The following days were filled with a monotonous rhythm of blind determination: scratch, rest, lick the diminishing crystals for strength, scratch again. Zhuo's claws, reinforced by the Earth Qi he had absorbed, were stripped and bloodied, only to heal slightly harder and sharper after he ingested Blood Iron tree sap mixed with crystal dust. It was a cycle of pain and reinforcement, a primitive feedback loop telling him he was on the right path.
The hole at the pool's bottom grew deeper, turning into a narrow tunnel just wide enough for his elongated body. The air inside was cooler, heavier, and smelled of old metal and damp earth. The "flavor" of Earth Qi here was far stronger, more pure, like a thick soup that hadn't been diluted. Every breath he took in this tunnel gave him as much energy as licking a small crystal.
One evening, his weary claws touched something that wasn't earth or stone. Something that... vibrated. It felt like a root, but not the usual Blood Iron tree root. This root was a pale, pearlescent white, almost glowing in the dark, and emitted an energy vibration that made Zhuo's entire bones resonate. It wasn't warm or cold; it felt ancient, like the very heartbeat of the mountain.
Carefully, almost fearfully, he scraped the earth around the mysterious root. It wasn't large, perhaps the size of his claw, but it radiated an aura of power that made the crystals in the crevice wall feel like toys. This was a "Pure Spiritual Root," a rare vein of nature, a conduit where the purest Earth Qi flowed from the depths of the earth. Finding it was an unimaginable stroke of luck for any cultivator, let alone for a lizard.
Zhuo did not understand this. All he knew was that this was the strongest, densest, most satisfying "flavor" he had ever encountered. The emptiness within him, which had now shrunk to a small, perpetually thirsty space, screamed for it.
He extended his tongue, licking the pearlescent surface of the root.
BOOM!
It was like being struck by lightning again, but this time from within. An overwhelming wave of pure energy hit him, not through his blood, but directly towards the vague center of his being—the newly forming seed of his soul. Zhuo was thrown backward, his body convulsing, foam forming at his mouth. His vision swam, filled with strange images: mountains forming, lava flowing, gems crystallizing in the earth's belly over millennia. It was the earth's own memory, imprinted within the Qi he had absorbed.
It was too much. Too strong. If he stayed here, he would die, his body torn apart by a force he couldn't contain.
His survival instinct screamed. With the last of his strength, he crawled away from the tunnel, away from the root emitting the lethal energy. He hid in the farthest corner of the crevice, shivering, every muscle throbbing with pain. It took him days to recover, and even then, he felt changed. His eyesight was sharper. His hearing could pick up the sound of a caterpillar chewing a leaf from a distance. And he could feel the faint pulse of the Spiritual Root from afar, like a constant song calling to him.
He didn't dare approach it again. But the song could not be ignored. It became the background to every moment of his life. He began to understand that the "flavor" had a rhythm, a weak ebb and flow. There were times when its song was calm, and times when it bubbled fiercely, often coinciding with the full or new moon.
So, he did what all intelligent creatures do: he adapted. He would approach the tunnel only when the song was calm, sitting at its mouth and taking deep breaths of the thick Qi flowing from it. It was still potent, still made his head spin, but it wasn't lethal. He learned he could "sample" the energy without swallowing it whole.
His progress slowed but became far safer. Each breath strengthened him, changing him bit by bit. His greenish-bronze scales began to be adorned with small, pearl-like spots, reflecting light in an odd way. He grew larger, now almost the length of a human arm. He was no longer a small lizard that could be hidden under a rock.
These changes did not go unnoticed.
The world outside his crevice was not static. One morning, as he basked on his flat rock that now felt too small, his newly enhanced senses picked up something foreign. A scent. Not the scent of an animal, earth, or plant. It was the smell of coarse soap, cotton cloth, iron metal, and... something else. Something sharp and energetic, like a different version of the "flavor" of his crystals, but more orderly, more intentional, and dangerous.
Humans.
Zhuo froze, motionless, merging with the stone. From his vantage point, he looked down at a path on the mountainside. Two figures walked. They wore simple brown robes, carried long staffs, and on the waist of one of them hung a small brass pouch that emitted a faint energy vibration—a low-level cultivation artifact.
"They said there were traces of strong Earth Qi in this area," one of them said, his voice clear to Zhuo's super-hearing. "But after all this time, we've only found small flakes. Probably already taken by fellow cultivators."
"Don't complain, Senior Brother," replied the other, younger one. "For a small sect like ours, even these flakes are valuable for disciples at the Body Tempering stage. Hurry, we must return before dusk. This area is said to have wild beasts."
They walked on, unaware that a pair of reptilian eyes, filled with nascent intelligence and wariness, observed their every move.
This was the first time Zhuo had seen humans. His instincts were confused. They walked upright, like birds of prey, but did not fly. They spoke, making complex sounds that clearly conveyed information. And they had a strange "flavor," a combination of the mundane (flesh, sweat) and the extraordinary (concentrated energy similar to his crystals).
But most importantly, they were a threat. They spoke of "taking" the crystals. They referred to his crevice, his home, as an "area with wild beasts." They were a new kind of predator, and the most dangerous because Zhuo did not understand them.
As they passed, the eyes of the younger Junior Brother stopped on the rock where Zhuo lay. He squinted.
"Senior Brother, look at that," he said, pointing. "That lizard. Its color is strange."
Zhuo froze deeper, trying to become stone.
The Senior Brother glanced over indifferently. "It's ordinary. The beasts on this mountain are all strange because of the water and soil. Come on, don't waste time."
They walked on, and their shadows disappeared behind the trees.
Zhuo remained still for a very long time, even after their scent had faded. The fear he felt was different from the fear of an eagle or a snake. It was deeper, more piercing. It was the fear of the unknown, the fear of something possessing intelligence on par—or even greater—than his own nascent wit, and having the power to take everything he had fought for.
He slid back into his crevice, into the familiar darkness. The song of the Spiritual Root felt like a comfort, but also a reminder. The world was much larger and more dangerous than he had realized. The power he sought was also sought by others.
That night, he did not sleep. He sat at the mouth of the tunnel, inhaling the soothing Qi, his eyes staring into the darkness outside. An almost coherent "thought" formed, forged from fear and determination: they would return. Or others would come. His home was no longer safe.
The "emptiness" within him was no longer thirsty for "flavor." Now it thirsted for something else. Something that would make him safe from the foreign smell and the talking voices.
He needed more power. Not just to sate his thirst, but to survive.
With a new resolve burning in his changing blood, Zhuo looked into the darkness of the tunnel, towards the song of the Spiritual Root. The fear of its power had been replaced by necessity. He had to find a way to conquer it.