The woman descended from the canopy like winter itself taking mortal form.
Ye Xue's feet touched the forest floor without a sound, her white silk robes settling around her with the fluid grace of falling snow. But the moment her presence fully manifested in the physical realm, the temperature *plummeted*. Frost spread outward from her position in a perfect circle, creeping across the dead leaves and undergrowth with crystalline fingers. The Iron-Hide Boar's corpse, still warm from life and bleeding into the earth, began to glaze over with a thin sheet of ice.
The air itself seemed to crystallize, each breath Feng Chen took now visible as white mist.
"Your name," she said. Not a question. A demand, delivered with the absolute certainty of one who had never been refused. "And the name of your Master."
Feng Chen remained silent, studying her with the same analytical detachment he might use to examine a spirit beast. Up close, her beauty was almost painful to behold—features carved from jade, eyes like chips of winter moonlight, skin so pale it seemed to glow with inner luminescence. But it was the *aura* that truly mattered.
Her Moon-Ice Qi radiated from her in waves, a spiritual pressure that would have driven a normal Body Tempering cultivator to their knees. It was refined, ancient, the kind of cultivation technique passed down through generations of a major power. Each pulse of her energy carried the promise of absolute zero, the death of all heat and motion.
"You are no servant," she continued, her gaze sharp as she examined him more closely. "Your foundation is too pure. Your strike carried Intent. You are a Hidden Seed, yes? Which sect sent you to infiltrate the Lin Clan? Azure Heaven? Crimson Palace?"
Feng Chen almost laughed. The irony was exquisite—she could not conceive that the boy standing before her, covered in blood and wearing rags, could be anything other than a genius in disguise. The possibility that he was exactly what he appeared to be—a discarded servant with a heaven-defying cheat—was beyond her imagination.
"I have no Master," he said simply.
Her eyes narrowed. "Lies do not become you. A self-taught cultivator could not—"
She reached into her robes and withdrew a coin. Even in the dim forest light, it gleamed with unmistakable luster—a High-Grade Gold Coin, stamped with the seal of the Crimson Cloud City treasury. Worth more than a servant could earn in ten years. Worth more than most outer disciples saw in their entire lives.
She tossed it toward him with casual disdain. "For the carcass. The Iron-Hide's core will be useful for my cultivation. Consider it generous payment for—"
Feng Chen's foot lashed out.
The coin, still spinning in mid-air, was struck with enough force to send it ricocheting into the mud twenty paces away, where it buried itself half an inch deep in the soft earth.
The temperature dropped another five degrees.
"Your gold is as cold as your heart," Feng Chen said, his voice carrying a weight that had nothing to do with volume, "and just as worthless. If you want the meat, take it. I have no interest in the charity of a 'Genius' who hides in trees."
For a moment, Ye Xue simply stared at him, her expression frozen in something that might have been shock or might have been rage. No one had spoken to her like this. Not servants, not peers, not even elders who dared to correct her technique.
Then her aura *exploded*.
The Moon-Ice Qi that had been merely emanating now surged outward like a tidal wave of frozen death. The frost on the ground thickened to ice. The trees groaned as moisture in their bark froze and expanded. Small animals caught at the edge of her range simply dropped dead, their blood crystallizing in their veins.
But Feng Chen did not retreat.
The Immemorial Dragon-Elephant Art roared to life in his meridians, and the heat of primordial beasts answered the call. His body became a furnace, spiritual energy flooding his flesh until steam began to rise from his skin. The air around him shimmered with thermal distortion, and where his aura met hers—
The ground *cracked*.
The collision of Moon-Ice and Dragon-Fire created a boundary line in the earth itself, a jagged fissure that spread between them as conflicting temperatures met and shattered stone. Steam erupted in hissing geysers. The very space between them seemed to warp, reality struggling to contain the clash of two incompatible principles.
Ye Xue's eyes widened fractionally. "Impossible. Body Tempering Layer 4 cannot—"
"Cannot match your pressure?" Feng Chen smiled, and there was no warmth in it. "Tell that to the boar."
They stood locked in that frozen tableau for three heartbeats. Four. Five.
Then Ye Xue withdrew her aura as suddenly as she'd released it, the temperature returning to normal so quickly that condensation formed in the air. Her expression was unreadable, but something had shifted in her eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the first seeds of respect.
