become stronger. Even stronger!
In the days that followed, Mộc Phàm lived like a wild beast. He ate roots, insects, and hunted small animals to survive. He continued to forge his "blood qi," but no longer with a plan. Whenever pain and resentment surged, he would furiously circulate his "Qi Sea," turning it into motivation for training. He ran, he punched, he jumped, he grappled with ancient trees as if they were his enemies.
The deeper he ventured into the forest, the more Mộc Phàm realized the vastness of the world beyond Mộc Loan village. He gradually encountered other people—travelers, merchants moving between towns. Through chance conversations, Mộc Phàm slowly gathered sparse information about what was called the cultivation world.
He heard about great sects like the Azure Cloud Sect, located atop cloud-shrouded peaks, where cultivators soared on swords like immortals. He heard about the Demonic Sects, places where practitioners of dark arts gathered, often bringing calamity to the mortal realm. He also heard about Rogue Cultivators, those who belonged to no sect, wandering everywhere, vying for resources.
What Mộc Phàm quickly realized was this: his strength, which he once considered extraordinary, was but a tiny grain of sand in the immense ocean of the cultivation world. The Qi Condensation cultivators he'd met in Mộc Loan village were already a formidable barrier, yet they were only the lowest rank. There were also Foundation Establishment, Core Formation, Nascent Soul... terms whose terrifying implications he couldn't yet fully grasp.
Crucially, Mộc Phàm always carefully concealed his "blood qi" strength. He realized that no matter how physically powerful he became, cultivators possessed methods he couldn't counter. Magic artifacts, talismans, formations... these things were completely beyond his comprehension. When he saw a cultivator merely wave a hand to summon fire or wind, Mộc Phàm understood the disparity even more clearly.
He began to learn to hide himself. Instead of using brute force to solve everything, Mộc Phàm observed, learning how travelers avoided trouble, how merchants bargained, how the weak survived. He relentlessly learned about various spirit herbs, minerals, types of demonic beasts, and their characteristics. He realized that knowledge was also a form of strength, especially when you were a mortal in a world teeming with immortals.
On his journey, Mộc Phàm sometimes came across the remnants of battles between cultivators. Deep cracks in rocks, ancient trees scorched black, or lingering traces of residual spiritual energy. Each time, he felt an invisible pressure weighing down on him, reminding him of this world's brutality.
Once, while passing through a small town much more bustling than Mộc Loan, Mộc Phàm witnessed a group of cultivators from the Azure Cloud Sect recruiting disciples. Hundreds of youths, boys and girls, lined up, nervously awaiting their spirit root examination. Those with excellent spirit roots were warmly welcomed, while those without were mercilessly turned away, disappointment and despair evident on their faces.
Mộc Phàm stood unnoticed in the crowd, silently observing. He saw himself in the eyes of the rejected children. But unlike them, he already had his own path. A path full of blood and tears, a path he had to forge himself, with no one to guide him.
He clenched the stone in his pouch. It hadn't given him spirit roots, nor cultivation techniques, but it had opened another path for him. A path where he would have to overturn prejudices, break through limitations, to prove that even as a mortal, he could stand firm between heaven and earth.