Chen Mo made his way through the outer courtyard toward the Transmission Hall, his footsteps light but purposeful. As a newly minted Skin Refining Realm expert, he was entitled not only to increased resources and monthly quotas but also to claim a free martial skill from the hall’s collection—a rare opportunity that could shape the direction of his cultivation.

  He had already given it thought. Among all the options, he knew exactly which skill would complement his Silver Crane Body Refining method, enhancing his speed, agility, and control over qi circulation. Choosing wisely now could give him a head start over most peers, especially in the coming months of intensive training.

  Passing the stone steps of the hall, Chen Mo glanced at the open library section nearby. The Transmission Hall’s library was accessible to any formal disciple, though most only came to check basic martial texts or rare alchemy recipes. Today, Chen Mo planned to take a quiet look at the library, browsing techniques that might synergize with his cultivation, while also formally claiming his new martial skill.

  As he stepped inside, the sunlight spilling through the high windows reflected off the polished floors, and the faint scent of aged scrolls and ink filled the air. A sense of calm precision enveloped him—an ideal place for studying, choosing, and planning his next move.

  Chen Mo’s mind was already working ahead, calculating how this new skill and the library’s resources could accelerate his progress, all while staying unnoticed enough to avoid drawing the attention of the more ambitious and calculating disciples in the hall.

  Chen Mo stepped fully into the Transmission Hall, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him with a muted thud. The interior was quiet in the way only places of inheritance could be, layered with time, dust, and countless ambitions that had passed through and faded.

  He headed straight toward the main office.

  Inside, an elder sat behind a low desk, posture relaxed, white hair slipping loosely past his temples. One hand held a thin booklet, the other a porcelain cup of tea whose steam curled lazily upward. The man radiated indifference, the kind born from having seen too many so called geniuses come and go.

  Before Chen Mo could finish his greeting, the elder spoke without lifting his gaze.

  “New here?”

  Chen Mo immediately cupped his hands and bowed.

  “Yes, Elder. Disciple Chen Mo has come to choose a martial skill.”

  The elder flipped a page, took a sip of tea, and replied in an unhurried tone, “First floor. Come back here when you’re done choosing.”

  No questions. No congratulations. No curiosity.

  Chen Mo did not mind in the slightest.

  “Thank you, Elder.”

  He cupped his hands once more and turned away, heading toward the staircase leading to the first floor. As he climbed, his expression remained calm, but his thoughts sharpened. The first floor held only basic and intermediate martial skills, yet even among these, the difference between a mediocre choice and a refined one could decide life and death.

  Today’s choice would not be flashy.

  It would be efficient.

  It would be useful.

  And most importantly, it would be something others overlooked.

  The faint rustle of scrolls reached his ears as he stepped onto the first floor, rows of wooden shelves stretching before him like silent witnesses. Chen Mo slowed his pace, eyes steady, already filtering through possibilities as he disappeared into the sea of manuals, a young cultivator quietly weaving of the higher ups

  Chen Mo’s steps slowed, his gaze drifting across the shelves as an amused thought surfaced.

  Maybe this is how it always starts…

  Some forgotten corner.

  A cracked jade slip.

  A manual so dusty even the spiders gave up on it.

  He nearly laughed inwardly.

  Those legendary transmigrators… one step into a library and fate trips over itself. They pick a neglected, incomplete skill abandoned for some mysterious reason, everyone scoffs, and then, with a cheat in hand, they polish it into an invincible art that shakes heaven and earth.

  Chen Mo shook his head slightly.

  Wishful thinking.

  If fate were that generous, the Transmission Hall would have collapsed long ago under the weight of chosen ones. Most “forgotten” skills were forgotten for very good reasons, flawed circulation paths, unstable foundations, or cultivation requirements that bordered on suicide.

  Still…

  His eyes lingered on the darker corners of the hall, where the manuals were thinner, older, and far less visited.

