Azrael materialized in a secluded forest clearing several kilometers from the arena, the faint shimmer of his Dimensional Shift fading behind him. He'd teleported away before anyone could follow or bombard him with questions.
As he walked toward his cave through the less-traveled paths, Elder Han's final words replayed in his mind.
"Use the next three days to prepare. Stock up on pills and potions. Restore yourselves to peak condition. Purchase information about the secret realm if you can afford it. Gather at the sect gate by week's end—we'll be boarding a flying ship to the destination."
Three days. Not much time, but enough if he used it efficiently.
Azrael's mind was already organizing priorities. He had contribution points now—lots of them. Eight thousand eliminations meant a substantial reward. Plus the spirit stones from his copying work. But pills and potions from the sect were expensive, especially the high-grade ones he'd need.
Then he remembered something and smiled behind his mask.
The betting.
During the inner and core sect matches, while everyone had been focused on the spectacular battles, Azrael had been doing something else. His spiritual sense—vastly more powerful than anyone suspected—had scanned each participant thoroughly.
Cultivation level. Qi purity. Technique efficiency. Hidden injuries. Mental state. Combat experience.
The other disciples hadn't noticed. His soul strength was leagues above theirs, his spiritual sense so refined it was practically invisible. To them, it had felt like nothing more than ambient pressure from the crowd.
But to Azrael, it had been a comprehensive analysis of every combatant.
He'd identified the dark horses—disciples who seemed unremarkable on the surface but had hidden depths. Unusual physiques. Secret techniques. Law comprehension aura coming off them that didn't match their cultivation realm.
Then he'd placed bets.
Massive bets.
The odds on dark horses were always favorable because most people bet on the obvious favorites. Azrael had wagered on disciples who everyone thought would be eliminated in the first ten minutes but who he knew could reach the top fifty.
The math was beautiful.
He'd started with his 20,000 remaining spirit stones and 150,000 contribution points from his copying work. After the outer sect competition, he'd earned another 400,000 contribution points for his eight thousand eliminations.
Then came the betting payouts.
Inner sect dark horse bets: 300,000 spirit stones and 800,000 contribution points.
Core sect dark horse bets: 1,500,000 spirit stones and 2,000,000 contribution points.
His total wealth now: approximately 1,800,000 spirit stones and 2,950,000 contribution points.
Azrael did the calculations in his head and grinned. "Not bad for a day's work."
He was probably wealthier than most inner sect disciples now. Certainly richer than any outer sect disciple had a right to be.
Time to spend it.
The Celestial Trading Hall was busier than usual when Azrael arrived. Disciples who'd qualified for the secret realm were stocking up on supplies—healing pills, qi recovery potions, protective talismans, spatial bags.
Azrael bypassed the crowds and headed straight for the third floor—the premium section that most disciples never accessed. The attendant at the entrance tried to stop him, but when he showed his contribution point balance on his jade slip, she simply bowed and stepped aside.
The third floor was quiet, luxurious. Fewer items on display, but each one was high-grade. Rare herbs in crystal cases. Formation plates that glowed with power. Weapons that hummed with spiritual energy.
Azrael made his way to the alchemy section.
He needed herbs—thousands of them. His plan was simple: learn alchemy to Grade 8 level (at least theoretically) and craft his own pills. The sect's prices were extortionate, but raw materials were relatively cheap.
He began selecting herbs systematically, pulling up information from his Myriad Spiritual Library to identify the best specimens.
Thousand-year ginseng. Spirit mushrooms. Phoenix grass. Dragon root. Celestial lotus petals. Void orchids.
He bought in bulk—hundreds of each type, organized by element and medicinal property. Fire-aligned herbs for body tempering pills. Water-aligned for healing. Earth for foundation strengthening. Wind for speed enhancement.
The attendant's eyes grew wider with each purchase.
"Sir, that's... that's forty thousand spirit stones worth of herbs."
"Add it to my account."
"Are you sure—"
"Yes."
He moved to the pill formula section next. His Myriad Spiritual Library contained techniques for basic alchemy, but he needed advanced formulas for Grade 6 through Grade 8 pills.
Healing pills. Breakthrough pills. Qi recovery pills. Body tempering pills. Soul strengthening pills. Overclocking pills that temporarily enhanced combat power.
Each formula cost between 5,000 and 50,000 contribution points. Azrael bought thirty different formulas without hesitation.
As he browsed, his 70% consciousness partition was already at work, analyzing the formulas he'd purchased, breaking them down into fundamental principles, understanding the relationships between ingredients.
Alchemy was just chemistry with spiritual energy. Reactions, catalysts, temperature control, timing. His scientific background made it almost trivially easy to comprehend.
