The system's catalog unfolded before him, revealing an absurd variety of techniques. Sword skills, martial arts, elemental manipulation, movement techniques, control-type abilities—methods covering nearly every possible combat style. Even Heaven-grade skills were available, their descriptions glowing with promise.
Xuanyan didn't linger on them for long.
Right now, his spiritual energy was still pitiful. At most, he could use a Heaven-grade skill two or three times before exhausting himself completely. Even after upgrading his aptitude, five activations would be the absolute limit—and that was assuming the technique wasn't large in scale or excessively demanding. Against higher cultivation opponents, reckless power usage was nothing more than suicide.
The more one progressed, the more refined both body and mind became. Facing someone above his realm was not about brute force alone—it was about efficiency, control, and choosing the right moment to strike.
"I need to be realistic," Xuanyan thought, gaze sharpening.
Overpowering an enemy with higher cultivation wasn't easy, and it never would be. What he needed was focus. At least one lethal attacking skill—something decisive enough to end a fight quickly—and one movement skill that allowed him to control distance, escape pressure, and choose when to engage or retreat.
Everything else could wait.
With that decision made, Xuanyan narrowed his eyes and began filtering through the system's options in earnest.
Xuanyan lingered in the system interface far longer than he intended, his gaze drifting over countless skills that shimmered with promise yet mocked him with brutal practicality. There were too many techniques he could not use, too many powers that demanded realms far beyond his current limits. Heaven Grade skills littered the interface like forbidden fruit—enticing, lethal, and utterly wasteful if chosen carelessly. In the end, he forced himself to think not like a dreamer, but like a survivor.
What he needed was simple, even if the execution would not be. One skill to keep him alive when reaction time failed him. One skill that could kill before his enemy realized they were already dead.
That was when his attention settled on the first technique.
Heaven-Listening Guard.
At first glance, it did not look impressive. There were no explosive descriptions, no grandiose claims of invincibility. But the more Xuanyan read, the colder his expression became. This sword art did not rely on strength, speed, or even conscious intent. It reacted to hostility itself—intercepting murderous intent before it fully manifested into action. Within short range, the sword would move on its own, subtly and almost invisibly, as if the user had foreseen the attack before it existed.
This was not a technique meant for duels or spectacles.
It was meant for survival.
Xuanyan's lips twitched faintly. In a world where cultivators smiled while plotting your death, this skill alone could mean the difference between breathing tomorrow or becoming fertilizer beneath someone else's boots. Without hesitation, he confirmed the purchase. The system deducted the points instantly, the number dropping by three thousand as the technique branded itself into his consciousness.
Before he could even process the loss, his eyes were already scanning again.
That was when he found the second skill.
Silent Heaven Draw.
A sword-drawing technique—simple in concept, terrifying in execution. The blade was drawn and returned to its sheath in the same breath, with sound, wind, and even Qi turbulence suppressed to near nothingness. The attack speed exceeded normal reaction limits, and its lethality scaled not with brute force, but with timing. Perfect timing meant instant death.
However, it came with a cruel limitation.
Three meters.
That was all.
Xuanyan exhaled slowly, letting the breath leave his lungs in a controlled stream while his awareness remained sharp and alert. Three meters was dangerously close—close enough that even the smallest shift in intent could no longer be concealed.
At that distance, most cultivators grew careless without realizing it. They trusted the gap in cultivation, mistaking superiority for safety, believing that strength alone granted them control of the situation. It was a comfortable assumption, one that dulled caution and invited overconfidence.
Xuanyan had seen that mistake repeated more times than he cared to remember. Those who believed three meters was a safe distance were usually the first to fall, not because they were weak, but because they had already stopped being careful.
By the time he confirmed the purchase, another three thousand points vanished. Xuanyan stared at the remaining balance for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh or curse. These skills were far more expensive than he had anticipated. Still, the bitter amusement surfaced soon after.
"Well," he muttered quietly, "it's not like Qi Condensation cultivators are walking around with Heaven Grade skills."
That thought alone made the cost sting less.
And then he saw it.
The final option.
The one skill he hadn't planned to buy—but could not afford to ignore.
Heavenbound Imprint Shift.
A Heaven Grade movement technique. Spatial. Incomplete.
Xuanyan's breathing slowed as he read through the description carefully. This was not crude teleportation that tore space apart with brute force. Instead, it followed pre-established Qi imprints, allowing instantaneous movement that was stable, precise, and terrifyingly clean. However, the cost was brutal. The spiritual energy consumption was several times higher than ordinary Heaven Grade movement skills, increasing exponentially with distance.
At his current realm, the skill was barely usable.
And yet—
"This… is a trump card," Xuanyan whispered.
Escape. Assassination. Repositioning. Survival against enemies he had no business fighting yet.
If he tried to learn this skill naturally, it would take years—especially given its incomplete state and spatial complexity. Years he did not have. In a world where protagonists and hidden monsters appeared without warning, hesitation was a luxury he could not afford.
"System," he said quietly, resolve hardening, "use points. Learn it to ordinary proficiency."
The confirmation came instantly.
Five thousand points vanished.
And then—
Information did not enter his mind—it slammed into it. It surged without warning, tearing past his senses in a brutal flood that left no room for adjustment or mercy.
Spatial formulas, Qi resonance pathways, imprint stabilization principles—knowledge far beyond his current cultivation slammed into his consciousness like a collapsing star. Xuanyan clenched his jaw, blood trickling faintly from the corner of his lips as he endured the onslaught without a sound.
When it finally ended, he stood there in silence, chest rising and falling slowly.
He was stronger now.
More dangerous.
And far more visible to fate than before.
Elsewhere—
"Ye Qingfeng… today, you die."
The voice echoed through the mountain pass, calm and deliberate, carrying killing intent so dense it distorted the air itself. It spread outward like a tide, pressing down on the land, suffocating, heavy enough that even the forest seemed to recoil under its weight. Leaves trembled, birds scattered in panic, and the wind died as if afraid to move.
Ye Qingfeng remained where he was.
The pressure wrapped around his body, clawing at his throat, demanding submission—but his breathing stayed even. His pupils contracted sharply, not from fear, but from focus, as his senses snapped fully awake. Every fluctuation of Qi, every shift in presence, every hostile intent was laid bare before him.
Then his lips curved upward.
The smile held no warmth, no mockery, no false bravado. It was quiet. Controlled. The expression of someone who had already imagined this moment countless times and had long since accepted what it meant.
"I was thinking the same thing," Ye Qingfeng said calmly, his voice steady and unhurried, as though he were stating a simple fact rather than answering a death sentence.