The sun dripped crimson across the peaks of the Boundless Dao Sect by the time Zhu Long finished his daily chores. The disciples had long since retreated to their chambers for meditation, yet he had been summoned—Martial Uncle Lian wanted him. He climbed the stone steps that led from the martialing yards toward one of the sect's many pagodas, the largest of them all. Its shadow stretched wide, a colossal sentinel rising at least two hundred feet into the sky. Zhu Long remembered reading in an old scroll that the legendary Immortal Palace was said to be twelve such towers fused into a single spire, piercing the heavens for two thousand feet. Even from the Boundless Dao, its crown remained veiled by the eternal clouds, glimpsed only by those who had earned the right to ascend.
Anger simmered in Zhu Long's chest as memories, or what little remained of them, flitted through his mind. His parents were gone before he could even form a proper memory of them, and what followed had been no kinder: the senior brothers, sworn to guide the juniors, had made him their target instead. Step by grueling step, he climbed. Nine hundred and ninety-nine in total. It was an auspicious number meant to bring fortune and luck. Zhu Long scoffed; neither had ever touched him since he arrived at the sect.
Sure, he had shelter, food, a roof over his head, the essentials any child might need, but that was the extent of his freedom. Around his neck rested an invisible collar: the sect would not release him, for he knew too many of its secrets. Other sects would not welcome him; his mortality marked him as a blemish, a disgrace. To them, he was filth unworthy of their Dao.
It was a constant torment, always glimpsing what lay forever beyond his reach. One day, I'll be one of them, or I'll be dead long before Zhu Long thought, his gaze locked on the double oak doors as he crossed the final steps. He bowed low, just as he had been taught, and rapped lightly upon the wood. His legs screamed from the climb, stiff and protesting, as he waited. Moments stretched. Then the doors swung open.
"Junior Brother Zhu, you may enter," boomed a voice that made the very air hum with qi.
Zhu Long stepped inside without a word. The pagoda's atrium soared overhead, a vaulted expanse of polished wood and meticulous craftsmanship. At its center sprawled a Ba Gua diagram, the yin-yang symbol spiraling at its heart—a perfect balance of opposing forces. Each of the eight trigrams radiated outward like spokes of the universe, the cardinal directions and seasons inscribed along the outer circle with precise artistry.
Evening sunlight poured through latticed windows high above, slicing the room with shifting beams of gold and shadow. Massive wooden pillars, carved with dragons coiled around phoenixes, bore the weight of the upper levels, their surfaces worn smooth from centuries of reverent hands. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of sandalwood and the faint, earthy perfume of ancient ink and paper tucked in hidden alcoves.
Across from the Ba Gua diagram, on the northern side, sat Martial Uncle Lian, draped in flowing cultivator robes, his legs folded neatly in the Lotus position. The air around him vibrated with dense qi, pressing down even on a mortal. Zhu Long felt it in his bones, a weight of power, of authority, of the heavens themselves. He stepped to the southern edge of the diagram and bowed low, fingers brushing the polished floor.
"You summoned me, Martial Uncle?" His voice was careful, polite, but trembled slightly, betraying the anxiety he could not hide.
Lian's eyes opened slowly, pale orbs sharp as frost. He looked at the boy before him. The mortal he had plucked from the world below three years ago, a child of only seven, ripped from tragedy too soon. He had no explanation for why he chose the boy—perhaps it was the cold fire in those tiny eyes as they stared at a burning home, or a whim of the heavens. Among all the mortals who passed through the Boundless Dao Sect, none had shown the hunger for a cultivator's spirit like this child.
The old cultivator exhaled softly. If there were a way to defy the heavens and grant this boy natal qi, he would have done it without hesitation. Yet the Immortal Palace's decree was absolute. He could not.
""Zhu Long," Lian began, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips betraying amusement, "I hear the junior brothers have seen you imitating the Boundless Dao forms in the martialing yards."
"Yes, Martial Uncle," Zhu Long replied, voice steady even as he maintained his bow. "I do not believe I have broken the code by stretching my muscles. I watch, and I learn."
