Ren didn't raise his voice.
"Listen carefully," he said.
His true essence rose—not with the blazing sharpness of Fire Law, but with a gentle, neutral warmth. It seeped into the field like sunlight through morning mist. It didn't press. It didn't invade. It simply… existed.
A reference point.
Thousands of disciples shifted unconsciously. On the stone square that stretched between the Martial House halls, countless backs straightened and shoulders eased, as if their bodies instinctively wanted to line up with that warmth.
"Inhale," Ren said softly. "Feel your breath enter your nose. Don't chase the air. Just notice where your body moves more—your chest, or your belly."
His tone was slow, unhurried, as if he really did have all the time in the world.
"Now… imagine a thread of light following that breath down," he continued. "It passes your throat, slides along your spine, and pools behind your navel. Don't force your true essence to follow. Let it watch. It'll imitate when it's ready."
He spoke like a man describing a simple exercise.
He moved like someone rearranging the heavens.
Across the field, countless cultivators' shoulders loosened. Jaws unclenched. Tension they hadn't even known they were holding began to melt away, draining out through their fingers and toes.
In the front rows, Human Hall's younger disciples blinked, looking faintly dazed. To them, "cultivation" meant biting pain and forcefully driving true essence through meridians until they screamed. No one had ever told them to just… breathe.
"In your dantian," Ren went on, "there's a small sun. For some of you, it's dim. For some, it's brighter. For a few…"
His gaze brushed lightly past certain faces without lingering—Ling Sen, standing with his back straight as a spear; Qin Xingxuan, serene and quiet; Zhu Yan, jaw tight with stubborn pride; Murong Zi, bright-eyed; Bai Jingyun, calm as a sword half-drawn; Ta Ku, massive and honest, still smelling faintly of sweat and iron.
"…it already burns steadily."
He lifted his hand, palm up.
A tiny sphere of light appeared above it—not fire, not lightning. Just pure, condensed true essence. It was clean, stable, almost understated, yet it resonated faintly with the entire field, like a tuning fork humming against glass.
Many disciples couldn't even tell what they were feeling. They only knew their own true essence had reacted to that wisp of light—straightening, smoothing, wanting to align.
"Breathe in," Ren said. "Let that little sun grow brighter with each inhale. Don't stuff more energy in. Just let it glow a little stronger."
As he spoke, his Immortal Soul Bone flickered deep within him, light flowing along unseen lines in his skeleton.
Threads of Dao-sense extended outward.
They were utterly restrained—like a vast hand that chose to touch with only its fingertips. Ren didn't seize anyone's mind. He didn't drive his will into their meridians. Instead, he laid something down in the air around them—a pattern, a rhythm, a web of Dao lines so faint that most would never notice it consciously.
The effect was subtle.
True essence that had always taken the long way around a meridian quietly shortened its path. Tiny leaks at acupoints that no one had ever been able to fix closed by a hair's breadth. Circulations that had always been just slightly off-beat, like musicians playing out of time, began to fall into rhythm.
For disciples with even a hint of sensitivity, it felt as if they had walked into a hall where someone had finally tuned all the instruments.
Qin Xingxuan's breath caught in her throat.
Her cultivation had always been praised as "meticulous." Her meridians were clean, her true essence obedient. But there had always been places—small rough spots—no matter how long she meditated, no matter how carefully she circulated, they never quite smoothed out.
Now, as she followed Ren's voice, those rough spots… softened.
It was as if invisible hands had polished the stone under a stream.
Her mind, usually quiet, grew even more still. Thoughts that had always hovered at the edge of her awareness fell away one by one.
In the front, Ling Sen felt his own true essence begin to revolve of its own accord—faintly echoing the cycle Ren described. The remnants of Ashura's killing aura, long rooted in his bones and blood, were drawn into new channels. They still burned, but the gnawing edge that had always scraped raw against his nerves dulled, guided into quieter currents.
Ta Ku—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, carrying the weight of his giant axe as naturally as his own limbs—felt his usually sluggish true essence thicken, then move with unexpected ease. For the first time, he had the clear illusion that his mountain-like body and his true essence were one thing, not two clumsy parts barely tied together.
