The cave remained silent.

  Not the heavy, suffocating silence from before, but a quiet that came after exhaustion—after resistance had been exhausted and only patience remained.

  Mingzhi sat cross-legged beside the stone wall, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. Faint streams of Qi flowed through his body in carefully regulated cycles, guided not by instinct, but by method.

  The Devouring Secret Technique.

  The Spirit had taught it to him without embellishment. No grand descriptions. No heroic framing. Just the raw process, stripped to its essence.

  Devouring was not conquest.

  It was assimilation.

  It required restraint.

  The master’s remaining presence—soul, spirit, and mind—did not resist. There was no struggle, no backlash. Only a steady, deliberate transfer, like water seeping into dry earth.

  Even so, Mingzhi could feel the difference.

  This was not energy taken from beasts or refined herbs. This was the legacy of a peak powerhouse from an era long gone. Each strand carried density, clarity, and weight far beyond Mingzhi’s current realm.

  He proceeded slowly.

  Painfully slowly.

  Half a day passed.

  By the time Mingzhi opened his eyes, his chest rose and fell a little heavier than before. His soul felt swollen, like a container filled to the brim. His spirit hummed faintly, sensitive to every fluctuation in the cave. His mind felt… crowded. Not chaotic, but tight, as if new structures were being forced into place.

  He stopped.

  Continuing would be reckless.

  His foundation needed time—to settle, to adapt, to digest.

  “This will take a long time,” Mingzhi said quietly.

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied from within him. Its voice was steady, but subdued. “Fully absorbing him would take a very long time at your level.”

  Mingzhi nodded. He had already expected that.

  At least now, with the master in his space, he was no longer being devoured by that thing.

  That alone made it worth it.

  With nothing else he could do for the moment, Mingzhi lowered his gaze to his palm.

  The black stone rested there.

  It was small—no larger than half his hand—but it felt… complete, in a way that defied size.

  Pitch black. Matte. Light did not reflect off its surface so much as vanish into it. Even under direct illumination, the stone swallowed brightness greedily, leaving its edges strangely indistinct.

  Engravings covered its surface.

  They were shallow, barely more than lines scratched into the stone—yet each line was impossibly precise, as if carved by something that understood the structure of reality itself.

  At the center of the slice was a mountain.

  Not a detailed one—no trees, no paths—but unmistakable in form. Solid. Immovable.

  Within the mountain’s mass was something else.

  A fruit.

  It was partially embedded, as if grown from within the stone itself. Its outline was simple, yet subtly unsettling. The surface bore faint striations, like muscle fibers pressed beneath skin.

  Silver-gray lines traced faintly across the mountain, like arms streching out, trying to reach the edge of the stone, glowing only when Mingzhi focused his perception. They did not pulse. They did not move.

  They waited.

  The stone itself was not whole.

  It was shaped like an eighth of a circle, as if part of a larger disc broken into precise segments. The mountain, fruit and silver lines pointed toward the upper corner of the slice.

  Around the mountain, a half-circle arc curved around, like trying to embrace it, connecting to the right side of the stone slice. Between the mountain and the arc, short wave-like symbols repeated in a narrow band.

  Mingzhi frowned.

  As Mingzhi continued to observe it, an unsettling realization formed.

  This wasn’t a complete diagram.

  The curved edge of the stone wasn’t ornamental—it was a boundary. The engraving ended too cleanly, too deliberately, as if the missing portions had been cut away with intent rather than broken.

  Mingzhi’s fingers tightened slightly.

  “This isn’t a symbol,” he murmured. “It’s a fragment.”

  A fragment of something larger.

  Something that required other pieces to complete it.

  “Spirit,” he asked slowly, “do you recognize these markings?”

  The Spirit was silent for a moment.

  “…No,” it finally said. “I don’t.”

  That answer unsettled him more than confusion would have.

  You don’t?

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  “This stone is older than me,” the Spirit continued. “Older than my master’s time. Whatever carved this… it wasn’t part of the knowledge he collected.”

  Mingzhi turned the stone slightly, studying how the engravings caught the faint cave light.

  Mountain.

  Fruit.

  Cycle.

  Direction.

  “…What do they symbolize?,” Mingzhi murmured under his breath.

  But nothing clicked fully into place.

  After a while, he exhaled and closed his fingers around the stone.

