The forest mission ended as the sun dipped behind the mountains, its final rays casting long shadows
across the returning disciples. Their footsteps echoed on the stone path leading back to the sect, some
dragging weary bodies, others striding with pride, their arms full of beast hides and herb satchels.
Voices rose in triumphant boasting or in bitter complaint. For many, the day had been a measure of
progress, a test of courage. For Jianyu, it had been something else entirely.
He walked at the back of the group, his face pale, his cloak tattered, a faint tremor in his hands. To the
casual eye, he seemed no different from before—an ordinary disciple worn down by fatigue, someone
who had barely scraped through the mission alive. None noticed the strange calm in his eyes, or the
way his breathing carried strength despite his outward weariness. None suspected that blood already
stained his hands, hidden far away in the forest soil.
The sect attendants tallied the spoils brought back by each group. Names were recorded, merit points
noted, praise given to those who had slain stronger beasts. Wu Shifen's absence raised no alarm—yet.
Many assumed he had ventured further for greater prey. Some even whispered that he would return
later, laden with treasures, his genius once again eclipsing theirs. Jianyu lowered his gaze and let their
words wash over him without reaction.
When the crowd dispersed, Jianyu returned alone to his small hut at the edge of the outer sect. To
most, it was the dwelling of a forgotten disciple, its walls plain and roof crooked, barely more than a
shelter. To Jianyu, it was sanctuary. The outside world pressed close with noise and ambition, but here,
the shadows offered silence. Here, he could breathe without pretense.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of straw and damp wood. Jianyu barred the door and sank onto the thin
mat that served as his bed. His arms throbbed with pain, his ribs burned where Wu Shifen's blade had
grazed him. Each breath rattled with strain. Yet beneath that suffering, something new coiled within
him—power, raw and unrefined, begging to be honed.
Closing his eyes, Jianyu summoned the Heaven Devouring Art. At once, the technique stirred, pulling
faint strands of ambient qi from the air. They seeped into his body, coursing along meridians that felt
smoother, wider, hungrier than before. His very flesh seemed eager, as though transformed by the act
of devouring.
It was then his hand drifted to his pouch, drawing forth the small vial. In the dim lamplight, the scarlet
drop within glowed like a caged star. Jianyu's breath caught. Even through the glass, he felt the thrum
of vitality, waves of essence pressing against his skin, whispering promises of transformation.
"This single drop," Jianyu murmured, "could overturn destinies."
He hesitated. His body was battered, his foundation strained by the raw beast core he had consumed
earlier. But if he delayed, hidden damage might rot within him. If he acted, the elixir might rebuild him
into something unrecognizable.
Decision hardened in his heart. With careful hands, he unsealed the vial and let the drop fall onto his
tongue.
Fire exploded within him. Not the chaotic blaze of a beast core, but something purer, sharper—like
molten lightning. It surged down his throat and burst through his meridians, burning away every
weakness it touched. Jianyu collapsed backward, his body arching in agony, his teeth clenched so
tightly blood seeped from his gums.
The Heaven Devouring Art roared awake, seizing the torrent. His dantian spun wildly, dragging the
scarlet essence into every corner of his body. Muscles tore and regrew in the same instant, threads of
new vitality weaving into fibers tougher than steel. Bones cracked under the strain, marrow liquefied,
then solidified again, denser, stronger, filled with essence that hummed like tempered iron.
His blood boiled, black impurities seeping from his pores as foul-smelling sludge. Tendons snapped
and rewove themselves taut and flexible. Even his senses warped under the flood—his hearing
sharpening until he caught the faint scurry of insects outside, his vision piercing through the dimness as
though the night itself could not veil the world.
Hours passed in torment. Sweat drenched him, soaking the mat beneath. His breath came in ragged
gasps, each exhalation carrying flecks of blood and black mist. At times, he thought his body would
rupture, his meridians shattering into nothing. Yet the Heaven Devouring Art devoured still, refining,
tempering, remolding him with merciless precision.