He sucked in a breath, eyes closed, his huge hands trembling slightly on his knees.
Ren's voice softened.
"Now," he murmured, "we add a little fire."
For most disciples, it was just a metaphor.
For those with fire affinity… the world changed.
Ren's Fire Law essence stirred.
Not the crushing third-level Creation he had shown the elders earlier, that terrifying order of flame that could burn laws themselves. That would have turned most of these youths into ash from the inside out.
This was a thin veil. The faintest whisper of Burning Heat, stretched over the field like a warm wind at the beginning of summer.
Within that veil, the ambient fire-aspect origin energy between heaven and earth became honest.
Origin energy that had been scattered and muddy revealed its true "temperature." Its tendency to rise, to burn, to transform, all grew clear—as if someone had wiped grime from a mirror.
"Those of you who practice fire arts," Ren said calmly, "pay attention to the feeling in your blood when you exhale."
Zhu Yan's fingers twitched on his knees.
The scar across his chest tingled. Not with pain, but with a peculiar clarity. Each time he exhaled, he felt his blood's warmth shift by the smallest margin, rising and falling in time with the breathing pattern Ren had given.
How had he never noticed this?
Liang Guangfeng, whose martial heart had been shaken earlier that day, felt the fire along his meridians fall into step with a pattern outside himself. His core sword art—that had shattered under Na Shui's refined flame—suddenly seemed… understandable. He could sense where its heat was wasteful, where its structure fought itself.
Murong Zi's thoughts, usually lively and never still, slowed as a comfortable warmth spread from her dantian outwards. It felt like soaking in a hot spring where every drop of water carried meaning, every ripple whispering a small secret about flame.
Bai Jingyun's mind sharpened.
Her sword intent, still shallow but honest, aligned with the steady rhythm of her breath, her pulse, her revolving true essence. It was as if someone had gently drawn a whetstone along the edge of her perception.
Na Yi and Na Shui, seated slightly behind Ren like silent guards, felt the difference most clearly.
Their bodies had already been rebuilt under his Dao. Now, as his Immortal Soul Bone guided the world's rhythm around them, their true essence flowed as if the training field itself had become an extension of Ren's hands.
Na Shui's heart fluttered.
This is… like that swamp night… but bigger…
On that night in the Southern Wilderness, it had been just the three of them, Ren's palms pressed to their backs, his Dao pouring through them as he tore down everything rotten and reshaped their foundations.
Now, it was thousands.
Ren spoke on, but his words were no longer explanations. They were keys turning in invisible locks.
"Don't chase big concepts," he said. "Not yet. Just feel this: when you inhale, true essence rises along your spine. When you exhale, it flows down the front, tracing a circle."
He snapped his fingers softly.
Under the stone of the arena, a barely visible ring of Dao lines flared—a vast, faint circle that matched the small circulation he'd just described. Those with decent perception felt their bodies instinctively want to match it, as if some ancient instinct recognized the pattern.
"For some of you," he added, "your consciousness will drift a little. You'll feel light. Your body will feel far away. That's fine. Let it. Just don't fall asleep."
A few Human Hall disciples gave small, embarrassed chuckles before their breathing dragged them inward again and the outside world blurred.
On the elders' platform, Hong Xi's eyes snapped wide open as he felt his own true essence… move.
He hadn't intended to participate. He had sat straight-backed, ready to observe with the detached calm expected of a Heavenly Abode elder. He was supposed to judge, to calculate, to weigh.
Then, without his consent, his meridians began to revolve.
Not violently. Not in a way that threatened to tear anything apart.
Just… correctly.
His breath deepened. His mind grew clear. Petty thoughts hovering at the edge of his awareness—the rank lists, the Seven Profound Valley's gaze, the Martial House's internal politics—all fell away one by one.
"This…" he whispered. "This is…!"
Sun Sifan's fingers tightened on his knees.
He recognized the shape of what he was feeling.
An Ethereal-like state.
That rare, dreamlike clarity where consciousness floated free and true essence revolved with perfect intuition. For most disciples, even brushing that state once was a heaven-defying fortune. Yet here, Ren had induced something close to it—gently, precisely—across an entire field.
