But who cared! William dismissed the thought of the lost profit as quickly as it had come. Sacrificing a few thousand spirit crystals today to gain a lifetime of explosive growth was a deal any sane cultivator would take. To him, it was the ultimate bargain.
He worked with a feverish intensity, moving from one charred carcass to the next. His small porter's bag was a pitiful excuse for storage; even after he consumed the monster cores on the spot, the sheer volume of scarlet fur and tail needles meant the bag reached its limit within the first ten monkeys.
Yet, William refused to leave a single scrap behind. By the time he had finished absorbing the essence of over three hundred cores, the change in his physical and spiritual presence was undeniable.
His spirit power, which had been stagnating at a measly twelve, had surged to thirty! To more than double one's power in a single night was unheard of, especially considering he had only used low, white-grade monster cores. The "mud" in his meridians felt thinner, more responsive.
Once the harvest was finished, he stood amidst a mountain of loot. He had fashioned a massive, primitive pack using broad, tough leaves gathered from the unburnt forest edges, sewing them together with lengths of flexible wooden vine.
He didn't hurry to leave the scene of the carnage. Instead, he stood in the centre of the blackened clearing, savouring the raw thrill of rapid progression.
"Damn! I swear even my master would have cursed if she was here with me," he laughed, the sound echoing through the silent, dead trees.
He took a moment to analyse the diminishing returns. He noticed that after his spirit power crossed the twenty-five mark, the essence from the white cores began to feel thin and watery. Their effectiveness was dropping as his own level rose.
"What if I used the crystals I gain from selling the fur to buy higher-tier monster cores?" he mused.
"Forget about white cores; even bronze cores would be worth the price. I believe a single bronze core would grant more spirit power than a hundred of these white ones. My growth would be unstoppable..."
As the realisation of his new reality set in, he looked at the world with predatory eyes. He finally understood why that Nine-Tailed Fox had been so blessed—and so hated.
"Time to go back," he grunted.
He hoisted the primitive leaf-bag over his shoulder and began the arduous journey back to the Academy.
From a distance, the sight was surreal: a small, fragile-looking boy dragging a pile of loot so large it looked like he was pulling a small hill behind him. His increased strength of thirty spirit points was the only thing making the feat possible.
But a new concern began to gnaw at him. How was he supposed to get this massive haul into the Academy without being interrogated?
Usually, guards were elite disciples or even junior masters, and they would surely confiscate such a suspicious amount of wealth from a lowly porter.
Luckily for him, the gates were strangely deserted when he arrived.
What William didn't yet know was that the "incident" with Berry had sent the entire Academy into a state of emergency.
The guards who had found her had rushed her stiff, glowing body back to the High Masters. After a frantic examination, the elders were baffled; they couldn't find a medical or spiritual reason for her bizarre, frozen state.
Fearing for the life of the Long Clan's heiress, the Academy had immediately dispatched word to her family. Within hours, the Academy headquarters had become a hive of chaotic activity.
Berry's father, the Patriarch of the mighty Long Clan, was on the verge of a total breakdown, his fury and grief threatening to level the very buildings around him as he stared at his unresponsive daughter.
The Patriarch of the Long Clan was a man whose presence usually commanded absolute silence, but today, his voice shook the very foundations of the Academy's infirmary.
He had summoned every renowned physician and spirit healer within a hundred-mile radius to examine Berry, yet the result was always the same: a profound, bewildered silence.
No one in the kingdom had ever witnessed a spirit master's body becoming a frozen, glowing statue of pink and red light.
Driven to the brink of madness by the lack of answers, the Patriarch's grief curdled into a volatile rage. He paced the halls like a caged beast, shouting threats that echoed through the stone corridors.
He promised a brutal, scorched-earth war against the Academy itself if his daughter suffered even a single permanent scar.
