"No—" Wang Yu's voice rasped, the gravelly tone now serving as his permanent mask. "To serve the Sacred Sect, to exert myself for True Disciple Su - this humble slave feels only honor. I would gladly dedicate my very being!"
Steward Duan's eyes narrowed slightly, the plump folds of his face creasing into something resembling approval. "Good." His gaze swept over Wang Yu's aged frame, taking in the snow-streaked hair and withered features. "I see you've reached the second layer of Qi Refining. That is sufficient to begin cultivating spells. This [Ice Sword Art] shall be passed on to you. It may prove useful when... recruiting others."
Wang Yu accepted the thick manual with both hands, the weight of it substantial in his grasp. Inside, he knew, lay not just technical secrets but fragments of foundational knowledge - precious glimpses into the wider cultivation world he desperately sought to enter. This reward had come sooner than expected. Seeing Steward Duan's dismissive wave, he bowed deeply and retreated, the manual pressed close to his chest like a holy text.
Back in the stark solitude of his stone hut, he began his study in earnest. The text laid out the hierarchy clearly: arts usable during Qi Refining were all first rank, divided into Lower, Middle, and Upper grades corresponding to Early, Middle, and Late stages. Foundation Establishment wielded second rank, Golden Core the third - a ladder of power reaching toward the heavens. Secret Arts existed outside this system, their value measured by terrifying effects rather than neat classifications. The manual hinted at grander categories - "Treasure Techniques," "Divine Abilities," "Strange Arts" - but these were mere shadows on the cave wall, far beyond a spirit slave's grasp.
The Ice Sword Art itself was a surprise. A Mid-Grade spell that could condense ten frozen blades at its pinnacle, their piercing cold said to rival Upper-Grade power. Yet Wang Yu felt no joy. Knowledge like this could be copied and traded - valuable to the high and mighty, but not priceless. For him, however, it was a lifeline. And its granting carried a silent message: fail to meet expectations, and the ladder would be kicked away.
After cold calculation, Wang Yu mentally removed the Bloodburn Art from his second [Idle Slot] and placed the Ice Sword Art upon it.
**[Slot 2: Ice Sword Art]**
**[Ice Sword Art (0/100): One hundred forty-four practices per day. Mastery achievable in thirty days.]**
Wang Yu stared at the ethereal text. "...One hundred forty-four practices? Averaging one every ten minutes?" The words "beast of burden" lodged in his throat, bitter and unspoken.
His Waste Spiritual Root was a crippling defect with one perverse advantage: it was a blank slate. He could practice any attribute's art without severe penalties. He would never be a prodigy, but never completely locked out either. It was a path of dogged persistence, of grinding down obstacles through mind-numbing repetition.
"Ice Sword Art, mastery in thirty days... four thousand, three hundred twenty repetitions." A grim smile touched his cracked lips. "It seems my comprehension surpasses my spiritual root."
For normal cultivators, understanding theory was only the first step. They had to practice seals, channel qi, feel the art come to life repeatedly. Their spiritual power was finite, their meridians fragile. No one could practice without cease.
But Wang Yu could.
Every ten minutes, like clockwork, new insight bloomed in his mind - not just theory but embodied experience: precise muscle memory for seals, subtle qi flow, the feel of frost condensing. It was mysteriously marvelous and unsettling. It was his advantage.
With direct cultivation progress glacial, mastering this offensive art was his only logical choice. It would be his fang, his claw, his means of survival.
***
On the twentieth day of enslavement, Wang Yu stood in his hut's center. He'd ceased using the Bloodburn Art's destructive aspects, maintaining only ten strands of its power. The [Idle Slot] had generated four new strands of pure spiritual power over eight days - a slow but steady drip feeding his growth.
Now his hands moved, weaving through intricate seals grown fluid from mental rehearsal. Air within ten feet grew sharp and cold, mist forming on stone walls. After three long breaths, a shaft of condensed frost took shape - a four-foot, hiltless blade of solid ice hovering, glinting with pale light.
Shoom—!
It shot forward, a crystalline blue blur slamming into solid stone floor. It didn't shatter but pierced deep, embedding in rock, leaving a smoking hole wreathed in frigid vapor.
The power was undeniable - enough to slice metal, sever jade, speed comparable to a crossbow bolt. The drawbacks were clear: long casting time, staggering spiritual power cost. A single casting left him hollowed with dantian nearly drained.
"Still lacking for practical combat," he judged coldly, breath misting. "In two days, viable as a hidden trump card." He sat cross-legged, circulating Bloodburn Art's base formula to recover energy. To use it in sustained fight, he needed deeper power. He needed the third layer.
***
Next morning during the 5 AM lecture, Wang Yu began his true mission.
He sought his two fellow natives from Stone Lake City - the ones who'd chosen passive resistance, refusing to learn characters, dooming themselves to obscurity. It was slow suicide. When monthly Spirit Sand quota came due, their fate would be sealed. Persuading them wouldn't be easy. Their refusal was silent protest against the ghastly transformation consuming art practitioners.
Wang Yu's recruitment wasn't born of loyalty to Steward Duan. It was calculated survival. His current position was a temporary ledge on a cliff face. To climb higher, he'd use whatever - and whomever - was available. To escape, he'd play the villain. Better the fellow Daoist perish than this poor priest!
"Friends," he rasped, dry voice startling the two youths. "Do you recognize me?"
Both around sixteen, faces still soft with youth now hardened by fear and suspicion. They looked at his snow-streaked hair and withered features, taking a moment. They didn't recognize the Wang family young master. They recognized the spirit slave publicly praised by Steward Duan.
"You... Young Master Wang Yu of Stone Lake City's Wang Family?" one stammered, disbelief warring with caution.
"It is I." Wang Yu sighed wearily, the sound heavy with stolen years. He stepped forward, bony hand resting on the speaker's shoulder. The youth flinched. "I've noticed you two for some time."
They tensed, eyes wide, waiting for the blow.
"This is the Reverse Blood Sect," Wang Yu whispered conspiratorially. "We're in Crimson Kite Demon Domain's heart. Abandon escape fantasies. Unless heavens smite this demonic sect tomorrow, you must face reality."
He paused, watching defiance and fear war in their eyes. They were stubborn, but ignorance was their leash. And he knew how to pull it.
His family name still held sway here, in this despair pit. In Stone Lake City, the Wang family was powerful, and he, though a minor son, had been known for cleverness - a reputation not entirely earned but carefully maintained. That was before. Now he was this mountain's creature, changing, adapting, hardening daily under survival's pressure.
The Steward's demand for one hundred recruits was no accident. It matched new slaves from Stone Lake City almost perfectly. This was the test. Could he corral his own?
He knew this game's rules. Don't speak too deeply without established trust. He'd exposed their futile hopes, applied impending doom's pressure. Now he delivered the final, crushing blow.
"You have two months at most," he said, voice flat and final. "This month, you must learn Bloodburn Art's characters. Comprehend its principles. If you can't break through to Qi Refining by next month, your fate will be..."
He let the sentence hang in cold morning air, a silent, terrifying conclusion.
(End of Chapter)