"We will meet again," she said. "And when we do, I will have your name."
She turned and leapt, her movement carrying her back into the canopy in a single bound. Within moments, she had disappeared entirely, leaving only the lingering cold and the faint scent of winter plums.
Feng Chen stood alone with the corpse of the Iron-Hide Boar and a buried gold coin he had no intention of retrieving.
The hunt continued.
---
Three days bled into one another in a crimson haze of violence and extraction.
Feng Chen moved through the Hundred Beast Forest like a force of nature, no longer prey but apex predator. The Crucible's analytical vision transformed the wilderness into a hunting ground of perfect clarity. He could see the heat signatures of beasts through solid rock, track the spiritual energy of fleeing prey across miles, identify weak points in hides that should have been impenetrable.
The kills came one after another.
A pack of Shadow Wolves—six beasts working in perfect coordination, each one Rank 1. He killed the alpha with a strike to the spine that shattered vertebrae like glass, and the rest scattered in terror.
**[ BEAST BLOOD ESSENCE COLLECTED: SHADOW WOLF ]**
**[ PROGRESS: 7/100 ]**
A Stone-Back Tortoise, its shell harder than iron, its vitality so deep it could survive for weeks without food. The Crucible identified a microscopic gap between shell plates, and Feng Chen's finger strike, empowered by Dragon-Elephant strength, pierced through to the creature's heart.
**[ BEAST BLOOD ESSENCE COLLECTED: STONE-BACK TORTOISE ]**
**[ PROGRESS: 8/100 ]**
A Thunder Hawk that dove from the sky with talons wreathed in lightning. Feng Chen caught it mid-strike, his newly refined flesh resistant enough to the electrical discharge that he could crush its skull before it realized its attack had failed.
**[ BEAST BLOOD ESSENCE COLLECTED: THUNDER HAWK ]**
**[ PROGRESS: 9/100 ]**
On and on, each kill adding another drop to the ocean of power the Crucible required. By the end of the third day, his count had reached twenty-five, and his body had undergone changes that went beyond mere cultivation advancement.
His skin had taken on a subtle luster, like polished bronze catching sunlight. His muscles, while not bulging with grotesque mass, had become denser, more efficient, each fiber packed with condensed power. His senses had sharpened to inhuman levels—he could hear a rabbit's heartbeat from fifty paces, smell blood on the wind from a mile away, feel vibrations in the earth that warned of approaching predators.
And he had broken through to Body Tempering Layer 5.
But the most significant discovery came not from a beast, but from death itself.
The Sword Grave was a place of desolation even by the forest's standards. A clearing where nothing grew, where even the insects refused to tread. At its center stood a broken monument—a sword thrust into the earth, its blade shattered halfway up, covered in rust and the corrosion of untold centuries.
Feng Chen approached cautiously. The Crucible's vision showed no heat signatures, no spiritual energy, nothing but—
*Intent*.
It was faint, barely a whisper of what it had once been, but it was there. Carved into the very fabric of reality around the sword, a principle of destruction so profound that it had survived the death of its wielder and the erosion of aeons.
**[ CONCEPTUAL REMNANT DETECTED ]**
**[ ANALYZING... ]**
**[ IDENTIFICATION: SHATTERING SWORD INTENT - FRAGMENT ]**
**[ RECOMMENDATION: EXTRACTION AND INTEGRATION ]**
Feng Chen grasped the rusted blade.
The world inverted. For a single, disorienting moment, he was not standing in the forest but floating in an infinite void, and before him stood a figure wreathed in light too bright to perceive. The figure raised a sword—whole, pristine, radiant—and *swung*.
Reality itself *shattered*.
The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, and Feng Chen found himself on his knees, the sword fragment now disintegrating to rust in his hands. But something had changed. In his Sea of Consciousness, floating beside the black Crucible, was a sliver of crystalline light that pulsed with the memory of that impossible strike.
**[ SHATTERING SWORD INTENT ACQUIRED ]**
**[ INTEGRATION: 0.1% ]**
**[ EFFECT: ALL PHYSICAL STRIKES IGNORE 10% OF TARGET'S DEFENSE ]**
Feng Chen tested it immediately, striking a nearby boulder with his bare fist.
The stone didn't just crack. It *shattered*, fragmenting along lines that defied its natural structure, as though his strike had found every microscopic flaw simultaneously and exploited them all at once.