If I had had this when I was young…
His throat tightened around the thought before he could finish it. A faint bitterness rose in his chest—not toward Ren, but toward the heavens. To give such fortune to another generation… and through an outsider.
On the field, time blurred.
An incense stick's worth of time passed.
Then another.
Then another.
Some disciples slipped fully into that semi-ethereal state: their minds light, bodies heavy, true essence tracing effortless circuits along Ren's laid-down pattern. For those with fire affinity, the borrowed veil of his Fire Law let them brush a sensation they had never known before.
Not raw heat.
Not brute burning.
Order.
The clear, undeniable feeling that "fire" had a right way to be. That there were lines in heaven and earth along which it wanted to flow.
A few geniuses—Ling Sen, Qin Xingxuan, Zhu Yan, Bai Jingyun—felt tiny sparks flicker in their cores.
For Ling Sen, it was the realization that killing intent was hot—not only in a metaphorical sense, not just in emotions, but literally. His Ashura domain's bloody haze contained countless particles of "heat" he had never noticed as anything but rage.
For the first time, he considered… refining that.
For Qin Xingxuan, it was the faint sense that the warmth in her dantian and the warmth in the world's fire-aspect qi were… siblings. If she could align them more perfectly, then her cultivation would no longer feel like climbing against the grain of the world.
For Zhu Yan, bruised pride and all, it was the honest shock of feeling where his Burning Sun Spear art's "sun" was crooked—where its blaze flared wildly and then collapsed, instead of burning steady like a real star.
For Bai Jingyun, it was a single, sharp image: a sword wreathed in fire, but the flames flowing along its edge like a river guided by perfectly carved channels, rather than thrashing wildly in all directions.
Ren watched them, eyes half-lidded, Immortal Soul Bone's light dimming as the pattern stabilized on its own.
He did not push further.
He didn't have to.
The most terrifying thing about a good foundation was that once laid, it continued to work quietly even without supervision.
When he finally spoke again, his voice cut gently through the haze.
"Exhale," he said softly. "Let the light in your dantian settle. Slowly… guide your true essence back to its normal circulation. Don't yank it. Just… ease it down."
He waited three breaths.
"Open your eyes."
The training field brightened as thousands of gazes lifted.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Rustles. Sharp intakes of breath. The faint, disbelieving murmurs of people who had just realized their bodies felt… different.
Human Hall disciples stared at their own hands, flexing fingers that now felt smooth and responsive inside, as if rust had been scrubbed from old hinges. Earth Hall elites closed their eyes again, testing their circulation only to find their true essence answering more eagerly, more cleanly.
Heavenly Abode's proud youths probed their own auras with their spiritual senses, only to find them denser, more cohesive—less like scattered fog, more like a gathered cloud ready to rain.
On the elders' platform, a few old monsters quietly circulated their own true essence and nearly cursed aloud when they realized that their long-stagnant, half-decayed bottlenecks had loosened a fraction.
It was not much.
It was enough.
Ren let them simmer in that realization.
Then he smiled.
"That pattern," he said, lightly tapping his temple, "is simple. I've laid it down in the field once. For the next few days, when you sit here and follow the same breathing, you'll find it easier to enter that state again."
A ripple of excitement ran through the disciples.
"But," Ren added lazily, "it will fade. The Dao doesn't like shortcuts that last too long. If you want to strengthen it… carve your own version into your meridians and soul."
His gaze turned briefly toward Na Yi and Na Shui.
"They're already walking that road," he said. "So can you."
On the elders' platform, several old faces darkened and brightened all at once. To say such words so openly—that those two witches he'd brought up from the Southern Wilderness were already at the front—was a provocation wrapped inside praise.
He folded his arms into his sleeves.
"That's the first lecture," he concluded. "A small gift. Something close to Ethereal for those who can grasp it, a cleaner foundation for those who can't."
He didn't bow.
He didn't have to.
He simply smiled, easy and unhurried, as if he had done nothing remarkable.
"If you got something from it, good," he said. "If you didn't… then you at least learned you were blind. That's worth knowing."
He stepped back.
"Those who are done can go," he said. "If you want to cultivate immediately, do it. Don't waste this state. If anyone has questions…"
He gave a light shrug.
"…I'll be here a while."