  But if one truly existed…

  With the panel in his mind, incompleteness was no longer a death sentence. Bottlenecks, missing chapters, unclear descriptions, all of that meant nothing to him. What others feared, he could quantify. What others could not comprehend, he could brute force.

  Chen Mo exhaled slowly, a faint smile touching his lips.

  An hour slipped by like sand through loose fingers.

  Chen Mo had checked the obvious shelves.

  Then the neglected ones.

  Then the truly pitiful corners where even dust seemed embarrassed to settle.

  Nothing.

  No cracked jade slips humming with destiny.

  No half-burned manuals hinting at heaven-defying potential.

  No ominous warnings like “Those without fate will die.”

  Just… ordinary techniques. Solid. Sensible. Boring.

  Chen Mo’s mouth twitched as he muttered under his breath.

  “Damn it… I must be the most miserable transmigrator in history.”

  He sighed inwardly, counting his failures with bitter humor.

  No special manual.

  No heaven-defying alchemy affinity.

  Not even a cold young miss accidentally falling into my arms and triggering a chain reaction of jealous young masters.

  He had brought shame to every legendary trope ever recorded.

  Fantasy officially revoked.

  Chen Mo rubbed his temples and forced himself back into reality.

  Enough dreaming.

  In this world, strength decided everything, but survival came first. Power could be cultivated slowly. Life, once lost, could not be refunded.

  “If I can’t overpower them… I’ll outrun them.”

  His eyes sharpened.

  A movement skill.

  Speed meant initiative.

  Speed meant escape.

  Speed meant choosing when to fight and when to vanish like smoke.

  Even if he faced someone stronger, as long as he was fast enough, the difference between life and death would narrow to a single step.

  Chen Mo straightened his posture, the disappointment settling into cold clarity.

  At the very least… I’ll be the hardest one to kill.

  With that decision made, he turned his attention toward a section of the first floor dedicated to footwork and movement techniques, his earlier fantasies fading, replaced by a practical resolve that fit him far better than borrowed legends ever could.

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  Chen Mo finally settled on a movement skill, one that at first glance seemed deceptively simple—Threaded Movement. It did not make the practitioner “run faster” in the usual sense. Instead, it allowed him to thread his body along invisible paths of least resistance, moving with the world rather than against it. Friction, impact, wasted force—all were minimized, letting him sustain long-distance travel, shift directions without losing speed, and maintain high-speed motion for extended periods. The skill had two modes. The passive Threaded Movement could be maintained for half an hour to an hour at his current Skin Refining realm, boosting speed by 50–70%, lightening his steps and stabilizing his body while inflicting only minor strain—micro-tears in the skin and burning pores after prolonged use. The explosive Heaven Severing Step, however, was a short burst capable of sudden, near-instantaneous displacement, perfect for evasion or escape—but abusing it would tear the skin, spurt blood, and risk collapse. Most practitioners failed because they tried the burst first and crippled themselves; Chen Mo, methodical as ever, would not. Over time, as his cultivation advanced to Muscles, Bone, and Organ Refining realms, both modes would expand in scope and danger: hours of Threaded Movement, terrain-agnostic sprints, and bursts that could make him vanish from pursuit entirely, at the cost of muscle overload, microfractures, or even organ strain. It was infamous among martial artists not because it looked impressive, but because it demanded perfect harmony of body and mind from day one; impatience, recklessness, or misalignment meant crippling injury. To an outsider, it seemed like mere running, and that arrogance had destroyed countless geniuses. Chen Mo smiled inwardly—here was a skill that would grow with him, subtle, punishing, but deadly effective for the one who mastered it.

  Chen Mo made his way back down to the main office. Upon entering, the elder was in the same spot, leisurely sipping tea as if nothing had changed.

  “You done choosing?” the elder asked without lifting his gaze.

  Chen Mo cupped his hands respectfully. “Yes, Elder,” he replied, handing over the scroll.

  The elder glanced at it, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Threaded Movement… you’re sure about this, boy? It’s a very time-consuming skill. It may look simple, but one reckless move and it can cripple you.”