To the Academy's elite, Berry Long might have been viewed as a "crippled" spirit master—a genius who had hit a wall and failed to progress—but they were not foolish enough to underestimate the weight of her lineage.
The Fire Dragon Long Clan was a pillar of the kingdom's power. While the masters weren't necessarily terrified of the frantic father, they lived in absolute dread of the man standing behind him: Berry's grandfather. He was a legendary figure whose temper was as famous as his destructive power.
The Academy elders collectively prayed that Berry would awaken before the news reached that terrifying old man.
If the "Scary Grandfather" arrived to find his favourite granddaughter in a coma, the resulting fallout would be beyond salvation, regardless of whether she eventually recovered.
As the architect of this entire spiritual upheaval, William remained blissfully oblivious to the storm he had ignited.
He had successfully navigated the shadows of the Academy's outer perimeter, feeling immensely lucky that the chaos in the central district had drawn away the usual patrols. He reached his cramped, dilapidated porter's cabinet without being spotted.
Once inside, he faced a new logistical nightmare. His gains were so massive that his cabinet—already barely large enough for a single person—couldn't even fit the primary leaf-bundle.
To make room, William began a radical reorganisation. He dragged out his meagre belongings: his rickety chair, his small table, and eventually, his very bed. He shoved them into a hidden nook behind the cabinet's exterior.
This was the only way to clear enough space to store and categorise the scarlet fur, the venomous needles, and the remaining scraps of material.
When he finally finished, the interior of his cabinet was packed to the ceiling with high-value monster parts. There was barely enough floor space for him to sit cross-legged, let alone sleep.
Yet, he wasn't bothered in the slightest. His mind was racing, calculating the potential profit and how many bronze-grade cores he could purchase once he liquidated this haul.
The adrenaline of his rapid advancement kept him wide awake. He watched the horizon through the cracks in his door until the first faint slivers of dawn touched the sky.
With the sunrise, he repacked the most valuable portions of his loot into a more manageable, yet still enormous, bundle. Hoisting it with a grunt of effort, he began his march toward the Academy's main market.
The Academy was not merely a school; it was a sprawling economic engine. Without a staggering financial foundation, no institution could survive the erosive effects of time or the cost of high-level cultivation resources.
Consequently, a massive, vibrant marketplace had been established near one of the primary gates.
To ensure security, a towering internal wall separated the market from the academic heart of the campus, allowing guards to monitor the flow of trade without disrupting the masters and disciples.
The journey to the market took nearly an hour. During his walk, William's thoughts were entirely consumed by the "Devouring Power" he had discovered. He periodically checked his internal spiritual state, testing the density of his energy.
To his delight, he discovered that his body was still passively digesting the residual essence from the night before; his spirit power had ticked up five more points, bringing his total to thirty-five.
Furthermore, his physical muscle density felt as though it belonged to someone twice his age.
As he neared the bustling market gates, he began to encounter groups of disciples. The sight he presented was nothing short of jaw-dropping.
A small boy in the distinct white uniform of a lowly porter was dragging a pile of goods so large it looked like a literal hill of fur and needles, moving with a steady, effortless grace that defied all common sense.
William had worked as a porter for two years. While most disciples wouldn't bother to learn his name, his face was a common fixture in their daily lives—usually seen carrying heavy bags or cleaning up training grounds.
Porters were, by definition, those without the talent to cultivate; they were supposed to be the weakest links in the Academy's chain.
Seeing him display such abnormal, monstrous strength left the passing disciples in a state of utter confusion. Whispers broke out in his wake as they tried to reconcile the "weak porter" they knew with the boy dragging a fortune behind him.
William ignored them entirely. His eyes were fixed on the merchant stalls ahead. He didn't care about their gossip or their sudden curiosity.
He had a singular, burning goal: to sell this haul, buy higher-grade cores, and smash through the one hundred spirit point mark. Once he hit that threshold, he would no longer be a porter—he would be a true Spirit Master, and the real journey would begin.