In the lands governed by sects, clans, and cities, methods of cultivation were divided by grade. The distinction did not come from reputation or popularity, but from structure, completeness, and the extent to which a technique aligned with the natural laws it sought to exploit.
At the lowest level were Common-grade techniques.
These were the most widespread. Their circulation methods were simple, their breathing patterns shallow, and their requirements minimal. They strengthened the body and refined blood at a basic level, sufficient for guards, hunters, and minor sect disciples. Their greatest advantage lay in stability. As long as the practitioner followed the instructions, deviation was rare, and cultivation could proceed without external guidance.
Above them were Low-grade techniques.
These incorporated more refined circulation paths and began to differentiate between physiques. Some favored endurance, others explosive strength or recovery. Cultivators using such techniques advanced faster than those relying on Common-grade methods, though they also required greater discipline. Errors no longer corrected themselves automatically, and improper execution could lead to stagnation.
Mid-grade techniques were far less common.
They were rarely circulated outside established sects or powerful families. These techniques possessed defined internal frameworks, often designed to prepare the body for specific transitions between realms. Their circulation patterns reached deeper into the organs and marrow, and their demands on the practitioner increased accordingly. A cultivator using a Mid-grade technique could contend with others of the same realm with noticeably greater efficiency.
Beyond this lay High-grade techniques.
Such methods were guarded closely. Their circulation paths were intricate, sometimes irregular, and often incompatible with the average body. They demanded long preparation periods, rare resources, or strict conditions to even begin cultivation. When cultivated successfully, however, they reshaped the practitioner's foundation itself. Advancement was slower at first, but each step carried weight, and the strength gained was difficult to match through quantity alone.
At the highest level were Unique-grade techniques.
These were not standardized. They were born from individual insight, ancient inheritances, or singular circumstances that could not be replicated. Many were incomplete, existing only as fragments or partial paths. Others required conditions that no longer existed in the current age. Their power lay not in raw strength, but in deviation. They followed principles that ordinary techniques did not, producing effects that were difficult to anticipate or counter.
Such techniques rarely changed hands.
When they did, it was often because the one who created or inherited them was no longer alive to use them.
Because of this, most cultivators never encountered anything beyond Low-grade methods in their lifetime. Even Mid-grade techniques were enough to secure a stable position within a sect or city. High-grade techniques were spoken of quietly, referenced in contracts and negotiations without detail, their names omitted unless absolutely necessary.
Most cultivators were not even aware that Unique-grade techniques existed at all, and none had appeared openly for centuries; if one were to surface, its presence alone would be enough to draw sects, clans, and hidden forces into open conflict, until nothing remained but bodies and silence.
The difference between grades was not merely one of power.
It was a difference in how much a technique demanded in return.
***
[2 years Ago]
The wine jar lay on its side between them.
What remained inside seeped slowly across the floorboards, thick and dark, spreading in uneven lines before dripping through the cracks. Blood mixed with the wine as it flowed, its color deepening where it pooled beneath the table. The smell of iron hung beneath the sourness.
Chen Ming sat opposite the old man.
His robe was open at the collar, stained along the chest and sleeve. He held a chipped cup loosely in one hand, the rim pressed against his mouth for longer than necessary before he lowered it again. Wine spilled down his chin and followed the line of his throat.
Across from him, the old man slouched against the wall.
One knee was drawn up, the other stretched out awkwardly, heel scraping faintly against the floor as he shifted. His hair was unbound and tangled, strands clinging to his damp forehead. He blinked slowly, eyes struggling to focus, then missed entirely and laughed at nothing.
Chen Ming spoke without raising his voice.
"I want to find and kill someone."
The old man tilted his head, squinting as if the words needed to settle before he could catch them. He lifted his cup, missed his mouth, and poured wine down the front of his robe. He looked down at the spreading stain with mild surprise, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Then do it," he said. His words dragged together, uneven at the edges. "Who's stopping you?"
Chen Ming did not answer immediately.
He drank again, then dragged his sleeve across his mouth. The fabric smeared what remained there across his cheek, leaving a red blood streak against pale skin. His hand dropped back to his lap.
"They're too powerful," he said. "And I can't seem to find them."
The old man stared at him for a moment, eyes unfocused. His head bobbed once, then twice, before he leaned forward with a grunt and braced one hand on the floor to keep himself upright.
"Hah," he muttered. "That's easy."
He lifted a finger, swaying slightly as he pointed it nowhere in particular.
"Join a sect," the old man said. He leaned back against the wall, missed it slightly, and corrected himself with a dull thud of his shoulder against the wood. He laughed, the sound breaking halfway through and turning into a rough cough that left him bent forward for a moment, spitting onto the floor.
"A big sect," he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaving a dark smear across his beard. "The kind that doesn't bother asking questions. They have people everywhere. Not just disciples but, informants, traders, wanderers who owe favors. If you want names, places, or trails that were erased years ago, they can still dig them up."
