"I'm going to my room," I said. "I'll start cultivating."
Mo Fan froze.
"Right now?"
"Yes."
He hesitated, then nodded firmly. "I'll keep watch."
I sighed inwardly but didn't argue.
"Just don't stand outside my door all night," I said. "Sleep properly."
"…Okay," he replied reluctantly.
I turned to Grandfather and bowed slightly.
"I'll be relying on you," I said.
He waved his hand. "Go."
And so, without ceremony—
I stepped into my room.
Closed the door.
And sat down.
The world outside fell silent.
My room was small and simple—wooden walls, a low table, a straw mat—but at this moment it felt strangely distant, I sat down cross-legged, spine straight, hands resting naturally on my knees.
I did not rush.
Soul cultivation was not something one entered with excitement or impatience. It demanded calm, patience, and absolute control over one's thoughts. A scattered mind was the fastest way to invite disaster.
I exhaled slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Only when my heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm did I reach into my inventory.
A small, unassuming pouch appeared in my hand.
Inside it lay the jade slip containing the Divine Soul Nourishing Art.
The jade was faintly warm to the touch, its surface smooth yet carrying a subtle pressure that pressed against my senses. Even before activating it, I could feel a vague resonance—proof that this technique did not belong to ordinary cultivation methods.
I raised the jade slip and pressed it gently against my forehead.
Then, I guided my spiritual energy forward.
The moment contact was established, the world vanished.
Information flooded my consciousness—not violently, but steadily, like a river pouring into a prepared channel.
Ancient characters unfolded one after another, carrying meanings that bypassed language entirely and settled directly into understanding. There were no flashy visions, no dramatic imagery—only pure knowledge, transmitted with ruthless clarity.
This technique did not cultivate qi.
It did not strengthen the body.
It did not expand the dantian.
Instead, it addressed something far more fundamental.
The soul.
According to the jade slip, the soul was not an abstract concept, nor was it an immaterial illusion. It was a real existence, occupying a distinct space within the cultivator's consciousness—what cultivators referred to as the mind space.
Most mortals lived their entire lives without ever touching this space.
Even many cultivators never truly perceived it.
They relied on instincts, spiritual sense, and qi—but their souls remained unrefined, wild, and fragile.
That was why soul attacks were so terrifying.
A single strike could bypass defences, ignore Armor, and cripple a cultivator at their core.
The Divine Soul Nourishing Art did not rush to form weapons or techniques.
Its first purpose was simple, yet profound:
Stabilize the soul.
Nurture it.
Make it resilient.
Only after that could one shape it into something lethal.
Time passed unnoticed as I absorbed every detail.
When the final character faded, I slowly opened my eyes.
The room looked the same.
But I wasn't.
I summoned the familiar translucent interface in my mind.
The Status Panel appeared instantly, stable and clear.
Name: Shen Yuan
Age: 10 / 130
Cultivation: Qi Refining, Layer 5 (peak)
Spirit Roots: Five Elements (High Grade)
Spirit Cultivation Techniques: Longevity Spirit Breathing Technique (stage 1 - 55%)
Body Cultivation Techniques: primordial star refining celestial body art (stage 1 - 0%)
Soul Cultivation Techniques: Divine Soul Nurturing Art (0%)
Legacy: Spiritual Farmer (Tier 1)
Spells: Spirit Rain, Sword control, Qi manipulation, Earth moving.
Rewards:
• Verdant Dew (White) ×1
My gaze did not linger on cultivation or techniques this time.
It drifted naturally—inevitably—to one place.
Soul Cultivation: Divine Soul Nourishing Art
I stared at those words for a long moment.
Thanks to the system, the technique was no longer unfamiliar. It was not something I had merely read—it was something I understood. Every circulation pattern, every mental anchor point, every warning was engraved clearly in my awareness.
Understanding, however, was not mastery.
Practice was the real test.
I closed my eyes again.
The moment I withdrew my awareness from the physical world, everything went quiet.
Not silent—quiet.
It was as if all external noise had been filtered away, leaving behind a vast, empty stillness.
Then, gradually, the mind space revealed itself.
There was no fixed shape to it.
No sky. No ground.
It was an endless expanse, dim yet not dark, like a void illuminated by distant starlight.
At its center—
My soul.
It floated there quietly.
Smaller than my physical body, yet unmistakably me.
Its features mirrored my own, though softer, less defined. A faint glow surrounded it, pulsing gently with each "breath" it took—if such a thing could even be called breathing.
Seeing it directly sent a strange sensation through me.
This was not like looking at a reflection.
It felt closer.
More intimate.
As if I were staring at the truest version of myself, stripped of flesh and deception.
I steadied my thoughts.
According to the art, the first step was establishing control over the soul space.
I extended my will outward.
The space responded—not immediately, but gradually. Ripples spread through the void, like water disturbed by a pebble. I focused on calming those ripples, smoothing them out, asserting my presence as the absolute core of this domain.
Minutes passed.
Or perhaps hours.
Time had no meaning here.
Only when the space became completely still did I proceed to the next step.
The jade slip had warned clearly:
Do not rush condensation.
Unstable soul energy is more dangerous than none at all.
I followed that warning to the letter.
Deep within my soul space, vast quantities of residual soul energy lay dormant—power left behind from my earlier transformation. Normally, such energy would disperse naturally over time.
But I did not let it.
Instead, I reached out and gathered it.
The moment I made contact, a sharp pressure struck my consciousness.
My brow furrowed.
This energy was not gentle.
It carried the remnants of pain, transformation, and evolution. If mishandled, it could tear the soul apart from within.
I slowed down.
Carefully, cautiously, I guided the energy forward, compressing it little by little.
Before my soul, a vague outline began to form.
At first, it was nothing more than a blur—an indistinct shape hovering in the void.
A sword.
Not because swords were inherently superior.
But because they were simple.
Direct.
Honest.
My soul raised its hand.
At the same moment, my consciousness mirrored the movement.
The synchronization was absolute.
As my will sharpened, the outline grew clearer. The blade elongated. The edges straightened. The handle formed, rough and incomplete.
Each adjustment demanded effort.
Each refinement drained my focus.
This was not qi shaping, where energy flowed easily through familiar channels.
This was raw soul manipulation.
Pain bloomed gradually—not physical pain, but something deeper. A pressure behind the eyes. A dull ache at the core of my awareness.
I endured it.
The process stretched on.
The sword grew denser.
Clearer.
More real.
My breathing—though meaningless in this space—became instinctively heavier. Sweat soaked through my clothes in the physical world, though I was only dimly aware of it.
Finally, the art warned me:
Final condensation begins now.
This was the most dangerous stage.
Either the sword would stabilize—
Or it would collapse.
If it collapsed, all the compressed soul energy would rebound violently, scattering back into the soul space. Best case, I would lose months of progress. Worst case, my soul would suffer permanent damage.
I gritted my teeth.
"No backing out now."
I poured every ounce of focus I had into the final refinement.
Suddenly the sword trembled violently, its surface rippling like liquid glass.
For a terrifying moment, cracks appeared.
My heart clenched.
I forced my will down on it like a hammer.
"Stay."
The cracks sealed.
The trembling ceased.
And then—