Ba-dump—ba-dump. Zhu's heart beat with the strength of a horse. He jolted awake, grime and ichor clinging to his skin like wet paper. He sat up, gasping for air, his muscles sore but far more responsive than they had ever been. The first thing he noticed, besides the strength, was the distance his hands were from his body. My arms have gotten longer? The question hung in his mind like the noonday sun in the sky.
"What the hell!" A voice, not his own, came out of his throat. Or at least, not one he recognized. It was raspy and deeper, like he'd gone through puberty in a single night. He pulled his hands up to his face, examining them slowly. They were bigger, the longer fingers and nails clearly noticeable. He made a fist and felt the strength in that one motion. As he moved to stand, his hand caught on his hair. He stopped, eyeing the black, shining strands that lay on the ground around him.
He picked it up, studying it closely. His hair had already been long before eating the giant flower, but now it reached down to the small of his back, if not longer. He would need to find a way to tie it up—or cut it. As the wind stirred and birds trilled around him, he turned his attention back to his hands and arms in the daylight. A new thought struck him: how much time had passed? Tilting his head toward the pale blue sky, he saw the sun cresting past its zenith.
An hour or two? he wondered, glancing back down at his transformed hands. Or a few years?
He glanced around at the forest life surrounding him. Nothing seemed to have changed, at least, not that he could tell. Maybe the plants had grown? Maybe not. What truly stood out was his vision. The blur that usually softened distant shapes was gone. His sight could shift, sharpen, and adjust. When he focused on a point, details snapped into clarity, depth unfolding as if the world itself had moved closer.
He spent a few moments testing this new eyesight, marveling at details hidden from normal vision. Tiny isopods crawled across leaves and soil at his feet. A caterpillar inched up a tree trunk in the distance, and when he focused, he could make out each individual hair on its body as clearly as if it were in his hand. Ten paces away, ants fed on honeydew secreted by mealybugs, their movements crisp and vivid.
But when he tried to bring his eyesight back to normal, things went wrong. The moment he relaxed his vision into mortal clarity, vertigo struck. His stomach lurched and he vomited across the ground. He remained on his hands and knees until the spinning in his head subsided, only to realize, to his disgust, that the end of his new hair had dragged straight through the mess.
"Ughhh…" he groaned, wiping the last dribble of saliva from his chin. He rocked back on his knees and tried to stand, but failed, his longer legs caught awkwardly in the dirt, nearly pitching him face-first into his own sickness. After a few more clumsy attempts, he finally managed to get his body moving the way he wanted. Standing upright, he noticed two things immediately.
First, he kept rising. Taller and taller, until he realized he stood a full foot above the height he'd been that morning. His robes now ended at mid-calf instead of brushing his ankles, and his sleeves stopped short at his forearms where once they had flowed over his hands. Second, his movements had changed. What had once been clumsy, boyish motion was now fluid, balanced, and graceful.
"Okay," his voice rumbled into the woods. "This may take some time to adjust to." Naturally, the first thing he tested was whether anything inside had changed. Moving away from the sour puddle, he sat cross-legged in the lotus position, hands resting on his knees, and began cycling through the qi breathing techniques he had once read every night.
"Breathing is not merely the drawing of air. To the mortal, it is survival; to the cultivator, it is transformation. Inhale, and the world enters you. Exhale, and your impurities depart. This is the first principle."
The manuals had spoken clearly: the art of Qi Breathing lay not in the lungs alone, but in the dantian. Breath must be guided past flesh and bone, sinking into the sea of qi. When breath and qi moved as one, they formed a cycle as eternal as heaven and earth.
Almost at once, he noticed a problem: he had no dantian, no natal qi. The realization soured his mood. Even with an incredibly potent natural treasure, he still couldn't form meridians or a core. Still, his transformation was not without merit. His skin had darkened into a bronze sheen, no longer the pasty white of before. He found himself curious about his face, but without a mirror or still water, there was no way to know.
. Rising smoothly, far easier than his first attempt, he decided the next step was to test his body's new limits.
As he moved back up the mountainside, away from the site of the flower, the difference in his strength and speed was undeniable. At a mere walking pace, he flowed through the trees with ease, each step carrying him twice as far as before. In only a few minutes he reached the passage winding down the mountain. To better gauge his newfound power, he began stretching.
After finishing his stretches, he moved on to simple exercises. He began with a high jump—squatting deeply before exploding upward. The force of the leap carried him more than twelve feet into the air. Impressive, though still short of a true heavenly realm cultivator. He landed almost silently, a grin spreading across his face. The realization struck him: in terms of raw strength, his body had leapt past the earthly realm and directly into the heavenly.
