Su Ming let out a hoarse chuckle. "Dragons, phoenixes, heaven and earth… Elder Xuan really knew how to hype up a breathing exercise."
Yet beneath the sarcasm, the truth pulsed in his chest. Breath became flame. Flame became qi. And qi, when guided with rhythm instead of brute force, had reforged his very core.
A new clarity stirred—his affinity with flame was sharper than ever, his understanding of the mantra deeper than before.
He muttered, half to himself, half to the flickering lantern - "Guess I'll have to visit the sect library soon…"
The halo above him dimmed slowly as its soft glow faded. His body was weak, but his dantian was clear, stable, and whole. A perfect foundation—flawless, unshakable.
For the first time since stepping onto White Lotus Peak, Su Ming closed his eyes not in despair, but in quiet certainty.
***
Su Ming sat cross-legged in the quiet hall of White Lotus Peak. His body still hummed with the aftershocks of reforging his foundation. Sweat and faint traces of qi clung to his skin, but his mind was steady, clear. He had crossed a threshold few could reach, yet the journey had only just begun.
His gaze drifted across the room. Beside him lay a simple, cold steel sword, the standard issue for any sect disciple. Beside the sword, there lay the Cloud Chasing Sword Technique scroll - thin, frayed at the edges, but still intact. He remembered picking it out of the library years ago when Elder Xuan had escorted him there. It was not rare or flashy, but one of the sect's foundational manuals, a technique built to teach discipline and flow.
The Heavenly Cloud Sect was vast, with nine inner peaks and seventy-two outer peaks. Each inner peak specialized in its own Dao—alchemy, talismans, martial arts, swords, and so on. The fourth inner peak, Sword Peak, was the sect's blade. Its current master, Elder Jianhong, was a Saint-ranked swordsman, a name carried in reverence and fear.
Compared to that, Su Ming was still fumbling at the basics of the Cloud Chasing Sword. The path of mastery was long, divided into four grades of proficiency. Beginner, Small Achievement, Great Achievement, and finally Perfection.
It was no different from cultivation itself. Realms, divided into major ranks, each subdivided into ten minor stages. Mortal, Mystic, Saint… and higher. Elder Xuan had once been a Nascent Soul expert—the very peak of the Mystic Realm—before he disappeared. The nine inner peak masters were all at the Saint level at a minimum. As for the Sect Master… rumors placed him far beyond even that.
Even items mirrored this hierarchy: Mortal-grade swords, Mystic treasures, Saint artifacts, and beyond. A weapon could determine life and death as surely as cultivation.
Su Ming yawned. He wanted to dive into the scroll right away, but exhaustion tugged at his body.
"A full day in a new world, reforging my foundation, being roasted alive once already…" He chuckled dryly. "Even transmigrators need sleep."
After tidying his quarters, he dug out the last of his spiritual fruits and boiled rice from the cleaner portion of his rations. No mold tonight. He ate quietly, then collapsed into bed.
***
The next day, dawn spilled across White Lotus Peak, painting the courtyard in gold. Su Ming washed, stretched, and sat beneath the lantern's faint halo. His qi cycled smoothly. By the time he finished his morning cultivation, he had already advanced to the second stage of Foundation Establishment.
After bathing, he drew his sword and unrolled theCloud Chasing Sword Technique scroll. Four movements were recorded on its frayed pages:
Cloud Step Slash — a flowing downward cut, soft at first, hard at the end.
Drifting Cloud Thrust — a piercing thrust, balanced between speed and stability.
Cloud Veil Spiral — a defensive sweep, redirecting force like mist.
Coiling Serpent Strike — a sudden twist, explosive release.
Four strokes, simple on the surface. Yet together, they formed a style meant to adapt, shift, and survive—like drifting clouds that could gather into storms, like a serpent waiting to become a dragon.
Su Ming tightened his grip on the blade. "A mortal-grade technique… but not worthless."
He activated the lantern's halo. White light shimmered faintly within him, pressing clarity into his thoughts. His first swings were slow, deliberate—his body adjusting to the rhythm the halo imposed.
The Cloud Chasing Sword was not a brute-force style. It flowed, it absorbed, it turned weakness into opportunity. Each motion transitioned seamlessly into the next; each defense could shift into a strike. Where other styles sought dominance, this one sought survival.
Su Ming muttered between swings, half reciting, half laughing at himself.