Lian's smile deepened, a mix of warmth and caution. "No, you have not broken the rules. But you know as well as I that these forms are meant for qi cultivators. You are not one. So tell me. What do you hope to gain from this? And do not feed me nonsense about stretching your muscles. I have no patience for a liar, Zhu Long. That is not the way of the Dao."
The boy's posture stiffened slightly, but his gaze did not waver. "I apologize, Martial Uncle. I practice them because one day I will reach the Earthly Foundation Realm, and it will serve me to have a head start."
Lian's gaze was sharp as he stroked his long white beard, eyes assessing the boy before him. "Very well, Zhu Long. Come closer. Let this old man get a proper look at you."
Zhu Long bowed deeply. "Yes, Martial Uncle," he replied, straightening as he advanced. Every step was measured, deliberate, a quiet declaration of discipline and intent.
Even at such a young age, the boy moved with poise that belied his years. Lian's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile as he observed Zhu Long approach, back straight, posture rigid, yet graceful.
When the boy stopped before him, his height did not meet the seated cultivator's eyes, yet his presence carried weight beyond his stature. Lian studied him in silence.
"You seem in decent shape. All those years of cleaning, carrying water—has it not made you strong?" Lian asked, though the statement carried more observation than question.
"Yes, Martial Uncle. It has," Zhu Long answered, steady and respectful.
The old cultivator rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The boy had earned a measure of merit in the sect, not by status, not by blood, but by diligence and resilience. He bore no complaint, no resentment, despite the cruelty of others toward his mortality. If the heavens had granted this child the gift of cultivation, he would have been a perfect disciple. Lian exhaled quietly, eyes lingering on Zhu Long, who remained steadfast under his gaze.
"Hold out your hand," Lian commanded. Ever obedient, Zhu Long extended it, fingers steady, eyes fixed on the cultivator before him.
From the storage ring on his right middle finger, Lian withdrew two ancient scrolls, their silk bindings gleaming faintly in the late afternoon light.
"Here," he said, pressing them into the boy's hands. "The first is Qi Condensing for the Boundless Dao. The second—Flame Eternal, the Flame of Life. Some of our most treasured scrolls. Do you understand what this means?" He raised a single eyebrow, studying Zhu Long's wide, wet eyes.
For the first time since his arrival, the boy faltered, if only for a heartbeat. Lian's lips twitched into a laugh he barely restrained.
"Yes… I believe you understand," he said, controlling his mirth.
"Now heed me. Do not open these in front of the other juniors. Do not give them to anyone—Jien included. Is that clear?"
"Y-Yes, Martial Uncle," Zhu Long stammered, gaze locked on the scrolls as though they were precious beyond imagining.
"Now go. Head to the bathhouse and wash before dinner. Tonight, you eat with us, you will not serve."
The boy's face flushed crimson. Words failed him for several long moments, and then, bowing so low that his hair nearly brushed the polished floor, he whispered, "I do not deserve such an honor, Martial Uncle."
"It is not an honor. It is what should be done," Lian said, the finality in his voice leaving no room for argument. He exhaled, watching the boy depart.
"Was that the right thing to do?" Lian asked quietly, glancing upward.
"I believe so. Remember, Junior Brother, the boy is sharper than disciples twice his age. When he finds the path to cultivation, those scrolls will be his lifeline," came a voice from the shadows of the pagoda, simultaneously soft and commanding, carrying the weight of authority through the quiet hall.
Zhu Long emerged from the pagoda, legs heavy and stiff from the climb and the weight of the scrolls in his hands. What does he know that I don't? he wondered, eyes glued to the precious bundles. Each step down the long stairway seemed to hum with energy, and he was a ball of barely contained excitement.
Remembering his Martial Uncle's instructions, he quickly drew his satchel around his shoulders, layered the new scrolls atop the old, double-checked their safety, and finally sprinted toward the bathhouse across the martialing yards. Shouts from senior brothers to slow down barely reached him over the pounding of his heartbeat.