At last, as dawn's first light bled into the horizon, the storm subsided. Jianyu lay sprawled on the floor,
his chest heaving, filth clinging to his skin. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His reflection caught in a
cracked bronze mirror on the wall—and for a moment, he did not recognize himself.
His skin shone faintly with vitality, no longer sallow but luminous. His eyes were sharper, clearer, like
twin blades hidden in sheaths. Even the air around him seemed to bend subtly, carrying a vitality that
marked him as different from before.
"This… is the body of a genius," Jianyu whispered hoarsely.
He clenched his fists, marveling at the strength coiled within. A casual squeeze sent faint cracks
spidering through the wooden floorboards. Rising to his feet, he tested his movements. His dagger
flashed through the air, each strike smooth, balanced, as though his body had been waiting for this
harmony all along. His leaps were lighter, his landings soundless. He felt like a predator reborn.
But with this strength came danger. Treasures drew greed; power invited envy. If others discovered
what he had gained, they would swarm him like vultures to carrion. He could not afford to flaunt this
transformation. Not yet. His survival depended on silence.
For the next several days, Jianyu secluded himself. He purchased low-rank beast cores in secret, coins
scraped together from past missions, and swallowed them under the veil of night. Each core was weak,
but the Heaven Devouring Art consumed them greedily, leaving no waste, steadily polishing his
foundation. The scarlet elixir had turned his body into a vessel that welcomed energy without rejection,
a bottomless abyss hungry for more.
Still, he was careful. During routine tests, he suppressed his progress, producing results as
unimpressive as ever. His qi flow, when displayed, appeared uneven, sluggish, the way it had always
been. His fellow disciples dismissed him with the same disdain as before, never suspecting that
beneath his skin lay a furnace capable of devouring all things.
One evening, he ventured to the practice grounds where disciples sparred under the moonlight. Their
shouts rang with bravado as they exchanged strikes, their laughter mocking those who faltered. Jianyu
stayed at the edge, watching silently.
"Look at that one," a disciple sneered, pointing toward Jianyu. "Still breathing, somehow. I thought he
would've been eaten alive in the forest."
Another chuckled. "Don't mock him too harshly. If mediocrity were a virtue, he'd already be an elder!"
Laughter rippled. Jianyu smiled faintly, bowing his head as though in shame. Inside, his resolve only
hardened. Their words could not touch him. He had walked through fire and blood already, and their
scorn was nothing compared to the blade at his throat in that forest clearing.
When the crowd dispersed, Jianyu slipped into the deeper woods near the sect. There, he trained in
silence. He struck trees until their trunks splintered beneath his fists. He lifted stones heavier than his
body, veins bulging with effort yet never faltering. He balanced on the thinnest branches, his
movements silent as falling snow. Each test revealed new depths—his endurance greater, his senses
sharper, his control more precise.
One night, he stood beneath the moon, dagger in hand, and released a small thread of qi. It slashed
across the ground, carving a shallow groove into stone. Jianyu's eyes widened slightly. It was not a
mighty strike compared to true cultivators, but for someone the sect deemed talentless, it was a
miracle. He allowed himself a single breath of satisfaction before suppressing even that.
"Not yet," he whispered. "The time has not come."
Days turned into weeks. Jianyu lived two lives. By day, he was the mediocre orphan, unnoticed,
mocked, ignored. By night, he was the Heaven Devourer, his body remade, his strength quietly
blooming.
But always, in the back of his mind, the shadow of Wu Shifen lingered. The genius's body lay buried in
the forest soil, but his absence was a storm waiting to break. Jianyu knew the sect could not remain
blind forever.
As dawn crept once more across the horizon, Jianyu sat cross-legged in his hut, eyes closed, qi
circulating smoothly through his refined channels. His heart was steady, his will unyielding.
"In this world, only power speaks," he whispered to the silence. "I will climb, no matter the cost. Let
suspicion come. Let storms gather. I will be ready."