By the time he'd walked halfway through the alchemy section, his theoretical alchemy proficiency had reached Grade 6. The principles clicked into place like puzzle pieces.
Extract essence. Purify. Combine in specific ratios. Apply heat through fire law. Compress using qi control. Temper with spiritual energy.
It was elegant, really.
But alchemy could wait. Right now, he had something more important to address.
Food.
Azrael had spent three months in this world and hadn't eaten a single proper meal. The thought made his stomach twist with longing.
Cultivators didn't need to eat—they sustained themselves on spiritual energy. But they could eat, and high-level cultivators often did, especially spirit food prepared by spirit chefs.
Spirit food was expensive. Incredibly expensive. A single dish from a competent spirit chef could cost thousands of spirit stones. But it was worth it—spirit food was not only delicious but also enhanced cultivation, helped breakthrough bottlenecks, and even healed injuries.
Azrael had been too poor to even consider it before. Now? Now he could afford it.
But more importantly, he could learn to cook it himself.
He made his way to the spirit food section, which was smaller but no less luxurious than the alchemy area.
Grade 5 to Grade 7 spirit beast meat. Ten bags of Grade 7 spirit rice. Spices made from Grade 6 herbs. Flour milled from Grade 7 spirit wheat. Vegetables grown in qi-rich soil. Oils extracted from millennium-old spirit plants.
He bought everything in bulk, his space ring swallowing massive quantities without strain.
Then he purchased Grade 7 spirit food recipes—complete cookbooks with techniques for preparing dishes that could affect Nascent Soul realm cultivators.
Kitchen utensils came next. Spiritual chef's knives that could cut through spirit beast hide. Woks that could withstand flame techniques. Cutting boards made from spirit wood that preserved ingredient freshness.
As he shopped, his 70% consciousness partition began analyzing the spirit food recipes alongside the alchemy formulas, finding surprising similarities.
Both were about extracting and combining essences. Both required precise control and timing. Both transformed raw materials into something greater than the sum of their parts.
His spirit cooking proficiency began rising alongside his alchemy comprehension.
Azrael paid for everything—nearly 300,000 spirit stones in total—and continued browsing.
He needed a few more things. Extra formation plates. Spatial expansion materials. Some rare metals for equipment upgrades.
As he turned a corner, something caught his eye.
A display case near the weapons section contained a set of flying knives. Not ordinary throwing knives—these were S-shaped blades with intricate engravings, designed for spiritual masters who used soul attacks and telekinesis for combat.
Azrael stopped.
The blades looked... familiar. Not the design exactly, but the aesthetic. They were sleek, modern, almost sci-fi in appearance. Clean lines, geometric precision, a subtle glow from embedded formations.
I'm not the only reincarnator in this sect, he realized.
The thought was both comforting and concerning. Other people from Earth? From other technological worlds? Here?
He approached the display and examined the knives more closely. Grade 7 weapons, surprisingly affordable for their grade. The quality was exceptional—perfect balance, razor edges, formations for flight control and durability.
But more than that, they reminded him of home. Of his first successful telekinesis experiment in his lab. The joy of moving objects with pure thought.
His soul had been strengthened and tempered by multiple law comprehensions. He'd naturally developed telekinesis as a side effect—not cultivation-based qi manipulation, but actual psychic force projection.
These knives would be perfect for testing that ability.
Azrael flagged down an attendant—a different one, younger, with bright eyes and an eager expression.
"Can you tell me about these flying knives?" he asked.
She pulled out a jade tablet—not paper, not a scroll, but a tablet—and began typing on its glowing surface.
Azrael's eyes widened slightly. That's basically an iPad.
"Ah!" the attendant said, reading from the device. "These were purchased from a relatively new sect that emerged about a thousand years ago. They've been releasing groundbreaking artifacts ever since."
She continued enthusiastically, clearly a fan. "Their products have enhanced productivity across the entire cultivation world. This jade tablet I'm using? Acquired from them by our sect. It's made cataloging inventory so much easier!"
She swiped through screens showing various products. Communication talismans that worked like phones. Transportation formations that operated like trains. Calculation arrays that functioned like computers.
"And the most interesting part," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "is that every product contains a spiritual imprint with strange questions. Anyone who can solve them is supposedly highly regarded by the sect."
Azrael's interest sharpened. "What kind of questions?"
"Mathematical puzzles, I think? Really complex ones. Most cultivators can't make sense of them."
She gestured to the flying knives. "These are Grade 7, but they're cheaper than most Grade 7 weapons. The quality, durability, and sharpness are amazing though. I've heard they require very little enhancement to reach Grade 8 effectiveness."
Azrael picked up one of the knives, his spiritual sense scanning it thoroughly.
The blade was beautiful—perfectly weighted, formations integrated seamlessly into the metal, not a single flaw in the construction. But more importantly, he could feel the spiritual imprint embedded within.