He skidded to a halt at the entrance. The bathhouse was no ordinary place of hygiene—it was a chamber of purification, built over a natural hot spring said to be blessed by the Immortal Palace itself. From outside, it seemed part of the mountainside, a low-profile marvel of artistry and cultivation engineering. Its roof mirrored the slope of the land, walls a mosaic of moss-covered river stones and black jade, radiating a cool, profound calm.
A fine mist drifted constantly from upturned eaves and open lattice windows, mingling with the crisp mountain air. The main entrance framed an arch of gnarled cedars, flanked by stone lanterns carved into serene dragons. Zhu Long had spent countless hours tending this place, yet he could not help the thrill as he pushed the doors open, striding past curious or disapproving gazes.
Inside, the air was thick with medicinal steam, fragrant with rare herbs. Gentle murmurs of running water echoed from pools of varying temperature. These were not simple baths, but cultivation basins, large enough for dozens of disciples, each shimmering with a pale, milky luster, infused with treasures and qi-refining materials. Some disciples sat in silent meditation, while a few glanced up at him with annoyance, their bodies shedding dark, viscous residue into the pools, a sign of progress, decay, and rebirth all at once.
Normally, Zhu Long would have been tasked with cleaning this sludge. Today, however, he was free. For the first time, he would join the others. His heart leapt at the thought, though the excitement was tinged with nerves, the bathhouse was as much a place of power as it was of cleansing.
As Zhu Long disrobed and stowed his satchel, a shadow loomed across the doorway. Senior Brother Wang, an Earthly Realm cultivator, strode past with the arrogance of a predator.
"What do you think you're doing here, mongrel?" Wang's voice was sharp, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with contempt. "This place is for Brothers of the Sect, not their dogs! Do I need to remind you of your place?"
Zhu's mind raced. Wang was not like Senior Brother Kuo, who barked without biting; Wang enjoyed leaving teeth marks. Zhu Long remembered watching him ruin a junior's cultivation in a spar, hands and feet broken, body disfigured, dantian shattered. All because the boy had dared to flirt with Wang's betrothed in a sister sect. Wang's reputation for violence was notorious.
Yet, there was one advantage: no fighting in the bathhouse.
"I am aware, Senior Brother," Zhu Long said smoothly, voice polite, careful. "But Martial Uncle himself commanded this dog to bathe. Would you deny his orders?" His words were measured, respectful, yet each syllable dripped with barely restrained defiance, like a whip hidden under silk.
Wang glared, nostrils flaring, but the subtle insult passed him by. With a snort, he pushed past, shoving Zhu Long to the floor.
Zhu Long exhaled, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Rising, he continued disrobing, letting the steam envelop him as he entered the bath. The warm water seeped into his sore muscles, loosening the stiffness accumulated from days of relentless chores. For a fleeting moment, the bathhouse was a sanctuary, a place where even a mortal boy could feel the touch of cultivation's serenity.
"Ahhh… this is perfect," Zhu Long murmured, leaning back against the edge of the bath, arms stretched wide. Steam curled around him like a veil, momentarily shielding him from the watchful eyes of the other disciples. He ignored their curious or disapproving glances and closed his eyes, letting the warmth seep into his aching muscles.
Even in the quiet, his mind raced. He had been planning this for months—his own natural treasure, hidden somewhere on the mountain, waiting for one brave enough to claim it. To find it, he would need to leave the sect, descend into the dense, beast-filled forests below, and survive where even trained cultivators risked their lives.
He had prepared. Scraps of bread, salted meat, jerky, and water he had secretly saved from the kitchen were packed into his satchel. He had studied survival techniques obsessively: traps, foraging, edible herbs, hunting, and crafting makeshift shelters. A cultivator was expected to endure months or even years on expeditions; he would get a head start. But this journey was not just training, it was strategy. Each day outside the sect was a chance to grow stronger, to move closer to the Earthly Foundation realm he dreamed of.
The risk was real. Discovery would bring punishment, perhaps severe. Yet in his calculations, the danger paled before the reward. The mountain held secrets that could change everything for him, and Zhu Long had no intention of waiting for fate to hand them over.
He sank deeper into the water, letting the heat rise to his nose, steam curling around his face. For a brief, stolen moment, he let himself breathe, letting worries slip away.