The field erupted—not in noisy shouts, but in purposeful motion.
Some disciples stood on unsteady legs, eyes burning with new resolve, and hurried to the side platforms to sit again, desperate to sink deeper into the newfound circulation before it slipped away. Others stumbled toward their courtyards, muttering to themselves about consolidating a breakthrough they hadn't expected to make today.
A few simply remained where they were, still too overwhelmed to trust their legs, quietly feeling the loop of their true essence again and again like someone testing a newly healed limb.
On the elders' platform, voices started to stir.
"Elder Hong," one Heavenly Abode elder whispered, voice low, "if this continues… our own manuals…"
Hong Xi's gaze remained fixed on the man standing calmly in the center of the field.
Our manuals will become jokes, he thought. Our so-called "guidance" will look like children teaching other children to walk.
Aloud, he only said, "We will discuss it later."
He was already calculating.
If this Ren stayed in the Martial House, the Seven Profound Valleys would learn of him sooner rather than later. When that happened, would they invite him up? Try to bind him? Try to erase him?
And if they chose wrong, what would a man like this do?
Sun Sifan's knuckles were still white against his knees.
"If I had had this when I was young…" he thought again, the bitter taste returning.
But then he looked down at the sea of faces—the trembling excitement, the dawning understanding, the raw gratitude some didn't even know how to name—and the bitterness thinned.
At least this generation has it.
Gradually, the sea of people thinned.
What remained were those whose dao hearts had been stirred the deepest.
Ling Sen.
Ta Ku.
Zhu Yan. Murong Zi. Bai Jingyun. Qin Xingxuan.
A handful of others whose names might not yet be known, but whose eyes burned with a light that said they would not remain nameless for long.
Ren watched the last waves of disciples leave, then turned his head.
"Well?" he said lightly. "You all planning to sit there staring at me until the field closes?"
Murong Zi jumped first.
"I—I have a question!" she blurted, then flinched at how loud her voice sounded in the suddenly quieter square.
Bai Jingyun sighed softly, flicked her a glance, and remained where she was, but didn't move away.
Ling Sen stepped forward, bowing with cupped fists.
"Guest Instructor Ren," he said. His voice was deeper than before, but some of the frozen edge had melted. "This junior… wishes to ask about Martial Intent."
Ta Ku followed, his heavy steps echoing faintly over the stone. He scratched his head, face reddening.
"Ah… I don't know how to say it nicely," he admitted. "But what I felt just now… the way my strength and true essence moved together… I don't want to lose that feeling."
Ren's smile deepened, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Good," he said. "Simple questions are easier to answer."
He gestured lazily.
"Come closer, then," he added. "You'll get trampled if the next group rushes in."
They approached, forming a loose half-circle in front of him.
Na Yi and Na Shui stayed slightly behind his shoulders, as always—silent, watchful, like twin flames guarding a brazier.
Ren answered questions the way he fought.
Calmly.
Precisely.
Without wasted movements.
To Ling Sen, he said, "Your Ashura battlefield is a fine hammer. But you've been hitting everything with it. Start asking what kind of 'heat' each enemy gives you. Rage. Fear. Killing desire. Refine them separately. Ashura that can only kill is crude. Ashura that can separate and choose what to burn… is art."
Ling Sen bowed, eyes flickering with a new, frightening light.
For years, his path had been simple: kill more, temper more, drown his heart in blood until insight emerged. Now, for the first time, someone had pointed at the heat inside that blood and told him to sort it.
To Ta Ku, Ren said, "Your body and true essence don't trust each other. That's why you felt such a big change when they finally lined up. Practice slow. Heavy weapons aren't just for smashing. Make your axe trace the same path as your breathing until your muscles can't tell the difference. When your body moves, your true essence should already be there waiting."
Ta Ku's thick neck flushed. He grinned, bowing so deeply his hair nearly brushed the stone.
"Yes!" he boomed. "I'll remember!"
He would. Men like him might move slowly in understanding, but once they carved something into their bones, it never left.
Zhu Yan hesitated.
His pride twisted like a knife in his chest. His throat felt dry.
Then he stepped forward anyway.