  “Thinking blindly won’t help,” he said. “I’ll come back to it later.”

  There were more immediate matters to deal with.

  He turned his attention to the five beast cores resting nearby.

  Even drained, their presence was oppressive.

  One by one, Mingzhi picked them up and guided them into the Eye Space.

  The moment the first core entered, the space reacted.

  The second followed.

  Then the third.

  The fourth.

  When the fifth core crossed the threshold, the Eye Space shuddered faintly.

  The five cores drifted apart on their own, arranging themselves instinctively according to the Five Elements cycle.

  Wood.

  Fire.

  Earth.

  Metal.

  Water.

  They began to rotate.

  Slowly at first—then with increasing stability—forming a circular path. Dim light spread through the Eye Space, five colors blending into one another without clashing.

  For the first time since its creation, the space felt… structured.

  Anchored.

  “…Interesting,” Mingzhi murmured.

  “The Eye Space recognizes them as a system,” the Spirit said. “They’re acting as temporary pillars.”

  Mingzhi watched the rotation for a moment longer, then nodded.

  “It’s time,” he said. “I’ve been stalled long enough.”

  “Yes,” the Spirit agreed. “Your constitution is holding you back more than you realize.”

  Without an engine—without a proper bridge—Mingzhi could only draw on external energy in crude bursts. The cores’ potential was wasted on him as he was now.

  “I’ll store them like this for now,” Mingzhi said. “Let the Eye Space stabilize.”

  Once that was done, he reached into his space and withdrew the jade herb.

  It radiated vitality.

  Even just looking at it, its presence caused the air around it to feel denser, warmer. Mingzhi could feel his body instinctively responding, meridians stirring restlessly.

  “This is the key,” he said. “The bridge.”

  The Spirit’s tone sharpened immediately. “Be careful. That herb is far beyond your current tolerance.”

  “I know.”

  “You cannot use it whole,” the Spirit continued. “Not even close. One-tenth should be your absolute upper limit. Any more, and your body will collapse during the process.”

  Mingzhi looked down at the jade herb.

  “So ninety percent remains,” he said calmly.

  “Yes.”

  “How do I preserve it?”

  “Once you cut it,” the Spirit replied, “soak the remainder in Life Liquid. It will suppress its volatility and prevent the medicinal shock from degrading it much.”

  Mingzhi nodded, committing the instruction to memory.

  He set the herb aside carefully.

  Outside the cave, the forest remained quiet.

  The array was paused.

  Something had noticed him.

  And somewhere far beyond this world, something enormous waited—patiently.

  Mingzhi closed his eyes.

  Step by step.

  He would move forward.

  No matter what waited at the end.

  Mingzhi held the herb carefully.

  The Jade-Quality Earth Herb, from the Titan’s Spine, rested between his fingers, its crystalline petals faintly luminous, pulsing with a rhythm that didn’t belong to the cave—or even to this world. Just holding it made him feel its purity, as if the air itself had become more dense.

  “I have the herb,” Mingzhi said. “How do I do it?”

  The Spirit didn’t answer immediately.

  When it finally spoke, its voice was slow—deliberate.

  “You need to carve a path,” it said. “Between your Eye Space and your meridian system.”

  Mingzhi’s brow furrowed. “Carve?”

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied. “Not guide. Not circulate. Carve.”

  The words settled heavily.

  “The Eye Space exists outside your physical system,” the Spirit continued. “It is accepted by your existence, but it is not connected to it. Right now, the beast cores rotate there freely—but you cannot truly use them.”

  Mingzhi nodded. He had felt it already.

  The power was there—but unreachable.

  “You will use the herb’s pure energy as a medium,” the Spirit said. “Its function is refinement and storage, but its structure is stable enough to serve as a temporary scaffold.”

  “A bridge,” Mingzhi murmured.

  “Yes. A bridge,” the Spirit confirmed. “You will carve a channel from your Eye Space into your meridian system. Once formed, you will anchor it to a beast core.”

  Mingzhi inhaled slowly.

  “And the pain?”

  The Spirit hesitated.

  “It will not be minor,” it said.

  Mingzhi snorted softly. “What’s a little pain?”

  The Spirit didn’t answer directly.

  “…Who said little?” it muttered.

  Mingzhi sat down cross-legged.