With strength tested, he turned to agility. Planting his feet, he sprinted down the passage. Dirt sprayed from each step as he launched himself down the mountainside, hair streaming wildly behind him. He laughed aloud, wind roaring so fiercely in his ears he could hardly hear himself. That is until a giant grasshopper smacked into his face and burst straight into his mouth.
"Phfpt—phfrt! Oh, by the heavens, that's disgusting!" He skidded to a halt so abruptly he slid several feet before stopping, spitting frantically as he tried to rid his tongue of the foul slime. Tearing open his satchel, he fumbled for his canteen, uncorked it, and poured a generous mouthful of water. He swished, gagged, and spat it onto the ground.
He sighed, wiping his face with his sleeve, his earlier laughter gone. The thrill of running still hummed in his chest, but it was soured by the realization that his hair now reeked of both vomit and bug guts. Before his transformation, his body had been caked in mud, blood, and viscera from crawling out of the sect. That filth had burned away, leaving him clean,until now. He needed a stream, quickly. The stench was unbearable. His hair, once pristine after regrowth, now carried the stinking reminder of both sickness and insect gore.
Sighing once more, he pushed on, continuing to test his body's limits as he jogged steadily down the trail. His legs moved without strain, muscles free of the burning fatigue he had once known. His lungs barely demanded breath at all. The exhilaration returned, rising sharp and wild, until he found himself grinning and then laughing maniacally,as he bounded down the mountain in search of water to wash himself.
After nearly an hour of jogging down winding trails, he emerged onto the stone and brick walkway that marked the start of the Ten Thousand Step Staircase. It clung tightly to the mountain's right flank, the steps steep and narrow, a weathered railing running its length. Beyond that railing was only open air and a sheer drop into mist and forest far below. Zhu Long stepped to the edge and looked down. The valley was there, his goal within his sight.
Using the moment to his advantage, he activated what he'd begun calling his eagle vision. At once, the world sharpened into brilliance. Colors grew more vivid, edges more distinct, some smoothed to perfection, others jagged as blades. Every detail stood out with uncanny clarity
The queasiness that had struck him earlier returned, though less violently this time. His mind was slowly adjusting to the flood of information pouring through this single sense. The thought piqued his curiosity: if his sight had improved, what of his hearing?
He descended a few steps, braced one hand on the railing, and drew a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he focused wholly on sound.
Within seconds, something clicked in his mind and sound crashed into him like a wave. The wind, gentle before, now roared with deafening force. He swayed, nearly losing his balance, but gritted his teeth and pushed through it.
Gradually, other noises separated themselves from the gale. The faint cries of birds far in the distance. The steady, distinct rush of a waterfall, perhaps three thousand steps below. And, fainter still, the murmur of voices rising from the valley. Not shouts of battle or alarm, but something more mundane. Haggling, perhaps? It was too distant to be sure.
Two goals revealed themselves: the waterfall to cleanse himself, and the voices that hinted at life in the valley below. He exhaled slowly, opening his eyes, and began his descent without fanfare. He had barely gone a dozen steps when he froze.
He focused on his hearing as he closed his eyes. A sharp crack rang faintly from below — not the casual crumble of old stone or the rustle of a bird's wing. It was deliberate. Like the snap of a staff striking stone. He inhaled sharply. A scent followed, faint on the wind , burning incense and iron. Cultivator gear.
Zhu whipped his head downward and activated his eagle vision.
Far below, barely visible at this distance, shapes moved , three, maybe four figures climbing steadily up the Ten Thousand Step Staircase. Robes swayed with the wind. They were too far for him to make out minute details, but their formation was tight, their movements sharp.
He was not alone.
His heart pounded.
He looked around instinctively, searching for cover, but there was none.
The stairs clung tightly to the mountainside. To his left was a sheer wall of stone. To his right, an old stone railing barely waist-high—and beyond it, a vertical plunge hundreds of feet down into jagged forest and mist.
There was no brush to slip into, no corner to duck behind. No illusion of safety. Anyone ascending those steps would see him the moment they rounded the bend.
"Shit," Zhu muttered under his breath.
He crouched slightly, keeping low, back to the mountain wall, eyes still locked on the figures below. At this distance, his eagle vision showed them in finer detail: weapons at their hips, padded shoulders, talismans tied to belts that fluttered with spiritual energy. They moved with purpose, silent, and controlled.
Hunters.
Whether they were here for the sect, for him, or just scavenging... it didn't matter.
They couldn't see him. Not yet.
