For Yun Che, however, these past two months were spent in a constant folding of reality and the void.
By day, he was the most insignificant water-carrying menial of the Frost Profound Sect—silent, obedient, and nearly invisible.
By night, when moonlight slipped through the window lattice, he would grasp the gray-white stone bead and sink into that milky-white, eternal expanse.
By now, he had roughly grasped the rules of the bead.
Each night, he could enter the dreamspace up to three times. Each entry lasted roughly two and a half hours in the outside world—yet within the void, nearly twenty-five hours would pass.
In other words, every night granted him almost three days’ worth of cultivation time.
Two months in reality meant nearly half a year within the void.
Cultivation was monotonous—especially for him.
He had no cultivation manual, no master to guide him. Everything relied on instinct: observing, attempting, and understanding.
Within the void, he mimicked breathing techniques he had once glimpsed in books. In the clumsiest manner imaginable, breath by breath, he attempted to guide the faint current of cold energy—formed from the Nether Cold Pool’s water—so it might merge with the strange motes of light drifting through the void.
Progress was agonizingly slow.
Often, an entire day of effort in the void would leave only a trace of light behind within his body, while the cold current had already dissipated completely.
But Yun Che had ten times the time—and an almost obsessive patience forged in desperation.
What sustained him were the tearful eyes of his parents at parting, the cutting sneers at the family banquet, Yun Han’s condescension, and the fire burning deep within him—unwillingness.
He scarcely left his room. That tiny, dilapidated chamber in the menial quarters had become his entire world.
When Zhang Hu occasionally complained that Yun Che was “getting quieter by the day,” he only responded with a faint smile.
Caution was paramount.
Before every entry into the dreamspace, he hid the stone bead close to his body and carefully secured the door. Within a sect governed by strict hierarchy—where unseen eyes could be anywhere—possessing a treasure was a crime in itself.
Resources were his greatest weakness.
The Nether Cold Pool’s water contained only sparse spiritual energy, and he dared not take much. Each dawn, while carrying water, he would use his body to block sight and swiftly scoop a single handful from the deepest part with a specially prepared bamboo tube, hiding it against his chest.
That meager trace of spiritual energy was the entirety of his cultivation fuel.
If any outer disciple of the Frost Profound Sect were to learn that a mere menial dared to steal Nether Cold Pool heartwater—even a single handful—for cultivation, they would scoff at best and punish him at worst.
The Nether Cold Pool was a tributary of the earth veins. Its heartwater, though inferior to a true spirit spring, was never meant for menials.
As for Yun Che—staking his cultivation on such paltry energy—in orthodox cultivators’ eyes, it was nothing short of delusion.
Yet Yun Che had no other choice.
Relying on this stolen “fuel,” he repeated tens of thousands of breaths within the void, guiding that fragile cold current through his body.
The resonance between the cold current and the void’s light motes grew clearer by the day. The retained light accumulated slowly—but steadily—quietly transforming the foundation of his mortal flesh.
Yun Che sat cross-legged, his mind sinking into an unprecedented calm.
Within his body, the cold current formed from today’s sip of Nether Cold Pool water was more obedient than ever before. It no longer surged violently before dispersing but flowed gently like a stream, following some indistinct pathway as it seeped into his limbs and bones.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
At the same time, the light motes within the void seemed irresistibly drawn to him. Far denser than usual, they descended like a swarm of fireflies, vanishing into his body.
A strange sensation of fullness arose—not in the stomach, but something far more fundamental.
Then came a fine, crawling numbness, like countless ants moving at once, spreading from within to every inch of his flesh and bone.
He saw it.
Not with his eyes—but with the innate perception he was born with.
Wisps of gray-black matter, carrying a faint stench, were slowly being forced out through every pore of his body. These were impurities accumulated over fifteen years of mortal life—turbid residue, hidden damage, stagnant filth.
The process was slow and continuous.
With no sun or moon in the void, he did not know how much time passed. When the numbness finally faded, it was replaced by an indescribable clarity and lightness.
Yun Che slowly opened his eyes.
A clear radiance flowed within them—brighter and deeper than ever before.