  Chen Mo inclined his head. “Thank you for your advice, Elder. I will be careful.”

  The elder didn’t press further. He took Chen Mo’s token, recorded the necessary information, and returned the scroll. “Memorize it in the library hall,” he instructed. “When done, hand it back to one of the attendants.”

  “Thank you, Elder,” Chen Mo said, bowing slightly before heading to the library section. He picked a quiet bench, unrolled the scroll, and began committing the intricacies of Threaded Movement to memory, his mind focusing on every subtle detail, every hint of internal alignment, every path of least resistance. Hours of deliberate, meticulous study awaited him, but Chen Mo felt a thrill at the challenge—the kind only a truly demanding skill could give.

  After an hour of memorizing every nuance of the Threaded Movement scroll, Chen Mo didn’t immediately leave the library. He gestured for one of the attendants to approach.

  The attendant quickly came over, bowing slightly. Chen Mo handed him the scroll. “Please return this to the first floor,” he said calmly.

  The attendant nodded and accepted the scroll without a word.

  Chen Mo then looked around the library, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Are there books about general knowledge, history, and other subjects?” he asked.

  The attendant blinked, a little surprised by the question, then nodded respectfully. “Yes, Senior Brother. We have a section in the rear corner for general studies, covering history, geography, politics, and other subjects. You may study there at your leisure.”

  Chen Mo’s lips curled slightly. “Good. I’ll be taking a look.” Without another word, he headed toward the designated section, already thinking of how he could absorb as much knowledge as possible to prepare himself—not just for martial advancement, but for understanding the world he was now fully entangled in.

  Chen Mo had spent the better part of an hour browsing through the stacks, selecting volumes on history, geography, and accounts of past dynasties. He read intently, occasionally jotting mental notes, absorbing the rise and fall of empires, the borders of provinces, and the legends scattered through the pages.

  After a while, he paused, closing the last book he had chosen. He sat back, revising what he had absorbed in his mind. A thousand-year dynasty… thirty-two provinces… unknown wilderness beyond, endless mountain ranges… rumors of demons and beasts…

  He couldn’t help but let a flicker of curiosity stir. Do immortals really exist somewhere, or is this just another trope I’ll fail to encounter…

  Chen Mo’s gaze hardened, his thoughts firming into resolve. Only by growing stronger can I confidently explore what lies beyond these lands. For now, there’s no shortcut. I’ll start with training, hard and steady, and let the world reveal itself to me in time.

  With that, he stood, energy coiling in his limbs, and made his way back to his quarters—mind sharpened, body eager, ready to turn knowledge into strength.

  Chen Mo hurried back to his room, his mind set on maximizing every moment of training. He pulled out the medicinal powder packets and filled a large basin with water. As he stirred in the powders, the water gradually deepened to a rich, crimson hue. Without a second thought, he shed his uniform and stepped into the bath. The moment his skin touched the water, a jolt ran through him—his pores tingled as if tiny sparks were igniting across his body, the heat searing deep into his flesh.

  He regulated his breathing, inhaling slowly, exhaling steadily, and began circulating his qi and blood. The sensation was intense—every nerve ending seemed alight, a buzzing, sizzling pressure radiating across his skin, muscles, and veins. Tiny stings of pain flared intermittently, and Chen Mo gritted his teeth against the discomfort, refusing to ease his circulation.

  Time blurred as he pushed forward. Two hours passed in what felt like minutes, his skin burning, his body screaming in protest, yet his focus never wavered. Finally, the crimson water gradually lightened, shifting to a faint pink and then clearing completely. Chen Mo opened his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling every fiber of his body humming with new vitality. His skin carried a subtle bronze sheen, and the qi coursing through him had become smoother, more potent—proof that the medicinal bath had fully integrated with his recent training.

  For Chen Mo, the pain was not a deterrent but a mark of progress—a reminder that each sensation of burning, stinging, or screaming strain was a step closer to transcending his limits.