Chapter Two: Carved by Choice
After speaking a few quiet words about Nilan, the elder left without looking back.
The empty path felt heavier than his footsteps.
That same day, Nilan returned home.
The house was small and worn, shaped by years of hardship. His family gathered as he placed a small bundle on the table.
"I joined a sect," Nilan said calmly.
Before questions could rise, he continued, "I won't stay there today. They gave me some food and a little money. Please, keep it."
He pushed the bundle forward.
"I won't return to the sect for the next two days," he added. "I'll stay here and try to do something—something that can earn us money."
No one stopped him. They understood. This wasn't excitement—it was responsibility.
That night, Nilan thought carefully. In a cultivation world, reckless ideas attracted danger. His family could not afford that.
So he chose a safer path.
Wood.
It was cheap, easy to find, and harmless. No one would question a poor boy carving wood. Even if he failed, it would not bring trouble to his family.
He gathered discarded pieces from the market's edge and worked under a dim oil lamp. His hands were clumsy at first. One piece cracked. Another lost its shape.
Still, he did not stop.
By morning, a few small wooden figures lay beside him—simple, rough, but honest.
The next day, Nilan went to the market.
From sunrise to sunset, people passed by. Some glanced at the carvings. Some smiled faintly. None stopped.
Not a single piece sold.
When evening came, Nilan packed everything without complaint and returned home.
That night, understanding finally settled in.
"This is a cultivation world," he murmured. "Ordinary things won't move people's hearts."
The next morning, he changed his approach.
He began carving dragons—coiled with restrained strength. Phoenixes—wings spread as if reborn from flame. He carved symbolic shapes inspired by murals and spiritual signs he had seen in sect halls.
He even tried painting. The lines were crude, the colors uneven, but each stroke carried intent.
These were no longer simple decorations.
They were beliefs given form.
Yet when night fell, frustration returned.
Nilan tried carving a dragon again—but no matter how many times he tried, it felt wrong. The body lacked presence. The eyes carried no spirit.
He failed again.
And again.
The problem wasn't skill.
He had never seen a real dragon.
Never seen a phoenix.
Never seen a true spiritual beast.
"They're only stories to me," he whispered.
Lying on his bed that night, staring at the dark ceiling, Nilan's thoughts returned to one person—the elder.
If anyone in the sect had truly seen ritual beasts…
it would be him.
"I can't carve faith without knowing its shape," Nilan said quietly.
Slowly, determination replaced doubt.
Tomorrow, he would ask.
Not for cultivation techniques.
Not for power.
But for truth.
And if the elder refused—
Nilan would still find another way.
Because this world had already taught him one thing:
Those who hesitate starve.
Those who understand, survive.
Tomorrow would decide which path he walked.