"Clouds rise, clouds scatter. The serpent coils, the serpent strikes. Even weakness can wait for the right wind."
His sword cut the morning air. Swish. Swish. Swish.Slash. Thrust. Spiral. Strike.
His breath moved with the blade. His qi, faint but steady, flowed along with each cut, guided by the lantern's glow. But the halo wasn't free - every moment it brightened, it drew more qi from him. If he pushed it too far, he could feel the thread of his lifespan tug tighter.
Still, he pressed on. Sweat ran down his arms. Muscles trembled. His grip faltered—but he didn't stop until he had cycled through the sequence again and again. Finally, panting, he lowered the blade. The halo dimmed, leaving the courtyard silent once more.
Su Ming exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Beginner's stage… but stable. At this pace, Small Achievement isn't far."
It would be easy to credit the lantern. But deep down, Su Ming knew better. The muscle memory of five years swinging this exact technique was carved into his bones. The old Su Ming might have lacked talent, but he had not lacked discipline. Every day, rain or shine, humiliation or loneliness - he had practiced.
The lantern illuminated the flaws, yes. But the foundation was already there. Without it, no amount of cheats would have helped.
"Guess it wasn't all wasted after all," he muttered, rolling his sore shoulders. "The old me… wasn't talentless. Just unlucky."
***
The days slipped by in silence.
Each morning, Su Ming sat cross-legged beneath the lantern's halo, guiding qi and flame through his meridians until sweat drenched his back and black filth seeped from his pores. Each evening, he stood in the courtyard, steel sword in hand, repeating the four forms of the Cloud Chasing Sword.
By the end of the first week, his cultivation had climbed to the third stage of Foundation Establishment, his swordsmanship steady at Small Achievement. By the second, his qi deepened, and his Cloud Veil Spirals no longer faltered. They flowed like a cloud, scattering heavy strikes with ease.
By the third week, the sword no longer felt like an external tool. It moved with him, coiling and thrusting on instinct, like a serpent waiting to strike. And by the fourth, Su Ming stood at the eighth stage of Foundation Establishment. His sword mastery had just stepped into Great Achievement—each swing carrying the weight of clouds gathering before a storm.
Yet even as his cultivation rose and his swordsmanship sharpened, Su Ming's thoughts kept circling back to something else.
The Lotus.
He remembered it clearly. Years ago, Elder Xuan had conjured a Lotus made of white fire that seemed to silence this entire peak. It wasn't just power, it was presence—the image of purity and authority etched deep into Su Ming's memory. Even now, recalling it gave him chills.
With his improved affinity for Flame Qi, he tried to mimic it. Qi into flame, flame into shape.
The result was… cabbage. Sometimes a shaky half-lotus, trembling before collapsing. Sometimes just a smoldering mess. Even with the lantern's faint blessing, the petals refused to hold.
Su Ming sighed but refused to quit. The White Lotus was more than a technique—it was a symbol. If he could stand before the sect and make them believe, even for a heartbeat, that White Lotus Peak still lived… that would be enough.
***
Soon, the day before the Disciple Recruitment Ceremony arrived. White Lotus Peak was quiet as always. Only the lone figure of Su Ming was seen practicing his Cloud Chasing Sword Technique as streaks of cloud qi flashed before vanishing.
Then, a faint sound broke the silence.
Su Ming stopped his sword mid-swing. A figure in plain gray robes was climbing the stone path, every step steady and unhurried. No ornaments, no treasures, yet the air itself seemed to bend around her.
"…Elder Qingya," he muttered.
He hurriedly went to receive her, cupping his hands, bowing deeply.
"Disciple pays respect to the elder."
It was Elder Qingya. His master's dao companion. A woman he had only met three times in his life.
When she reached him, she didn't speak at once. She only watched. Her gaze was calm, but it stripped him bare in an instant, as if she could see the old cracks in his foundation, his patched-together confidence, and the new person hidden beneath.
Finally, she said, "Your swordplay has spirit now. Elder Xuan would have been pleased."
Su Ming stiffened, unsure how to reply. Nervously, he forced out a dry chuckle.
"Heh. Then I'll take that as proof I haven't embarrassed my master completely."
Her eyes softened - just barely. "You do not have Elder Xuan's talent. You do not have his strength. But you do have something notable. Patience. Persistence. And flames that refuse to die."