When the first pallid streak of dawn, like a cold blade, cut through the paper window and stabbed at Yun Che’s eyelids, he finally struggled awake from that bottomless, heavy stupor.

  His throat felt as if it were packed with scorching sand; every swallow sent a sharp pain rippling through him. His entire body seemed to have come apart, as though crushed beneath an enormous weight—there was no place that didn’t ache, no place that didn’t throb. Most of all, his dantian and meridians pulsed with a hollow, fragile dull pain, as if they had been completely scoured clean, leaving behind nothing but an empty, weakened shell.

  It took him several breaths to gather his scattered consciousness. Then the terror of last night—life hanging by a thread—came flooding back like a rising tide: the violent surge of spiritual energy, the swollen veins, the reversed breathing, and the soul-rending agony that had nearly torn him apart.

  A cold shudder of survival after catastrophe spread instantly through his limbs.

  He jolted upright on the hard wooden bed. Such a simple motion made his vision darken, cold sweat beading at his temples. He paid it no mind, immediately reaching into his clothes—

  His fingers touched the familiar rough weave of his cloth robe, and… a hard, slightly cool, round object.

  The gray-white stone bead was still there.

  Carefully, he took it out and brought it closer to the faint light by the window, holding his breath as he examined it.

  On the bead’s surface, the nine familiar cloud patterns remained unchanged. But in the space that had once been blank… a tenth cloud outline—extremely faint, extremely fine, like a trace of ink just beginning to spread on rice paper—had quietly emerged. It was not yet complete, yet already unmistakable, adding an even deeper sense of mystery to the bead.

  Yun Che stared at the nascent tenth cloud, his heart thudding dully in his hollow chest.

  He had gambled—and won.

  Nearly all of his spirit dew, plus a forced dispersal of his cultivation that had nearly cost him his life, had finally brought forth the tenth cloud pattern. The process had been so perilous that even recalling it now made his scalp prickle with fear, but the result…

  “Worth it,” he murmured hoarsely, his cracked lips barely forming the words. The light in his eyes, however, shone brighter than the morning star. The stone bead’s wonder far exceeded his initial expectations. With the appearance of the tenth cloud, new changes were sure to follow—and those changes might well be the key for him to glimpse true immortal fortune within this desperate predicament.

  Yet at this moment, he was far too weak.

  Forcing the dispersal of his cultivation had almost completely drained his essence and spirit, and his stomach burned fiercely with hunger. Only then did he recall that he had not eaten since yesterday afternoon. And today…

  Outside the window, the dull, heavy bell of the menial courtyard—signaling the morning roll call—rang out on schedule, piercing through the thin mist.

  A new day of labor would not be delayed for anyone’s weakness, nor for anyone’s secrets.

  Yun Che took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore his body’s protests. He carefully hid the stone bead close to his body, then braced himself against the wall and slowly stood up. He put on his faded gray clothes, still dusted with yesterday’s grime, and tied the empty bamboo water flask around his waist.

  Pushing open the creaking door, the cold morning air rushed toward him, clearing his mind just a little. He looked up. In the brightening sky, the main peak of the Mystic Frost Sect stood in majestic, indifferent silhouette—enshrouded in immortal aura, untouched by mortal dust.

  And his battlefield lay at his feet—

  From this row of low gray-tiled houses, to the bone-chilling Cold Nether Pool at the foot of the mountain, and then to the ten Xuan-Ice stone vats behind the dining hall, which never seemed to be filled no matter how much water was poured into them.

  He pressed his lips together, silently picked up the shoulder pole and buckets leaning by the door, and merged into the line of gray-clad figures—faces numb, eyes still heavy with sleep—heading toward the pool.

  The familiar burning pain flared at the spot on his shoulder where the pole had rubbed raw the day before. His straw sandals soaked up the morning dew, quickly turning cold and damp. When he lifted the first load of water, the weakness in his arms nearly caused him to falter—but he clenched his teeth and steadied himself.