It contained... equations. Calculus. Linear algebra. Differential equations. Physics problems.
This is their way of identifying people from technological civilizations, Azrael realized.
"I'll take the full set," he said.
"Excellent choice! Would you like to register for a jade phone as well? They're quite popular among disciples now."
Azrael raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "Jade phone?"
She pulled out a sleek device that looked remarkably like a smartphone—rectangular, thin, with a glowing screen. "Communication device. You can send messages, make voice calls, access information networks. The sect recently purchased a batch for disciples to use."
"How much?"
"Five thousand spirit stones for the basic model. Ten thousand for the premium version with extra storage and faster processing."
Azrael bought the premium version without hesitation.
The attendant helped him register it with his sect identity, showed him the basic functions, and explained the apps available.
There was even an internet equivalent—a spiritual network where cultivators could share information, discuss techniques, trade resources, and post news.
This world is more advanced than I thought, Azrael mused.
He thanked the attendant, paid for everything, and left the trading hall with his purchases secured in his space ring.
As he walked, he examined the flying knives more closely with his spiritual sense, finding the embedded imprint easily.
The questions were exactly what he'd expected—calculus problems, algebraic proofs, physics equations. Challenging for most people, but trivial for someone with his background.
Azrael solved them mentally as he walked, his Heaven-Defying Comprehension making short work of the mathematical puzzles.
The moment he finished the last equation, something activated.
A spiritual communication thread extended from the knife into his consciousness. He could have blocked it easily, but he sensed no malice or danger—just information.
He allowed it in.
A recorded voice spoke directly into his mind, clear and urgent:
"This is a recording. I am Atticus Riverdale, sect master of the Nexus Innovation Sect. As you've probably guessed, I'm a reincarnator like you."
Azrael's steps slowed.
"I know you have questions, but those can wait. Right now, we need all hands on deck. This planet is dying."
The voice grew grimmer.
"The planet's will and core were severely damaged during the war 100,000 years ago. Spiritual qi has been dwindling at an accelerating rate. We've tried everything—formation arrays, qi-gathering techniques, dimensional anchors. Nothing works. The damage is too fundamental."
"Our only option is to leave for the stars. But there's a problem: there are very few engineers, researchers, and scientists among the reincarnators on this planet. Most are ordinary people—students, office workers, readers, gamers. Good people, but not equipped for what we need."
"We're building massive spaceships. We've achieved faster-than-light travel, but it's barely sufficient to reach the nearest solar system. We're working on improving the speed, but progress is slow."
"Most of us have reached the peak cultivation level this world allows—Solar Dominion realm. But we can't break through to the next stage because there isn't enough qi left to support it. We're trapped."
"Since you solved these questions, you're clearly intelligent and educated. We need people like you. Join the Nexus Innovation Sect. Help us fast-track our progress. Help us save as many people as possible before this world collapses completely."
"I hope to see you soon."
The message ended.
Azrael stood frozen in the middle of the path, his expression hidden behind his mask but his mind racing.
The planet was dying. Not slowly—quickly. And the cultivators at the top knew it.
That explained so much. The cracked moon. The relatively low spiritual energy compared to what cultivation techniques described. The sect's desperation to find resources in the secret realm.
This wasn't just a backwater planet. It was a doomed planet.
"Damn," Azrael muttered.
His original plan had been to build formations, create a spatial portal to outer space, and cultivate his Celestial Reincarnation Breathing Technique until his system awakened. Then leave for the galaxy center.
But if the planet was collapsing, that timeline might not work. The spiritual energy could drop below usable levels before he finished his preparations.
"I need to speed things up," he said quietly. "Finish my business here, secure what I need from the secret realm, then either help these people or leave for better cultivation grounds."
He reassigned his consciousness priorities as he walked.
60% consciousness: Learn spirit food recipes and cooking techniques.
30% consciousness: Continue alchemy comprehension and pill formula analysis.
10% consciousness: Handle daily activities and awareness.
His 60% partition immediately dove into the spirit food cookbooks, analyzing ingredient interactions, cooking methods, law application in food preparation.
His 30% partition continued dissecting alchemy formulas, finding patterns and principles that would let him create pills without traditional methods.
His 10% partition kept him walking, aware of his surroundings, and processing the implications of Atticus Riverdale's message.
By the time he reached the outer sect residential area, both his spirit cooking and alchemy comprehension had advanced significantly.
But his thoughts kept returning to one thing.
He was hungry.
Three months without food. Time to fix that.
Azrael changed direction, heading toward the inner sect district where the best restaurants were located.
If he was going to eat, he might as well eat at the finest establishment the sect had to offer.
[END CHAPTER 12]