The cavern trembled with quiet anticipation as Elder Zhao sat cross-legged in its center. Spirit stones glimmered faintly around him, their essence gathering like rivers feeding a vast sea. Layers of talismans sealed the entrance, yet the weight of his presence pressed outward, as though the world itself were listening.
His breath came deep and steady, but in his heart roared the echo of Wen Liang's words.
Your truth is scattered. A Core cannot be forged from chains.
For decades, he had carried others. For disciples, for family, for sect. But now, he clutched at the memory of his younger self—the one who gazed at the horizon not for duty, but for the Dao itself. That seed burned brighter than any pill.
He drew his qi inward.
It surged like a storm tide, flooding his meridians, gathering at his dantian. Pressure built until his very bones groaned, his skin damp with sweat. With gritted teeth, he compressed, weaving the torrent into a vortex.
The first step: compression. To take scattered qi and refine it into purity.
His dantian pulsed with light, golden threads of essence spinning like molten metal. His body trembled violently, sweat turning to steam upon his brow.
The second step: unification. To merge not just qi, but mind and spirit into one.
What do I seek? he asked himself again, voice echoing within. Images of disciples bowed before him, sect halls looming, family lines stretching behind—one by one, he cast them aside. Until all that remained was the horizon, the endless Dao, and his own unyielding desire.
The third step: condensation. To give the storm shape.
Qi whirled faster, a spinning sphere of light forming within his dantian. It drew essence hungrily, devouring the surrounding spirit stones until their glow dimmed and cracked. His body convulsed, blood running from his lips, but his will anchored him.
Outside the mountain, the sky darkened. Clouds gathered, heavy with spiritual resonance, rumbling as though heaven itself watched the attempt. Beasts fled into the forests. In the nearby city, cultivators looked up in alarm.
"Someone… is attempting Core Formation!" voices cried in the markets.
The Zhao clan's disciples rushed to their ancestral mountain, hearts racing. Whispers spread like wildfire: The elder has entered seclusion. The elder dares to attempt it again.
Inside the cavern, the final moment came. The vortex in Zhao's dantian screamed as cracks spiderwebbed through it. For an instant, he thought it would shatter again, as it had countless times before.
But this time, he clung to his truth—not sect, not burden, but the pure desire he had nearly forgotten.
"For myself," he whispered through bloodied lips. "For the Dao. For the horizon I swore to touch."
The vortex collapsed inward. Light exploded, flooding his dantian. A golden sphere formed—small, fragile, yet steady as a newborn sun. His qi surged, tempered into brilliance, no longer scattered but flowing with harmony.
The Golden Core.
The mountain shook. A shockwave burst outward, tearing trees from their roots, scattering loose stones down the slopes. Spiritual pressure rippled across the land, washing over the city like a tidal wave. Cultivators dropped to their knees instinctively, trembling as the aura pressed upon them.
"Golden Core… someone has formed the Golden Core!"
In the Zhao clan's main hall, disciples and elders alike wept with relief, prostrating toward the mountain. In the city, taverns erupted in uproar, merchants abandoning their stalls to gossip, sect envoys dispatching scouts at once.
And Wen Liang's name appeared on their lips.
"Wasn't Elder Zhao stuck for ten years?" one merchant asked in awe.
"They say he sought guidance from an Immortal Master Wen before entering seclusion," another whispered.
"Impossible! A mere healer?"
"Then how do you explain this?"
Within the cavern, Zhao opened his eyes at last. His gaze was clearer than ever, sharp and radiant, as though the years had melted from his face. The burden in his heart had lifted; he felt lighter, freer, renewed.
He stood, his robe tattered, his body drenched in sweat, but a golden glow faintly pulsed at his core.
"Immortal Master Wen…" he murmured, voice hoarse with reverence. "This success is not mine alone. Without your words, I would have remained chained, my Dao forever fractured. To you, I owe my Core."
He bowed toward the city in the distance, where Wen Liang unknowingly sat in his modest lodging, unaware that his patient had just ascended into legend.
In the city, Wen Liang leaned back in his chair, staring at the pouch of mid-grade spirit stones Zhao had left. He had spent the morning quietly reading cultivation notes, oblivious to the uproar outside.
Only when the streets began to flood with voices did he frown, stepping to the window.
"Someone broke through?" he murmured, catching the distant echoes. "Golden Core…"
His chest tightened. A chill ran down his spine.
And then the rumors reached him, whispers carried on every tongue.
"Immortal Master Wen guided Elder Zhao."
"He can see through bottlenecks others cannot."
"A Core Formation breakthrough, born from his words!"
Wen Liang sat frozen, his hand gripping the window frame until his knuckles whitened.
"…I only asked him questions. That's all."
But in the eyes of the world, he was no longer a simple healer, no longer a modest cultivator fumbling in secret. He was the Immortal Master who guided a Foundation Establishment elder into Golden Core.
The therapist who had become a legend.