The once-soft light motes of the void now revealed richer layers to his perception. He could faintly sense a thin, flowing essence within them—similar to spiritual energy, yet subtly different.
His mind was unprecedentedly clear.
Fifteen years of memories surged forth: the morning mist and twilight glow of Brookhead Village, his parents’ loving yet worried faces, the warmth of his third uncle handing him books, the bloodied steps of the Dao Inquiry Stair, the cold despair at the Hundred Artifacts Cliff, the shifting warmth and chill of the family banquet…
The emotions remained—but as though viewed through a clear water mirror. The searing pain dulled, replaced by understanding and lucidity.
He knew this was a transformation.
His body had undergone an initial purification. His perception had sharply improved. His spirit had stepped into a new realm.
This was not the traditional “Qi Condensation First Layer.”
He still could not sense any so-called Void Spirit, and his dantian remained empty.
Yet something more fundamental—more essential—had taken root within him.
“This… may be my ‘first layer,’” Yun Che murmured softly.
He could clearly feel that his body’s perception and adaptability to its surroundings—both void and reality—had risen by more than a single level.
Just as he was savoring the change, the familiar tearing sensation arrived again. This time, the pain was noticeably lighter—as though his body had already begun adapting to the shift between worlds.
Moonlight slanted in.
Yun Che opened his eyes and instinctively sniffed. A faint stench—like sun-dried sludge—hung around him.
Looking down, he saw his gray clothes soaked through with thick, pitch-black residue, clinging unpleasantly to his skin.
Yet a genuine smile curved his lips.
He rose lightly, pushed open the door, and slipped into the darkness before dawn. Like a silent gray shadow, he crossed the sleeping menial quarters and reached a secluded downstream section of a mountain stream.
He stripped and plunged into the icy water. The black residue dissolved instantly. He scrubbed himself clean until his skin regained its purity—faintly gleaming like jade.
After washing, he did not rush back.
Leaning against a boulder by the stream as dawn crept in, droplets falling from his hair, he gazed toward the Frost Profound Sect’s main peak. His eyes were calm—focused.
The breakthrough had brought more than purification. His perception had leapt forward.
Even without deliberate focus, he could now faintly see the thin spiritual motes drifting through the air—several times clearer than before. Their attributes varied, most carrying the Frost Profound Sect’s distinctive chill.
The direction of the Nether Cold Pool pulsed with noticeably stronger fluctuations.
He recalled fragments from cultivation miscellanies—rudimentary descriptions of spiritual force usage: focus the mind, sense the energy, and attach it to an object.
His thoughts stirred.
He extended a finger still wet with water and pointed it at a pebble beside his foot, no larger than a quail’s egg.
No incantation. No hand seals.
He focused every shred of his mind, attempting to mobilize the newfound power within him—merged with void light—and convey a faint intent of attraction through his fingertip.
Nothing happened.
He was not discouraged. Maintaining focus, he tried again and again.
After the time it took for a stick of incense to burn, the pebble—
Ever so slightly… almost imperceptibly—
Trembled.
That single tremor drained nearly half his mental strength. Sweat beaded at his temples.
But his eyes blazed brighter than the morning stars.
It moved.
Even a tremor meant his power could influence the physical world!
This was not brute strength—it was the embryonic form of what the books called spiritual power.
Infinitesimal as it was, this was a true leap from zero to one.
This was his path—born of perception and void of nourishment—taking its very first step.
Yun Che withdrew his hand and steadied his breathing. Dawn fully broke. Sounds of waking echoed from the menial quarters.
He dressed in his still-worn gray clothes, tied back his damp hair, and returned.
By the time he stepped into the courtyard, his expression had returned to its usual silent obedience—as though the epiphany by the stream had never happened.
Only he knew:
Everything had changed.
The path of cultivation—to perceive the subtle, to understand the great—begins here.
true starting line.
No orthodox cultivation level, no gifted spirit root—only perception, patience, and stolen time.
-
Did you expect his “first layer” to be so unconventional?
-
How do you feel about cultivation based on seeing rather than absorbing?
-
That trembling pebble—small moment, big meaning. Did it hit for you?
If you enjoyed this chapter, consider leaving a like or comment—it really keeps me going.