The golden cocoon that had enveloped Rowan's body had vanished at some point, leaving no trace. Yet the unconscious youth showed no sign of stirring.
Snowflakes danced through the air, blanketing the platform in a fresh layer of white. Gradually, they piled over Rowan, burying him beneath their weight. The snow shaken loose by his fall resettled, entombing him once more.
Rowan lay comatose, his clothes in tatters, now sealed under ice and snow. Without a miracle, this slumber would be eternal.
Time slipped by unnoticed. Night fell and dawn broke. Rowan had lain on the cliffside platform for a full day and night.
Had Rowan died?
Suddenly, the thick snow trembled. A muffled voice rose from below.
"Huh? I'm... not dead? Where am I? What's pressing down on me like this?"
At some point, Rowan had regained awareness. He woke with a start, but immediately felt the crushing pressure suffocating him.
His eyes snapped open—to nothing but darkness.
"What the hell?" Rowan struggled slightly, then shoved upward with both hands.
Boom!
As his palms thrust out, a surge of hot energy rushed from them. Then came the astonishing sight...
Whatever blocked him flew apart like paper. Only then did he see it: a massive pile of snow, scattered by his push.
Snow swirled in the air. Free of the weight, Rowan leaped to his feet, confusion etching his face.
"Where... am I? Didn't Liam kick me off the cliff? How am I alive?" Rowan muttered, a flash of murderous intent crossing his eyes.
The thought of Liam and Ivy ignited a fire in him. He had no real grudge with the siblings—yet they tormented him relentlessly, for no reason he could fathom.
For years, they'd toyed with him, leaving him half-dead more times than he could count. If not for his iron will, he'd have perished long ago.
"One day, I'll kill you both myself—for all the hell you've put me through!" Rowan ground his teeth.
But a bitter laugh escaped him soon after. He was just a waste—a nobody who couldn't cultivate.
Liam and Ivy were the Miles family's prodigies. What right did he have to dream of revenge?
Revenge...
Rowan's eyes blazed with hatred.
"Wait—kicked off a cliff, and I'm fine? That strength to shove the snow... what was that heat in my arms? Inner energy? Did this fall awaken something? Did I stumble on some heavenly treasure by accident?"
Excitement gleamed in Rowan's eyes!
"Ah!"
But joy turned to alarm. He realized he was stranded on this platform, suspended between sky and earth. Even with a miracle, he'd starve or freeze without escape.
"If only I were like those immortals—flying on clouds, moving mountains, leaving here with a thought."
Rowan sighed.
Those immortals were cultivators from the mystic realms, far beyond mortal martial artists. They could stand on earth, shoulder mountains, and hold up the heavens—infinitely stronger than any warrior.
"No food... I'll starve. This bitter winter—I'll freeze solid." Rowan slumped on a protruding rock, worry creasing his brow as he muttered to himself.
The world around him was a sea of white. Reflexively, he hugged himself tight. But that simple motion startled him.
His wounds didn't ache. More impossibly, he felt no cold!
"Damn... my body's broken from the fall. I can't feel the chill anymore. Weird—I don't feel hungry either. And my scars... they're gone." Rowan jumped up, shock widening his eyes.
"Am I dead? Is this the underworld? They say souls feel no heat or cold, no hunger."
Rowan paced the platform, panic rising.
"Boy, stop hopping around like a fool. You're not dead."
A voice suddenly rang in his ear.
"Who—who's there?" Rowan nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping his head around, scanning wildly for the speaker.
"No need to look. You can't see me. Want to know who I am? Look where you were lying. See that scroll on the ground?"
The voice continued, close as a whisper.
"Who are you?" Rowan forced calm, his gaze landing on the scroll as instructed.
"Pick it up, and you'll see me."
"You're not trying to possess me, are you? I've heard of souls taking over bodies..." Rowan blurted, recalling a half-remembered tale.
"Boy, if not for me, you'd be dead already. If I wanted your body, I'd have taken it while you slept. With your constitution? I'd rather pass."
Rowan chuckled self-deprecatingly. "True. I'm just a waste anyway."
With that, he strode forward and snatched the scroll.
It was a slightly yellowed painting, depicting mountains, rivers, and cities—nonsense to Rowan, who couldn't make sense of it.
"How do I see you?" Rowan asked.
"Focus your mind, probe the scroll with your spirit. You'll see."
Rowan gritted his teeth and concentrated, sending his awareness toward the scroll.
Boom!
The instant his spirit touched it, a tremendous pull engulfed him. The world blurred, and he found himself in a strange space.
"Boy, see? I didn't lie." The voice came from ahead. Rowan looked up to see a young man in his twenties, grinning at him.
"You're... the one talking?" Rowan studied him, finally managing the words.
The youth nearly stumbled. "Who else? You think a ghost's chatting you up?"
"Who are you? Where is this? What happened to me?" Rowan fired off questions in a rush.
"This is the world inside the scroll—the one you just picked up. As for me? Call me the Star Codex Spirit, or just Codex for short." The youth—the Star Codex Spirit—replied.
The Star Codex!
This scroll was the legendary tome, the supreme artifact Owen and Ethan had fought over.
"Spirit?"
Rowan's eyes lit with fervor at the word. He knew of spirits—only divine weapons and treasures in the mystic realms birthed them.
And a treasure with a spirit was a force of unimaginable power!
"You're really a spirit? Do you have immortal cultivation techniques? Divine pills to fix my body, let me cultivate?" Rowan's eyes sparkled, words tumbling out like gunfire.
"Who am I? The Star Codex, the greatest mystic tome! I have everything—even divine pills and elixirs beyond count in this space." The Codex Spirit said, a touch of pride in his voice.
"Can I have some? I want to cultivate! No more being a waste!" Rowan pleaded, hope shining.
"Sorry, no." The Codex Spirit shook his head firmly.
Rowan's face fell. "You're too stingy."
"It's not stinginess, boy. Those are too advanced. You'd burst apart, body and soul—dead before you knew it."
"Fine. But as a mighty spirit, can you at least improve my constitution? I've always been a waste, unable to cultivate."
Rowan's voice dropped, dejection settling in. He'd borne the "waste" label for over a decade, numb to the mockery. But he was still a teenager—who didn't crave power? For someone like him, with no status, it was a desperate need to rewrite his fate.
"Boy, haven't you noticed? You don't feel cold or hunger anymore. And that strength you used?" The Codex Spirit stared, exasperated.
Rowan scratched his head sheepishly. "I was getting to that. But... can I escape this waste body?"
"You're no waste! You're a Chaotic Heavenly Body!" The Codex Spirit declared, each word deliberate and booming.