He glanced behind him, the stairs stretched upward, bending slightly out of sight. If he climbed fast enough, maybe he could reach the next curve and get out of their line of sight before they emerged onto the same section.
But that would require speed. And timing.
And if he made a sound—any sound—they would look up.
Think.
Zhu's eyes darted up the mountain face. The stairs twisted out of view above him—but that wasn't fast enough. If he took the normal route, they'd spot him the moment they turned the next corner.
He needed to get higher. Now.
Without another thought, he turned from the staircase and threw himself at the stone wall.
His fingers scraped at the mountainside, searching for any purchase. The rock was jagged, uneven, but dry. Solid. His nails dug in like claws, and his enhanced muscles screamed with tension as he heaved himself upward, fingers gouging into a crack, one foot blindly kicking until it found a jut of stone.
Then he jumped.
Not climbed but jumped.
A full-body lunge straight up, grabbing onto a tiny ledge that would've broken his fingers a day ago. But now, historical grip was like iron. He swung up, slammed his foot into a slanted groove, and kicked off again, climbing like a man possessed.
Another leap. Another handhold. Another kick. He didn't think, he moved.
The wind howled past him. Gravel rained down from the ledges he disturbed, pattering softly against the steps below. He didn't dare look down. Couldn't. His muscles burned, but he kept climbing, shoving fingers between cracks in the rock, using elbows and knees when his hands failed him.
Every time his foot found even the hint of a hold, he jumped again, pushing his body beyond what any normal human could do.
He was moving fast. Faster than anyone should be able to scale a cliff face.
And then—finally. He reached it.
A ledge. Barely a foot deep, no wider than his shoulders, but just above the next bend in the staircase. He grabbed it, swung a leg up, and pulled himself onto it, chest heaving. He pressed himself low, flat against the stone, hidden just above the curve.
Seconds later, the first figure stepped into view below.
Zhu held his breath.
The three robed cultivators made their way up the stone stairs, their boots thudding dully against the centuries-old stone. One walked ahead, silent and lean, a long saber strapped to his back. The second was heavier, bald, with small talismans hanging from his belt that jingled softly with every step. The third, in the rear, was the oldest, his robes faded, his beard grey, and a long staff etched with crude sigils tapping lightly as he walked.
Zhu remained flat against the ledge just above them, listening.
The mountain wind covered most soft sounds, but his enhanced hearing cut through it like a blade.
"…Boundless Dao's gone. Just like the others." The bald man muttered, his voice low, gravelly. "Ashes, blood, broken jade… same as Azure Ocean sect. Same as Emerald Pine Temple."
"The cult doesn't leave survivors," the younger one in front replied. "Only messages."
"Messages?" the old man scoffed. "They leave destruction, etched in bone and ruin. They would've killed us too if we didn't offer our lives in servitude"
A cold silence followed.
Zhu's breath caught. Boundless Dao is gone? That couldn't be true. He had escaped, yes, fled through blood and flame. But he thought… hoped… that someone had survived. That his sect had endured.
But from the way they spoke, there was nothing left.
The bald man grunted. "Wasn't even a real battle. The sky went dark, fire rained down, and then... it was over. Didn't even see a single true demon, just puppets and black flame."
"They didn't need demons," said the old man, his voice like dust. "The sects were already dying. Greedy, fractured, fat with false peace. The cult just gave the final push."
Zhu's fingers tightened on the ledge above them, stone crumbling under his grip.
"They're heading west next," the younger one murmured. "Toward the Sleeping Lilly. If the White Lotus Sect doesn't bend the knee, they'll be next."
"Bend, break, or burn," the old man said flatly. "Just like us."
The bald man spat off the side of the steps. "We made the smart choice. Work for the cult, or end up like the rest."
There was a short silence before he added, bitterly: "I didn't like Boundless Dao. Their disciples were arrogant pricks."
"Didn't save them, though," the old one said.
"No," the bald man agreed quietly. "Didn't save anyone."
Zhu's heart pounded in his ears, even above the wind. The cliff felt colder now. Emptier.
He had escaped with nothing but his life and now it seemed there was no sect to return to. No master. No comrades. No foundation.
He was alone.
Worse: the enemy had already won.
The cult wasn't some rogue faction in the shadows, it was a tidal wave. One that had already swept over his home, and now threatened the rest of the continent.
Zhu exhaled slowly, eyes narrowed as he watched the three men continue their climb. Their backs to him now, growing smaller with every step.
They had no idea that the last ember of Boundless Dao was watching from above.
And that ember… was beginning to burn.