  Step by step, he climbed upward along the stone path worn smooth by countless menials before him.

  Before dawn had fully broken, Yun Che had already made his third round-trip between ColdNether Altar and the mess hall.

  The carrying pole had rubbed his shoulders raw, leaving a burning ache beneath his skin. His straw sandals were soaked through with icy mountain spring water, each step leaving damp footprints behind him. Ten Blackfrost Ice Stone vats squatted silently in the shadows behind the mess hall, like ten insatiable mouths waiting to be fed. He had filled three so far—seven remained. The sky in the distance was only beginning to pale.

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  “Move faster! What are you dragging your feet for?”

  The yellow-robed overseer leaned lazily against a pillar, tossing a low-grade spirit stone in his hand. His gaze was full of mockery.

  “‘Cliff-jumping hero,’ if you don’t fill all ten vats today, you can forget about lunch and dinner. I noticed you saved half a bun yesterday—you shouldn’t be hungry.”

  Yun Che lowered his eyes and said nothing. He sank the wooden buckets into the潭 and hauled them up with effort. The water was bone-chillingly cold. Even after a month of getting used to it, the moment his hands touched the surface, a shiver still ran through him.

  The water reflected his dusty figure, as well as the faint icy-blue glow flowing around the main peak in the distance.

  Where immortals live.

  He tightened his lips and poured the water into the fourth vat. The splash froze into fine frost patterns along the Blackfrost Ice walls.

  The entire morning passed in this monotonous, punishing back-and-forth.

  By noon, Yun Che had finally filled the tenth vat to about seventy percent. His arms were numb beyond feeling, his stomach hollow and aching. The dry rations Zhang Hu had secretly given him the day before were long gone.

  “That’s enough. Guess you’re lucky today.”

  The yellow-robed disciple glanced lazily at the vats.

  “Go eat—oh, right. You didn’t finish your quota. No food for you.”

  He snorted and walked away.

  Yun Che silently set the buckets down and went to the trough in the corner of the servant yard, splashing cold water onto his face. The chill drove away some fatigue but sharpened the hunger.

  His hand brushed the cloth pouch hidden against his chest. Inside lay the gray-white stone bead—and the last few remaining drops of spiritual dew, carefully stored in a bird-bone container.

  Don’t touch it. This is survival.

  He steadied himself and dragged his exhausted body back to the row of low gray-tiled rooms.

  Inside, Zhang Hu lay sprawled on the bed, groaning. Seeing Yun Che return, he weakly lifted a hand.

  “You’re back? Damn it… That ‘yellow-skinned rat’ sent me to clean fire-toad droppings behind the alchemy hall today. One splash and your skin blisters. Nearly worked me to death.”

  Yun Che sat beside the bed and took out the last small piece of hardened sweet potato—his mother’s. He broke off a portion and handed it to Zhang Hu.

  Zhang Hu froze. “You eat it. You didn’t even eat this morning…”

  “I have some,” Yun Che said, pressing it into his hand.

  He slowly chewed his own small piece. The rough fibers scraped his throat, carrying a faint sweetness. It wasn’t enough—but it fooled the stomach for a while.

  The afternoon brought another round of chores. Yun Che was sent to weed the herb fields behind the mountain.

  This work was slightly better than hauling water. At least he could sit.

  He squatted between the rows, carefully pulling weeds that competed with the low-grade spiritual herb Green Spirit Grass. His fingers soon became stained with sap and soil, his back aching.

  But he treasured this task.

  Here, he could closely observe spiritual plants worth fortunes in the mortal world. He could see faint green spiritual energy flowing through their veins and sense which plants were thriving and which had weakened roots.

  By sunset, Yun Che returned, barely holding himself together. Zhang Hu was already snoring loudly.

  He washed up briefly and collapsed onto the wooden bed.