He smiled and continued deeper into the forest.
---
Crimson Cloud City rose from the earth like a monument to alchemical ambition.
The walls were fifty feet high, constructed from red basalt that seemed to glow with inner heat even in the afternoon sun. The air above the city shimmered with Spirit Steam—the byproduct of ten thousand alchemical furnaces working day and night, creating a permanent haze that smelled of herbs and minerals and the acrid tang of refined spiritual energy.
Feng Chen approached the main gate as the sun began its descent toward the western mountains.
He was, by any objective measure, a horror. Three days of continuous hunting had left him covered in layers of dried blood—some his own from minor wounds, most from the beasts he'd slaughtered. His servant robes, already tattered, had been reduced to little more than strategically placed rags. His hair was matted with gore. He carried a bundle wrapped in beast hide that was easily half his body weight, and the smell that emanated from him was eye-watering.
The crowd parted before him like water before a stone.
"Wilderness beggar," someone muttered, pulling their child close.
"Feral slave," another voice hissed. "Probably ate human flesh out there."
"Someone call the guards before he brings disease into the city."
Feng Chen ignored them all. His destination was singular, his purpose clear. The Myriad-Treasure Pavilion stood at the heart of the Merchant's Quarter, a five-story pagoda whose roof tiles were rumored to be fired from spirit jade. It was the most prestigious auction house in the region, dealing in treasures that ranged from profound cultivation manuals to legendary artifacts.
It was also the only place that might recognize the value of what he carried.
He reached the pavilion's entrance as twilight painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold. Two guards stood at the doors, both wearing the gray and silver livery of the pavilion's private security. Both were Body Tempering Layer 6, their hands resting on the hilts of genuine spirit-forged swords.
They stepped forward as one, blocking his path.
"No beggars," the left guard said, his nose wrinkling. "The servant's market is three streets over. They'll take your trash there."
"If you can even afford the entry fee," the right guard added with a sneer. "Which, judging by the stink, you can't."
Feng Chen started to speak, but a new voice cut through the air like a whip crack.
"Well, well. If it isn't Cripple Chen."
A group of seven cultivators approached from the street, all wearing the distinctive crimson and gold robes of the Lin Clan's Inner Disciples. At their head walked Lin Hu, a broad-shouldered young man with a scar across his left eyebrow and the arrogant bearing of someone who had never faced real consequences.
Lin Hu's eyes widened in genuine shock as recognition set in. "You—you're supposed to be *dead*. I heard Zhao and Li threw you into the Sacrificial Pit. How are you—" His shock transformed into rage. "You dare show your face in public? You dare walk the same streets as your betters?"
The other disciples fanned out, surrounding Feng Chen in a loose semicircle. The guards, sensing the shift in dynamics, stepped back to give the Inner Disciples room. This was clan business, and they wanted no part of it.
"That bundle," one of the disciples said, pointing at Feng Chen's beast-hide package. "Stolen, obviously. A cripple couldn't hunt spirit beasts."
"Grave robbery, more like," another suggested. "He probably looted some dead cultivator's storage ring."
Lin Hu's eyes gleamed with avarice and malice in equal measure. "As a representative of the Lin Clan, I am obligated to confiscate any stolen goods and return them to their rightful owners." He reached out, his hand crackling with Qi as it extended toward Feng Chen's throat. "And to discipline wayward servants who forget their—"
Feng Chen didn't move.
He didn't dodge. Didn't raise his hands to defend. He simply activated the Immemorial Dragon-Elephant Art and let his aura manifest.
*Weight*.
The air itself seemed to solidify, gravity increasing tenfold in the space around the pavilion entrance. Lin Hu's outstretched hand *stopped*, arrested in mid-air as though he'd tried to grab a mountain. His eyes bulged. His legs trembled.
Then his knees hit the marble steps.
The impact was cataclysmic. Marble—spirit-reinforced marble that had been laid by master craftsmen and was supposed to last ten thousand years—*shattered* beneath Lin Hu's kneecaps. Spider-web cracks spread outward in a perfect circle, each fracture line glowing faintly with the residual energy of the impact. The sound was like thunder compressed into a single instant, a bone-chilling CRACK that made everyone within fifty paces flinch.
Lin Hu screamed.
