Chapter 32: Metamorphosis (3)

Then began the training of carrying two logs at once. Lifting two wooden beams, he felt no burden at all—it was as if he was still carrying just one. It seemed the effects of the potion and the moonlight on the first day remained significant.

At noon, Leng Bingyan arrived early at the mountaintop, wiped the sweat from his brow, and, unlike the previous day, was not so exhausted that he collapsed. He immediately began his afternoon tasks.

As dusk approached, the familiar agony of potion therapy returned. The pain was still unbearable, and though Leng Bingyan managed to endure ten seconds longer than before, he once again lost consciousness.

That night, he appeared in his female form, absorbing the moonlight’s essence...

And so, day after day, the number of logs he could carry at once seemed to double: one, two, four, eight... The time he could endure the potion’s effects also increased by ten seconds each day: one minute, one minute and ten seconds, one minute and twenty seconds, one minute and thirty seconds... The speed at which he absorbed the moon’s essence grew ever swifter.

After more than ten days, all the logs in front of the cottage had been carried to the mountaintop.

“Grandfather, I’ve finished. Didn’t you say that once I moved all the logs up here, you’d give me a new method for transforming my physique?” Leng Bingyan’s eyes were filled with hope as he gazed at Mo Wuxie.

Mo Wuxie nodded at his words, then turned away, raising his head to gaze into the distant sky.

Seeing the old man lost in thought, Leng Bingyan couldn’t help but ask, “Grandfather, what are you thinking about?”

Mo Wuxie furrowed his brow slightly, remaining silent as he continued to stare into the distance, his eyes becoming deep and profound, the very image of a sage. After a long pause, he spoke: “You want me to give you another method to change your constitution?” Seeing Bingyan nod, he said, “Very well, let’s change it. Now, move all the logs back to the cottage.”

For a moment, there was no response. Another moment passed, and with a thud, Mo Wuxie discovered Bingyan had collapsed to the ground...

“Fine, I’ll move them back...” Bingyan picked himself up, straightened his clothes, and wore a look of resignation. Mo Wuxie squinted his eyes: “Don’t underestimate such simple labor. Three thousand years ago, planting flowers was fate; eight thousand years later, reaping the fruit depends on fortune. Without enduring hardship, how can you know the joy of harvest?”

Perhaps it was so. Though skeptical, Leng Bingyan began the task. After the previous days of strengthening, several logs were nothing to him. In just over a day, a thousand logs were once again stacked in front of the cottage.

※※※Feather※※※Emperor※※※

One day, Mo Wuxie summoned Bingyan to the courtyard and told him it was time to begin a new stage of training. He made a mystical gesture toward the bamboo forest behind the courtyard, and a series of crackling sounds filled the air as the space rippled with strange fluctuations. Suddenly, an exquisitely beautiful mountain forest appeared.

The forest was merely an entrance, small at first, then widening outward like the bell of a trumpet.

Mo Wuxie spoke: “The past period has already brought great improvement to your physique. Now it is time to begin your actual combat experience. Soon, I will imprint a cultivation art in your mind. Once you are familiar with it, you will enter this forest to temper yourself through battle.”

As he finished, a beam of white light shot into Bingyan’s head. His mind swelled, and when it cleared, Bingyan found a new technique imprinted in his memory: the “Divine Lineage Codex.” It covered everything from the basic Radiant Reflection stage of cultivation up to the Great Ascension, and even included methods for cultivation after becoming an immortal—progressing to godhood and beyond.

Leng Bingyan was dumbfounded. “Becoming a god, surpassing gods...these...”

“Does that frighten you? It’s merely a trifling god,” Mo Wuxie replied with disdain. “‘Divine Lineage Codex’ cannot truly be considered a cultivation art in the traditional sense; it belongs more to the realm of honing the spirit and sanctity.”

“It’s not that, I’m just surprised.”

“Don’t be surprised. I’ll tell you everything when you return. For now, your task is to study this technique and train diligently. Cultivation is akin to refining the heart. It is about gaining insight into nature, all things, life, and the world—it is a state of being. Once you reach that state, progress flows naturally, and your power advances with it. It is about mental state: only with a powerful mind can you truly master your strength, control it rather than be controlled by it.”

“Familiarize yourself with the art here. When you feel ready to face the dangers of the forest, enter it. Remember, this forest is designed to elevate the cultivator’s state of mind. It is divided into five regions: Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth. Only by obtaining the core essence of each region will you have passed the trial—otherwise, there is no way out.”

With that, Mo Wuxie vanished into thin air. As he left, his ethereal voice echoed: “Cultivation, refinement of the heart—all must rely on yourself. Others cannot help you. There may be bloodshed in the forest; pay it no mind. The fittest survive, the strong thrive, the weak are devoured! As the sun rises and sets, as stars shift, as seas surge and recede, life is filled with joy and sorrow, partings and reunions, birth and death. If all is fated, what must come will come. If you can accept this with serenity, your heart will be at peace; if not, you will suffer for it. Perhaps, eight hundred years from now, you will understand that all things are but illusions, and everything follows the heart.”