  Moonlight filtered through the crude window lattice, casting pale grids on the floor.

  Yun Che couldn’t sleep.

  Hunger. Exhaustion. And the quiet ember in his heart that refused to die.

  He sat up and retrieved the cloth pouch.

  The gray-white stone bead rested in his palm, warm and smooth under the moonlight. The ancient cloud patterns on its surface seemed almost alive, subtly shifting with light and shadow.

  For the past month, he had collected the spiritual dew it secreted. Most of it he stored carefully, using only a little to heal small injuries and ease fatigue. He had noticed that when the bead was kept close and his mind was calm and focused, the dew production slightly increased.

  But aside from that, the bead showed no other reaction.

  Unbreakable. Unresponsive to blood. Unresponsive to his near-nonexistent spiritual affinity.

  Just a strange stone that produced healing dew.

  Is this enough?

  Yun Che clenched the bead, knuckles whitening.

  The dew let him endure longer than other servants—but it didn’t change the truth. He was still talentless. Still unseen. Still trapped in endless labor with no path forward.

  “What else are you hiding?” he whispered.

  The moon shifted, fully illuminating the bead.

  Suddenly—Yun Che’s pupils shrank.

  The cloud patterns… moved.

  Ever so slightly.

  He held his breath and raised the bead closer. Under the pure moonlight, the patterns truly were rotating—slowly, rhythmically, as if breathing.

  A thought struck like lightning.

  He blew out the oil lamp, letting moonlight flood the room.

  Time passed.

  Sitting cross-legged, Yun Che held the bead beneath the moonlight and forced himself into the same focused state he used when harvesting mist-fern flowers—empty mind, total attention.

  The cloud patterns began to flow faster.

  Then he felt it.

  A faint pull.

  Not physical—but mental.

  Instinctively, he resisted… Then he relaxed, letting his consciousness sink toward the center of the rotating patterns.

  Sleepiness surged without warning.

  This isn’t right.

  He bit his tongue, pain jolting him awake—but the pull grew stronger. The cloud patterns blurred, expanded, and swallowed his vision.

  At the last moment, he clutched the bead to his chest.

  And fell.

  There was no sensation of falling.

  Yun Che stood in an endless white void.

  No sky. No ground. No sun or stars. Just gentle, milky light in all directions. Beneath his feet was solid—but invisible.

  He looked down. His body was intact. He could feel fabric and feel pain when he pinched himself.

  This wasn’t a dream.

  “Where… is this?” he murmured.

  No echo answered.

  He walked. No matter how far, nothing changed.

  Fatigue crept in—not physical, but mental, as though thought itself consumed energy.

  Then the void trembled.

  Pain exploded from all sides—crushing, tearing, and grinding his body and mind apart.

  He gasped awake.

  Moonlight. Bed. Bead in his hand.

  The oil lamp—barely changed.

  Time had passed… but not much.

  A daring thought ignited.

  “Time…?”

  He carved a mark on a stone, then entered again.

  This time, he counted.

  When pain returned, he shouted the final number.

  Four thousand one hundred and seven.

  Back in reality, the mark remained untouched. Moonlight had moved only slightly.

  Ten times.

  Outside: One moment.

  Inside: ten.

  “Tenfold time…”

  His hands trembled.

  Not a dream.

  A cultivation space where time flowed differently.

  Not wasting a second, he tested it again—jumping, training, exhausting himself.

  When he returned—

  His body responded.

  It worked.

  Not a perfect transfer—but real.

  He leaned against the wall, eyes blazing.

  “A tenfold cultivation space… body and mind.”

  At last.

  His first true chance.

  Outside, the night was ending.

  Yun Che wrapped the bead tightly and stepped into the pre-dawn darkness, spine straight, steps steady.

  Ten times the time.

  Now, he finally saw the path.

  This chapter marks the true beginning of Yun Che’s path.

  you train first if you had ten times the time—body, mind, or something more dangerous?