"…Guest Instructor Ren," he said stiffly. "This Zhu… was blind. Today, I understood a little of that. If I wish to… rebuild my Burning Sun Spear's foundation under this new understanding of fire… where should I begin?"
Ren looked at him for a long breath.
A few days ago, this youth had been snarling and posturing, clinging to his rankings like armor. Now he stood with his head slightly bowed and his words awkward, but honest.
Ren's smile this time carried a trace of amusement—not mocking, but almost… pleased.
"Start by accepting that 'sun' doesn't mean 'throw more heat in,'" he said. "The sun doesn't flicker. It doesn't waste. Your spear art flares too bright in the first three exchanges, then the structure collapses. Sit with a candle. Watch the way its flame moves. Make your spear art match that calm before you try to become a star."
Zhu Yan's ears turned red.
Watching a candle?
He had expected some heaven-shaking secret technique, not an instruction that sounded like something for a child.
But the way Ren said it… there was weight there. A road he couldn't see the end of.
He bowed anyway, fists clenched.
"…I will," he said hoarsely.
He stepped back, making room.
Ren's gaze shifted.
Qin Xingxuan had not spoken.
She sat just beyond the group, composed as always, back straight, long hair neat. The faint nobility of her Phoenix bloodline lingered around her like a quiet aura, dignified and restrained.
When Ren's eyes landed on her, she felt her heartbeat quicken despite herself.
He smiled.
"Qin Xingxuan," he said.
She started, eyes widening the slightest fraction.
"…Guest Instructor knows this disciple's name?" she asked, voice soft.
"Hard not to," Ren said casually. "You made enough waves the day you entered the Martial House. And your talent… isn't something one forgets easily."
A faint flush colored her pale cheeks.
In the original flow of this world's history, most would only remember her as "that talented girl chasing after someone else's back."
Ren's gaze was steady and direct.
"Your cultivation is meticulous," he said. "Your meridians are clean, your true essence is steady. But you're too… polite with the Dao."
Her brows knit. "…Polite?"
"You treat it like a teacher you're afraid to bother," Ren explained, tone light. "You sit, you listen, you memorize. You try not to ask for too much. Today's state helped you because, for once, the Dao moved first and you followed. You need more of that."
He tilted his head, studying her as if weighing her in his hand.
"Your heart isn't weak," he continued. "Just… bound by habit. The way you held on in that Ethereal-like state today, without drifting or panicking… that's good material."
Qin Xingxuan's fingers tightened slightly on her knees.
No one had ever described her like that.
They had praised her diligence, her morality, her quiet endurance.
No one had ever spoken so plainly about her heart.
Ren's smile softened.
"If you're willing," he said, "come to these lectures whenever you can. And when you practice that small circulation I taught… don't just 'feel' the warmth. Ask it questions. Why does it move the way it does? Why does it turn here instead of there? Push. The Dao doesn't hate troublesome students. It hates cowards."
Her breath caught.
She bowed deeply, palms pressing against the warm stone.
"…This disciple will remember," she said quietly.
Ren could have left it there.
He didn't.
As she straightened, he let his tone tilt, just a touch, into something warmer, more human.
"And personally," he added with a small grin, "I like cultivators who keep walking even when all the paths in front of them look blocked. I saw your eyes when that Ethereal-like state settled around you. You didn't just enjoy it. You measured it. That kind of focus… fits my teaching."
Qin Xingxuan's composed expression cracked for an instant.
A tiny, genuine smile appeared at the corners of her lips before she could stop it.
"…Thank you," she murmured, voice so soft it nearly vanished under the breeze.
Murong Zi made a small, strangled noise beside her.
"Xingxuan, we should— we should go before you faint," she blurted, seizing her friend's sleeve as if to rescue her from some deadly trap.
Qin Xingxuan shot her a flustered glare, but allowed herself to be tugged one step back.
Murong Zi, of course, didn't retreat.
She dragged Bai Jingyun forward with her.
"Guest Instructor Ren!" she chirped, eyes sparkling. "Do you remember us?"
Bai Jingyun sighed, but didn't pull her hand free from Murong Zi's grip.
Ren chuckled.
"Mm," he said. "The sword fairy who tried to beat me with clean forms, and the little troublemaker who kept cheering from the mountainside."