“Oh, and take this weapon. It is called the Azure Sword.”

A blue gleam appeared in Bingyan’s hand—a slender, wholly blue sword, its texture exquisite, its blade sharp and radiant. As Bingyan gazed at it, he felt a strange stirring in his heart. Suddenly, reality shimmered, and he found himself in a realm of chaos.

Before him stretched an endless whiteness, so dense and murky he could not see into the distance. While he was still bewildered, a colossal phantom appeared, towering a hundred feet into the air. Bingyan stood before it, as insignificant as an ant.

What shocked him most was that the immense apparition was an elegant woman. Her long hair fluttered in the wind, and her white robes exuded an unmatched sanctity and majesty, while her swirling veils revealed a dazzling splendor. Leng Bingyan was entranced by her movements. In her hand was a wholly purple longsword, over ten yards long. If one shrank the scale of person and sword, it would be a three-foot blade.

Her movements were effortless, yet the aura emanating from her casual swordplay was overwhelming—like the sun obscured by dark clouds, and when it pierced through, that instant of light was soul-stirring.

Her sword techniques were infinite in their changes, some illusory, some real. Even the fading shadows left in the air seemed ancient and tangible, not to be underestimated. As she moved, a crackling sound echoed without cease. Each swing of the sword, though seemingly made with little force, rang out with thunderous impact. The purple radiance was like arcs of lightning under high pressure, scattering in all directions, making the very space tremble.

Leng Bingyan watched, astonished, at this illusory yet undeniably real figure, overwhelmed and secretly elated. Following the phantom’s movements, he could feel the true power of her swordplay. In that instant, he resolved to master it, calming his mind to observe every detail.

Time flowed on—an instant, an eternity. Leng Bingyan did not know how long he remained in that chaotic and dreamlike space—perhaps a thousand years, perhaps just a fleeting moment. He only knew that the phantom, like a devoted teacher, demonstrated the sword forms again and again, instructing him tirelessly. By now, every technique was imprinted indelibly in his mind; with a thought, he could execute them at will.

Then, the hazy white space began to shudder, shattering like broken glass into dust. The myriad stars of light scattered, and Leng Bingyan found himself still standing where he had been, the Azure Sword given by Mo Wuxie gripped in his hand.

Was it all just a dream? he asked himself. Even if it had not been real, the phantom and the mighty sword techniques from that chaotic realm remained etched in his heart. That world was gone, but its legacy was eternal.

Wrapping the Azure Sword in cloth, Leng Bingyan sat down and began to cultivate. The images in his mind were only impressions; he would need to reinforce them through practice.

It was Leng Bingyan’s first time encountering the way of cultivation. Though he grasped its general concepts, he did not truly understand. His troubles did not lie with whether he could learn to ride the clouds or live forever, but rather with the uncertainties of fate—who could know what the future held? Perhaps soul and spirit would scatter; perhaps he would face utter annihilation. Lacking the power to see what lay ahead, he focused only on the present.

It could be said that fortune favored him. After enduring life’s highs and lows, sorrow and joy, his mindset had grown rapidly. Coupled with the cleansing of the Immortal Spring, the tempering agony of the potions, and all the fortuitous encounters, the conditions for his cultivation had been unwittingly arranged.

Though his martial skills had not yet surpassed the average fighter and he had not found the path to mastery, his body had already been completely transformed—no less than that of a top-tier expert.

Now, cultivating the “Divine Lineage Codex,” his progress was swift as lightning.

Radiant Reflection, Spiritual Aperture, Fusion, Heart Stirring, Spiritual Silence (Golden Core), Nascent Soul, Out-of-Body, Divided Spirit, Unity, Tribulation Crossing, Great Ascension—he quickly completed the Foundation Establishment stage and entered Radiant Reflection.

In the cultivation that followed, the effects of the Immortal Spring’s purification became even more apparent. Radiant Reflection, Spiritual Aperture, Fusion, Heart Stirring, and forming the Golden Core—each step was completed in one go.

Had other cultivators witnessed his speed, they would have cried out at the unfairness of fate. Normally, Radiant Reflection, Spiritual Aperture, and Fusion corresponded to the Human, Earth, and Heaven levels of martial arts. It would take at least ten years to reach Radiant Reflection, thirty years for Spiritual Aperture, and Fusion depended on luck—some might succeed in sixty years, others never in a lifetime.

Between Fusion and Heart Stirring lay a great chasm; only those with true talent could reach Heart Stirring. From there, further progress depended on time. To reach Nascent Soul in one’s lifetime was to be the equal of heaven and earth; after crossing the Tribulation, becoming immortal was but a matter of time.

Yet now, Leng Bingyan had leapt straight to the Golden Core stage, condensing a golden core the size of a soybean in his dantian.

All the spiritual energy around him surged wildly toward his body, pouring into the golden core. After a moment, the influx ceased, and the core in his dantian grew more than twice its original size.

When he opened his eyes, a stream of light flickered within them, as luminous as the moon and stars...