  He adjusted his breathing, slowed his heart, and raised the herb.

  “Begin,” the Spirit said.

  Mingzhi swallowed and placed the fragment into his mouth.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  It melted as soon as it touched his tongue.

  The dense energy entered his system, purity that he couldn’t even imagine with his weak body, it felt like swallowing a whole mountain. He forced it towards the space behind his eye. His own meridians burned with the heaviness, pushing the mountain through a straw.

  Then the energy reached a closed door.

  “Now,” the Spirit commanded. “Focus on the Eye Space. Push.”

  Mingzhi obeyed.

  He reached inward—not physically, but conceptually—toward the Eye Space. The void responded immediately, vast and receptive.

  And then—

  Pain.

  It wasn’t the tearing agony of injury.

  It was pressure.

  As if something that should never touch flesh was being forced through it.

  Mingzhi gritted his teeth as the herb’s energy surged forward, meeting resistance where none should exist. The boundary between Eye Space and body felt like an invisible wall—smooth, absolute.

  “Carve,” the Spirit urged. “Do not retreat.”

  Mingzhi roared silently.

  He compressed the energy, sharpened it, and pushed.

  Cracks formed.

  Not in space—but in sensation.

  His meridians screamed as foreign energy pressed against them, burning, scraping, reshaping. The pain radiated outward, hammering his nerves, rattling his bones.

  Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  “Hold it steady!” the Spirit snapped. “If the channel collapses now, the backlash will—”

  “I know!” Mingzhi hissed.

  He pushed again.

  The resistance shattered.

  Something gave way.

  A channel formed—raw, unstable, agonizingly narrow—linking the Eye Space to his meridian system. Then he used the remaining energy to lay down the earth bridge onto the newly formed channel.

  The moment the connection stabilized, a new pain erupted.

  The beast cores reacted.

  Inside the Eye Space, the five cores flared faintly, their rotation tightening, sensing the newly formed bridge.

  “Use the Earth Core now,” the Spirit said quickly.

  Mingzhi didn’t hesitate.

  Earth.

  The Earth-aligned core pulsed, responding to his intent.

  “Anchor it,” the Spirit commanded.

  Mingzhi guided the connection forward.

  The instant the bridge touched the core—

  His body convulsed.

  A crushing weight slammed into his meridians, as if a mountain had been dropped inside him. His bones groaned. His organs trembled.

  Earth energy flooded the channel—not explosively, but relentlessly.

  Dense. Heavy. Absolute.

  Mingzhi’s vision blurred.

  He felt like he was being pressed into existence.

  “Stabilize!” the Spirit shouted. “Do not let it flow freely!”

  Mingzhi forced control, shaping the flow, compressing it, allowing only a thread to pass.

  Slowly—

  The pain lessened.

  The pressure stabilized.

  The bridge held.

  The Earth core dimmed slightly, settling into a slow, steady pulse.

  Silence fell.

  Mingzhi collapsed forward, hands braced against the stone floor, breathing hard.

  Then—

  He laughed.

  It was hoarse. Unsteady.

  But real.

  “…I did it,” he said.

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied. Its voice carried unmistakable approval. “You succeeded.”

  Mingzhi closed his eyes, feeling the difference.

  The Earth energy wasn’t overwhelming.

  It was available.

  Present.

  A foundation.

  “This is what it was missing,” Mingzhi murmured. “An engine.”

  “Yes,” the Spirit said. “And there’s four more to come.”

  Mingzhi smiled faintly—

  When the sound came.

  A deep, rolling thunderclap echoed through the mountain.

  The cave trembled.

  Dust rained from the ceiling.

  Mingzhi’s smile vanished.

  “What was that?” he demanded, pushing himself upright.

  Before the Spirit could answer—

  Pressure descended.

  Not physical.

  Existential.

  The air thickened, crushing down on his chest, his thoughts, his very sense of self. His breathing hitched as if the world itself had grown heavier.

  Mingzhi’s knees buckled.

  “What’s going on?!” he gasped.

  The Spirit’s voice was strained.

  “This…” it said slowly, disbelief creeping in.

  “…this shouldn’t be happening now.”

  Another thunderclap roared overhead.

  The pressure intensified.

  Something had noticed.

  And it was not pleased.

  Above the cave—

  The heavens stirred.