Chen Ming's gaze shifted.
He tilted his head a fraction, the motion slow and unsteady.
"A sect," he repeated.
The old man's laughter came again, louder this time. His shoulders shook as he leaned back against the wall, the sound echoing briefly before thinning out.
"Aha… but…" He raised his cup and drained it, then stared into the empty bottom as if betrayed. "You need talent. Real talent. The kind that makes people look twice." His hand dropped, the cup striking the floor and rolling away. "For people like us…"
He waved vaguely between them, the gesture loose and unfocused.
"…it's just a pipe dream."
The wine continued to spread across the floor between them, dark and slow, pooling beneath the table as the room fell quiet again.
***
[Back to present]
Chen Ming sat on the edge of the bed.
The room was small. The walls were bare, the window shut, the air still. A single oil lamp rested on the table beside him, its flame steady, casting a low circle of light that did not reach the corners.
A closed manual lay across his lap.
His fingers rested on its cover without moving. His gaze was lowered, unfocused, the light reflecting faintly in his eyes as they flickered once, then steadied.
"I am not sure about the talent," he said.
The words came out evenly. His voice did not rise or fall.
He lifted the manual with both hands, the thin binding creaking slightly under his grip.
"But I will do everything to make up for it."
The cover was plain. No markings. No seal. He turned it once, then again.
He remembered Tian Qiao's voice.
"Tch, tch. Although you are not willing to join us, take this. Don't show it to anyone. Consider the favor you did to me returned."
Chen Ming lowered his gaze again.
He opened the manual.
The first page crackled softly.
Blood Refinement is the process of tempering the blood that circulates through the body.
Where Body Reinforcement strengthens flesh, bone, and sinew, Blood Refinement governs endurance, recovery, and the continuity of strength.
His eyes moved steadily across the lines. His posture did not change.
The blood carries breath and vitality. If it is weak, strength disperses. If it is impure, the body rejects advancement.
To refine the blood is to remove what cannot endure and reinforce what remains.
Chen Ming's thumb pressed lightly against the edge of the page.
Ordinary cultivation techniques refine blood through repeated circulation.
Breath is drawn, guided through established meridians, and pressed into the vessels. With time, impurities are expelled through heat, exertion, or controlled loss. The blood thickens, stabilizes, and adapts.
His brow tightened slightly.
Such methods rely solely on the cultivator's own foundation and some pills which help fasten the process.
He turned the page.
This technique does not.
The movement of his hand slowed.
The blood of demonic beasts carries lineage. Strength, resilience, regeneration, and instinct are engraved into it through generations of survival.
Chen Ming's eyes narrowed.
By extracting, suppressing, and refining demonic blood, it is possible to assimilate its lineage into one's own. This process is not symbolic. The blood replaces blood.
The page trembled faintly where his fingers held it.
Assimilation requires compatibility. The cultivator must endure rejection.Blood Refinement consists of nine realms.
Each realm requires a higher-tier bloodline than the last. First realm: ordinary beasts with no awakened lineage.
Second realm: demonic beasts of low rank. Third realm: demonic beasts with manifested traits.
Chen Ming's gaze paused.
The lamp flame flickered once.
Advancement without sufficient bloodline will result in collapse. Advancement with incompatible bloodline will result in rupture.
His grip tightened slightly around the manual.
With each realm, the assimilated blood will suppress weaker lineages already present. Failure to replace inferior blood will stall refinement permanently.
A slow breath passed through his nose.
He turned another page.
The diagrams were dense. Circulation paths overlapped and diverged, branching away from anything he had practiced before. His eyes traced them carefully, following each line to its end.
His expression did not change, but the space between his brows remained drawn.
This technique does not forgive hesitation. Pain is constant. Rejection is violent. Survival depends on control.
If you are afraid of death , pain and not patient enough, this technique is not for you.
Chen Ming lowered the manual a fraction.
The room was quiet.
After a moment, he raised it again and continued reading, his eyes steady, his posture unchanged, the closed window reflecting the lamplight behind him as the pages turned one by one.
***
Chen Ming stood at the edge of the forest.
The ground beneath his feet was firm, packed by old paths and passing hooves. Beyond it, the trees closed in tightly, their trunks dark and close enough that light thinned within a few steps. Leaves stirred where the wind reached them, then fell still again.
His sword rested in his right hand.
The blade was drawn fully, its surface catching the light without glare. The edge angled downward, aligned with the slope of his arm.
His hair was bound high at the back of his head.
The ponytail lifted and fell with the wind, dark strands brushing against the collar of his robe before being carried away again. A few loose hairs crossed his cheek and did not move.
His gaze remained fixed on the forest ahead, following the narrow spaces between the trees, the places where shadow gathered without depth. The wind passed once more, carrying the smell of earth and old leaves.