In the hushed depths of his cultivation chamber, essence swirling like golden mist around him, Ankit paced slowly, voice a murmur echoing only in his own unified soul.
"So there are three individuals with highest purple innate talent on Earth—and fifty red ones."
He paused, divine sense brushing the distant threads of fate.
"What if I capture all the beasts among them? Bind them as my own—loyal, ferocious guardians. And for the humans? Subordinates. Disciples. Their talents forged under my guidance."
The universe was vast, unforgiving. He remembered that ethereal voice: "All things are possible." But possibilities cut both ways. Powerful beings lurked in the void—ancient entities, star-spanning civilizations with wills like cosmic storms. Arrogance would be his undoing. What if one turned its gaze toward Earth? A fleeting whim, and all could shatter.
He could hide. Shield his family in spatial folds, vanish into the fortress's depths.
But not forever.
No—eternal retreat was cowardice.
He would build an army. Him at the vanguard, legions at his back. Crush future threats before they bloomed.
Puppets served well enough—silent, obedient. But they drank resources like endless voids, and their minds were hollow echoes, lacking true consciousness. He could not rely on them alone.
Beasts and humans, then. Only the talented. Purple and red souls first—no time to waste on lesser sparks. Resources were finite; his focus, sharper than a divine blade.
And after Stage 5? When cosmic laws bent to his will?
Announcement.
Reveal himself to the world. Let them know: a sovereign walks among you. His strength then—unassailable against Earth's trifles, buffered against uncertainties.
His family would emerge from shadows, breathe free air without fear.
Recruitment would flow like rivers: open calls, like sects in ancient tales. Talented youths drawn to his banner.
Essence flow would evolve all life—generation by generation, souls igniting brighter. Children born with talents to eclipse today's reds innate talent.
His Influence would spread unchecked. No more veiled actions, limited scopes. He could shape the world boldly.
He was no coward.
A thought rippled outward.
"Heart Clone," he commanded softly. "Gather all non-human beasts with purple or red souls. Bring them here. Train them—forge them into my vanguard."
The Heart Clone materialized in a warm glow, nodding once.
"As you will."
He vanished into the space, quest begun.
Ankit turned inward again, mind weaving plans like cosmic threads.
Xinxuan. The Eurasian girl. The other reds among humanity.
Not beasts—delicate. Snatch one or two, and whispers might fade. But hordes? Nations would stir, alarms blaring.
Options flickered.
Recruit selectively: just the purples, perhaps a handful of reds. But numbers mattered—and Xinxuan's brilliance called to him like a kindred flame. He wants xinxuan.
Take only the purple level and not reds? No. Xinxuan's disappearance alone would quake the world.
More thought. Deeper.
Then—illumination.
Why not ally with the Indian government?
Reveal himself to the elite few—higher-ups, shadows in power. Deal in secrecy; let them handle the veil.
They could aid recruitment: subtle extractions, forged narratives, quiet integrations.
Prepare the ground for his grand announcement. Government endorsement? Belief would follow swiftly. No skepticism, no chaos.
And for the future—opening sect and recruiting will also be easy.
But governments were beasts of their own—greedy, cautious.
Force them? His power could bend wills like reeds.
Yet coercion bred resentment. Sloppy work. Half-hearted efforts.
Mind control? A last resort. He was still human—flawed, perhaps, but not a tyrant without cause.
No. A fair exchange.
Feed the horse to make it run.
They hungered for strength. Scrabbling in labs, piecing together breathing techniques—futile, incomplete.
He could gift them one. Superior to Xinxuan's art. Essence-efficient, foundation-deep, potent enough to elevate their elites.
In return: loyalty. Aid. Silence until he willed otherwise.
***
Ankit sat quietly in his sealed chamber, letting his mind focus completely on the next step of his cultivation—the Crown Core, the seventh and final core at the top of the head.
He had already unified the six lower cores perfectly.
Now only the crown remained.
From his earlier research into Indian mythology and yogic texts online, he knew that the crown core was linked to connecting the personal soul with the vast universe, but the texts only described the idea poetically and never explained a clear method or practical steps.
Ankit thought about this carefully.
Many cultivation novels talked about fully merging with the universe or surrendering to its greater will, which could mean losing one's own self.
He tested different ideas with his divine sense, reaching out far into space to feel for any kind of universal consciousness or cosmic will that he could connect to.