Morning light had barely touched the ground when Zhuan Ming began his training. He lifted massive boulders, their weight straining his muscles, then carried entire trees across his shoulders until his body burned with exertion. After washing away the sweat, he prepared a meal—thick cuts of spirit beast meat he'd hunted himself, steaming golden rice, and ripe fruits stolen from an elder's garden.
Without wasting a moment, he turned to soul cultivation. Sitting cross-legged, he visualized his soul as a gnarled tree, its roots splitting into two types—the solid, physical meridians he already possessed, and the ghostly phantom roots he needed to form. Using bottles of pure spirit spring water, he channeled energy into those phantom roots, carefully shaping them in his mind.
To his surprise, the process went smoother than expected. By midday, twelve phantom roots had taken form—tiny, fragile things, but a breakthrough that would take most cultivators months of struggle. Still, he needed thousands before his soul cultivation would be complete.
Stretching his stiff legs, Zhuan Ming headed out to meet Li Qingyue, curious if she had uncovered anything useful.
Li Qingyue stood among piles of scrolls in the library, having visited it again. Frustration was clear on her face. "There's almost nothing about these symbols," she admitted, "but what's interesting is that there used to be a sect that existed here in the past. They were destroyed five hundred years ago in the Great War. They specialized in illusions and artifacts that enhanced land cultivation, but records are sparse." She hesitated, then added, "But the symbols... they look like footprints.
"Zhuan Ming's eyes sharpened. "A dance," he realized. "If the symbols are steps, arranged in the right order..."
Li Qingyue caught on immediately. "That's not a bad idea. I'll search for their rituals."
Leaving her to research, Zhuan Ming returned home and changed into dark, hooded robes. He packed a bag with death talismans and empty spirit jades, then set out for the Sunstone Cave.
The journey was easier this time. His control over spiritual energy had improved, and the headaches that once plagued him were now faint and infrequent. At the cave, he dispelled his old traps and retrieved the pink ore—larger now, denser with energy than before. He pocketed it and left without incident.
By evening, he stood in the marketplace, the pink ore sold for a hefty sum—one high-grade spirit stone and fifty mid-grade stones. The buyer had barely haggled; the ore's rarity made it worth far more at auction.
Zhuan Ming didn't linger. He needed materials for body merging. At a bone vendor's stall, his gaze locked onto lava rhino bones—an excellent forging material, and shockingly priced at just one high-grade stone. Normally, they cost double. He didn't question it. A deal was a deal.
After securing heavybone horse vertebrae and bore tusks as supplements, he was left with only ten mid-grade stones. He carried his purchases home, storing them beneath his bed, then prepared a meal rich in protein and spirit herbs.
As night fell, he returned to soul cultivation. Fifteen phantom roots now. Progress, but still a long road ahead.
Tomorrow, body merging would begin. For now, he slept—deep and dreamless, preparing for what was to come.