Not words. Just raw, animalistic pain as his kneecaps fractured, as the weight pressing down on him increased to the point where he couldn't even lift his head. Blood seeped from his nose where capillaries burst under the pressure. His disciples stumbled backward, their faces white with terror.
Feng Chen stepped past the kneeling man as if he were a piece of broken furniture, his attention already shifting to the pavilion entrance.
The doors had opened.
An old man stood in the doorway, his robes the deep purple of a senior manager, his beard hanging down to his chest in the style of accomplished alchemists. He held a jade tea cup in one hand, but as Feng Chen approached, the cup slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and shattered on the ground.
Because Feng Chen had reached into his bundle and withdrawn a jade vial.
He opened it.
The *Pill Cloud* erupted like a crimson sunrise.
Mist the color of fresh blood poured from the vial's mouth, swirling upward in defiance of natural air currents. But this was not ordinary mist—it carried *scent*, a fragrance so pure and concentrated that it bypassed rational thought and spoke directly to the cultivator's instincts. It smelled of vitality, of life essence refined to its absolute peak, of purity that made even high-grade pills seem like muddy water by comparison.
The old manager's cultivation, dormant for decades, *responded*. His meridians began to circulate involuntarily, drawn by the promise of that scent. Around him, other cultivators who had been passing by or browsing the pavilion's ground floor stopped dead in their tracks.
"Impossible," someone whispered.
"That purity—"
"Perfect Grade," another voice breathed, trembling with a mixture of awe and naked greed. "That's a *Perfect Grade* pill. I've only seen one once, at the provincial capital, and it sold for—"
"Ten thousand gold coins," the old manager said, his voice hoarse. His eyes, which had been dismissive when they'd first seen Feng Chen's appearance, now held something very different. Recognition. Understanding. And beneath it all, fear.
Because anyone who could produce a Perfect Grade pill was not someone to be trifled with. They were either an alchemical master of the highest order or had connections to powers that could crush the Myriad-Treasure Pavilion like an insect.
Feng Chen met the old man's gaze and spoke, his voice carrying that same calm, heavy weight that made the air itself seem denser.
"I am here to sell Perfect Grade pills. Do you deal with alchemists, or do you let your dogs bark at your customers?"
The old manager's back straightened. Then, in a motion that sent shockwaves through every observer, he *bowed*. Not a casual nod of greeting, but a full cultivator's bow, fist to palm, spine bent at forty-five degrees.
"This humble one is Manager Shen of the Myriad-Treasure Pavilion. It would be my honor to conduct business with the honored alchemist." He turned to the guards, his voice cracking like a whip. "Clear the entrance. Immediately."
The guards scrambled to obey.
Manager Shen's gaze fell on Lin Hu, still kneeling on the shattered marble, still pressed down by a weight that showed no sign of lifting. "And remove this trash from the pavilion's steps. The Lin Clan will be billed for the damage to our property."
"But—but I'm an Inner Disciple!" Lin Hu managed to gasp. "You can't—"
"I can," Manager Shen said coldly, "and I have. You attempted to assault an honored guest of the Myriad-Treasure Pavilion. Be grateful I don't have you executed for the offense."
He gestured toward the interior of the building, where crystalline lights and the soft glow of formation arrays promised comfort and wealth beyond measure. "Please, honored alchemist. Allow me to show you to a private negotiation room. I believe we have much to discuss."
Feng Chen allowed the weight of his aura to dissipate. Lin Hu collapsed fully onto the broken marble, gasping like a fish pulled from water. The other Lin Clan disciples rushed to their companion's aid, but not one of them dared to meet Feng Chen's eyes as he walked past them.
He stepped into the Myriad-Treasure Pavilion, leaving behind a crowd of stunned cultivators and the broken remnants of those who had dared to mock him.
The beggar was dead.
The Sovereign had arrived.
---
**[ Sovereign Status ]**
**Host:** Feng Chen
**Realm:** Body Tempering (Layer 5)
**Physique Progress:** 25/100 (Blood of various beasts absorbed)
**Concept:** Shattering Sword Intent (0.1% - Surface Level)
**Inventory:** 5x Perfect Blood-Qi Pills, 1x Ancient Fragment
**Next Goal:** Reach 50/100 Beast Bloods to unlock "Tier 0: Sovereign Senses"