Murong Zi's face lit up. Bai Jingyun's ears turned faintly pink.
"'Sword fairy' is too much," Bai Jingyun said quickly, gaze dropping. "That time… this Bai was careless. Today, I saw a little more of the gap."
"All swords are careless until they realize how dull they are," Ren said mildly. "The fact that you still dare to say 'gap' instead of 'hopeless'… that's enough."
He let his gaze slide between them.
"You both did well today," he added, voice smoothing. "Murong Zi, don't rush your thoughts so much. Your true essence actually kept up better than your mind did. Let yourself be quiet sometimes."
Murong Zi blinked, startled.
"…Ah," she said slowly. "That… might actually be true…"
"Bai Jingyun," Ren went on, turning to the calmer girl, "your sword and your heart are both too straight. That's good for cutting through things. It's bad for surviving when the world bends. Replay Na Yi's fight in your mind a few times. That little twist in her intent… learn from it."
Bai Jingyun's lashes trembled.
She bowed deeply.
"Thank you," she said. After a heartbeat, almost too quietly to hear, she added, "…And… thank you for holding back your disciple's strength."
Ren smiled, eyes crinkling.
"Don't thank me for that," he said. "If I broke good seedlings, teaching would get boring later."
Murong Zi huffed a laugh.
"See, Jingyun?" she said, tugging on her friend's sleeve. "I told you he wasn't just some mysterious monster. He's a kind mysterious monster."
Bai Jingyun gave her a look halfway between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
Ren laughed softly.
"That's enough questions for now," he said, clapping his hands once. "Go consolidate. Don't waste what you just gained by standing here talking to me."
They obeyed, though not without reluctance.
Murong Zi and Qin Xingxuan left together, quietly arguing over who had gained more from the lecture. Bai Jingyun walked half a step behind them, fingers brushing her sword hilt, eyes distant with thought.
Ling Sen departed last, pausing once to bow again without words.
Ren saw the slight tremor in his fingers.
Good.
He'd been shaken.
He needed that.
When the field finally emptied, only a handful remained.
Na Yi.
Na Shui.
Ren Ming.
The vast training square that had roared like a sea earlier that day was now quiet. The echoes of breaths, of whispers, of clashing intents had faded, leaving only the low hum of the formations under the stone and the distant cries of birds circling the Martial House.
Ren turned to the two women at his side, smile turning lazy.
"You two did well," he said.
Na Shui puffed out her cheeks, arms folding under her chest.
"Master did all the hard work," she muttered, though her eyes sparkled. "We just stood there trying to look serious."
Na Yi's lips curved faintly.
"You rebuilt the foundations that let us stand on that platform," she said. "Even if we had done nothing else today, that would be your merit."
Ren's gaze softened.
He stepped closer, raising one hand to brush his thumb along Na Yi's cheek.
Sweat from earlier battles had long dried, but faint traces of exhaustion still clung to the corners of her eyes. Na Shui's hair was slightly mussed, a few strands sticking to her temple where she'd unconsciously wiped at it during the lecture.
"To me," he said quietly, "both of you looked good enough that standing out there was worth the trouble."
Na Shui's face went crimson in an instant.
"H-hey," she stammered. "You can't just say things like that in the middle of the Martial House…"
Ren glanced around.
The field was empty, elders having long retreated to digest their own gains, disciples scattered back to their halls and courtyards.
He smiled, slow and wicked.
"I don't see anyone," he said. "Do you, Na Yi?"
Na Yi's composure faltered by a hair.
"…If you keep teasing like this," she murmured, "Na Shui will never be able to show her face in Human Hall again."
Na Shui made a strangled noise.
"That's not— I—!"
Ren laughed under his breath and stepped between them, looping an arm around each of their waists.
The gesture was easy and practiced—not as a distant master to disciples, but as a man to women he had chosen to keep close.
Their bodies leaned into him on instinct.
Na Shui's protests dwindled to a small huff as she buried her hot face against his shoulder. Na Yi's breath brushed his collar, steady as always, but her fingers curled lightly into his sleeve, holding on.
"Come on," Ren said. "Guest Instructor should at least visit his own courtyard once today."
He led them off the field, three figures disappearing into the light that slanted across the Martial House.