Deep inside the forest's hidden heart, in a cave swallowed by shadows and silence, Yanwei sat cross-legged.
No one knew exactly where he was.
Nor did he care.
Before him lay four elemental stones — GaleShard, Cinderrock, Dustroot, and Tideglass.
Each pulsed with raw elemental energy:
GaleShard — sharp winds that could slice through bone.
Cinderrock — fire so fierce it could melt steel.
Dustroot — earth dense and unyielding as mountain stone.
Tideglass — water cold and deep, endless in flow.
A normal cultivator would refine these stones carefully—drawing out their power slowly and methodically, letting their bodies absorb the essence bit by bit to avoid destruction.
Yanwei was different.
He didn't refine.
He devoured.
He tore into the stones' energies, swallowing their power whole, letting the raw, unfiltered elemental force flood through his body.
The fiery essence of Cinderrock ignited deep within him—not like a superficial burn, but molten lava coursing through veins and muscle, searing and reshaping from the inside out. It felt as if his blood was liquid fire, each heartbeat sending scorching waves that threatened to liquefy his very bones. The heat was relentless, an oppressive weight pressing into every fiber, demanding endurance.
From Dustroot, the crushing presence of earth settled into his bones and sinew. Heavy as granite, it pushed and molded his frame with unyielding pressure, grounding him yet suffocating, like being buried alive beneath a mountain yet somehow still breathing. His muscles densified, sinew wrapped in unbreakable stone, every breath a struggle against the weight.
The cold flow of Tideglass water surged like an icy river through his veins, chilling marrow and numbing pain with ruthless calm. Unlike fire, its cold was sharp and absolute—a deep frost freezing thought and slowing time. It washed over his nerves relentlessly, suppressing the heat and weight, a liquid stillness drowning him even as he gasped for breath.
Then the wild spirit of the GaleShard whipped through him like a storm trapped inside flesh. Sharp, biting gusts tore at his lungs and stirred the air within, sending electric shivers that pricked every nerve ending. It was restless motion—whirling, stabbing, relentless—pushing him to the edge of breathlessness with every inhale. His heart raced against invisible winds, muscles twitching with sudden jolts, as if the storm sought to rip him apart even as it empowered him.
These four forces collided inside Yanwei—not harmonizing gently, but clashing fiercely in a brutal storm of sensation. His body was a battleground of extremes: burning and freezing, crushing and slicing, movement and stillness.
Pain pressed at his limits, a grinding test of endurance that refused mercy.
Yet beneath it all, a fierce hunger drove him forward.
His skin prickled with the roughness of stone, the chill of water, the sting of embers, and the restless bite of wind.
His breath was ragged but steady.
Eyes clenched tight, Yanwei bore the storm raging inside him.
Because this was the path he had chosen.
Not slow refinement.
Not careful cultivation.
But devouring.
It was no longer just sensation—it was violation.
Every nerve in his body screamed, not with warning, but with the raw agony of being pushed far past their limits. His muscles convulsed uncontrollably, like tendons being torn and rewoven with barbed wire. The fire from Cinderrock wasn't just hot—it was scorching marrow, like someone had poured molten metal into his spine and let it boil through his limbs.
His bones groaned audibly, as though they were warping—not cracking, but bending under impossible pressure, like steel beams being slowly twisted in a furnace. Dustroot's weight made even the act of breathing feel like lifting mountains with his ribs. His lungs burned, not from the fire, but from the effort—like trying to draw air while drowning in concrete.
The cold wasn't relief. Tideglass iced over his organs like they were submerged in arctic water, making his heartbeat feel distant and wrong—like a slow, dying thud muffled behind frostbitten skin. His fingertips stung with the sharpness of frostbite, while his stomach clenched as if frost were spreading inside, freezing every drop of blood mid-flow.
And the wind—GaleShard—was a razor in motion. Every time his muscles twitched, it was like dozens of tiny needles sliced open muscle fiber from the inside, shredding him while he remained conscious through it all. His teeth chattered not from cold, but from violent tremors—like his jaw wanted to unhinge, bones no longer obeying.
Inside, it wasn't a body anymore—it was a battlefield of conflicting extremes, a machine forced to run on incompatible fuels. His brain, overwhelmed, throbbed against the confines of his skull. He felt his vision pulse behind closed eyes, his thoughts stuttering with the chaos inside.
And none of this was supposed to happen.
No human—no cultivator—should ever feel this.
The normal path was slow, calculated, safe. Cultivators refined elemental stones gently, filtering the energy little by little, allowing their bodies time to adjust. At most, they would experience aches, fatigue, or minor injury if they pushed too far.
But Yanwei wasn't refining.
He was devouring.
And by doing so, he wasn't just absorbing energy—he was swallowing the core, consuming the primal force whole, unfiltered and unrestrained. The result was madness: a storm inside flesh, pain not ten but a hundred times more intense than any proper technique would allow. If someone else attempted this, they would die before even finishing the first stone—veins ruptured, heart exploded, consciousness shattered by the violence of it.
The only reason Yanwei hadn't passed out—hadn't died screaming—was his mind.
Not talent. Not physique.
Perseverance.
A will as sharp and heavy as the forces ripping through him. A mental capacity forged in silence and suffering, honed through years of inner war and survival. He did not flinch. He did not let go.
Because if power meant turning flesh into forge, then he would burn.
If it meant suffocating under the weight of the world, he would drown in it.
If it meant tearing himself apart and stitching the remains together into something stronger—then let the pain come.
He would not die here.
He would devour it all.