Feng, the scholar with the surname Feng, continued in a calm yet measured tone, "That military advisor's top-ranked disciple died after scarcely a month of life. It appears his premature death was caused by improper cultivation. You see, the cleansing herb used in the introductory body-washing regimen—even though not a rare, coveted herb in itself—is, in several varieties, almost impossible to find in the mortal realm."
He paused for a moment before continuing, "Yet his second-ranked disciple managed to overcome the trial of body cleansing and reached the first layer of Qi Condensation. But that disciple, too, suffered from fire poison. Later, somehow, he discovered that he was being used for 'spirit-siphoning'—an art that extracts one's life essence. Realizing his grim fate, he sought out the local army commander along with another martial artist to ambush that military advisor."
At this, Feng's expression grew strangely troubled. The others present began to shake their heads in disapproval. A dark, burly man whose sleeve was embroidered with a golden compass added gruffly, "How could such a feat be achieved? Even though the military advisor suffered from fire poison, he had already reached the peak of the third layer of Qi Condensation. Not even a handful of martial experts could dispatch him—and multiplying their numbers several times over would be in vain."
Nearly everyone in the hall, including the venerable Daoist seated at the head, voiced agreement with the burly man's words. In response, Feng simply shook his head and remarked, "But Brother Liang has guessed wrong."
One of the younger disciples, known as Brother Liang, interjected in a curious tone, "Oh? So you're saying they killed the military advisor? Weren't those the very agents from your Execution Hall who did the deed?"
Feng's eyes darkened as he explained, "That is what surprises me the most. Not only did they manage to kill the military advisor, but the greatest credit for the victory does not belong to those two ordinary martial artists. Rather, it was that military advisor's own disciple—a mere mortal boy of only fifteen or sixteen years, born to a peasant family at the foothills of Da Qing Mountain—who delivered the final, fatal blows. According to reports from our lower-ranked disciples, from the very moment the ambush was launched until that last, decisive strike, every move was executed by him. His tactics were cunning, resolute, and ruthlessly effective.
"When our reinforcements finally arrived, aside from this lone mortal, every one of the others had already perished. Both the army commander and the other martial artist had been felled by the effects of our 'Fire Bomb Technique' and the 'Wood Thorn Technique.' The mortal disciple, too, was on the brink of death. In our sect, the intention was clear—we were about to end his life as well. Though he was innocent, he had inadvertently absorbed our sect's immortal technique through the process. In our world of cultivation, this is not a matter of pity; resources are meant for those with potential, and one with no future is simply a drain."
Almost in unison, the assembly of cultivators nodded their agreement. In the realm of immortality, there is neither compassion for the weak nor concern for the unpromising.
"Yet," Feng went on, "just at the moment when they were about to finish him off, they unexpectedly discovered that this mortal disciple did not, on the surface, exhibit the symptoms of 'Zhi Li Du Shen'—a state in which one's body becomes riddled with toxic energies and degenerative poison. For that reason, they decided to take him back with them."
A voice from the crowd asked, "Oh? Have you confirmed it? Is it truly the case that he's cultivated into 'Zhi Li Du Shen'?"
Feng's tone took on a note of bemusement as he explained, "That 'Zhi Li Du Shen' state in our sect has not been seen in nearly a thousand years. And yet this lad did not follow any corresponding cultivation techniques to arrive at it. How, then, did he achieve this state? Could it be connected to his improper initiation into the Wood-element technique known as 'Wu Ye Lian Qing Gong'?"
"Yes," another elder answered, "this poisonous body is ranked as the second among our sect's three great poisonous bodies—a legacy passed down since ancient times. In all our years, only a dozen or so individuals have ever managed to cultivate any of these three fabled poison states. Each one had to overcome extraordinary hardships and be granted a miraculous opportunity before they could succeed."
At this point the hall buzzed with murmurs and debate. One of the senior disciples could not hold back, exclaiming, "Enough! Look how this conversation has turned into a common-market brawl. Since someone mentioned that a miraculous opportunity was involved—and since such opportunities differ for each person—if he has indeed been granted it, then so be it. It seems that the young fellow must have received a stroke of extraordinary fate."
Just then, the imposing Sect Leader—his features stern and inflexible—raised his voice to quiet the chatter. "Brother Feng," he commanded in a measured tone, "please stop this endless discussion about destiny. Everyone's fortune is different. Whether one obtains a miraculous opportunity or not, it is a matter of personal fate. Let us not cast judgment in a noisy manner."
Feng looked around at the assembly and managed only a bitter smile. The solemn Sect Leader's brow furrowed deeply as he queried, "What? Did you not thoroughly examine him? Tell me, are you certain he indeed exhibits the 'Zhi Li Du Shen' state?"
The faces of many senior disciples, along with a few elders (save for Wei from Little Bamboo Peak, who maintained an air of indifference), bore clear expressions of disappointment. Feng replied with a heavy sigh, "Not at all. I personally examined him yesterday. He is unmistakably in a 'Zhi Li Du Shen' state, and his body even shows faint signs of sinews and muscles, as though they were breaking through the bone. But note—this lad's spiritual root is merely mixed, a 'zá líng gēn'."
"Mixed spiritual root?" one of the elders blurted out, incredulous. "How can one with such a constitution possibly cultivate such an ancient body? Are you absolutely sure, Feng?"
Feng's eyes twinkled slightly with a mix of irony and intrigue. "That is indeed interesting… I might even want to take this young fellow in and study him further, if only to understand the mechanisms at work," he remarked with a half-smile.
The solemn Sect Leader, who had remained seated in silence until now, finally sighed deeply, "Feng, are you absolutely certain?"
Rising gracefully, Feng adjusted the flowing folds of his robe and bowed respectfully to the Sect Leader. "Sect Leader, I assure you, I am certain of my judgment. In my initial excitement, I even had several accompanying elders test him further. But in the end, the evidence is clear: he is of mixed spiritual root."
The leader's expression grew pained as he murmured, "That is truly a pity. With a mixed spiritual root, no matter how many resources we throw at him, it is likely that in this lifetime he will remain at the Foundation Establishment stage. What a waste… indeed, such pity is lamentable."
After repeating "what a pity" three somber times, the Sect Leader directed his gaze back to Feng. "So then, what do you propose we do with him?"
Before anyone could answer, the same dark, burly man with the golden compass spoke impatiently, "Kill him! What good is such a disciple? He's nothing but an extra expense, a drain on resources. If he receives this miraculous opportunity yet proves useless, it's better to end his life and save us from wasting precious pill ingredients."
A ripple of silent agreement swept through the gathered disciples. In the cultivation world, resources are allocated only to those deemed worthy; those without future are left to wither away. Compassion, here, has no place.
Then a voice drifted from one end of the crowded hall. "But didn't Senior Sister Li just say she intended to recruit a disciple from among our own? Ha!" Someone teasingly remarked, referring to the voluptuous and alluring woman whose presence was impossible to ignore.
"Yes, indeed," she chimed in with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "I do intend to take him in—I have only heard tales of such a poisonous body, and I've long desired to experience its cultivation firsthand."
At these words, several lower-ranked disciples exchanged nervous glances. Some murmured under their breath that if this young fellow were to end up as a disciple under such a formidable, charismatic woman, how could he possibly survive even a single day in her tutelage?
The solemn Sect Leader shook his head firmly, "Sister Li, you must not take him in. With a 'Zhi Li Du Shen' body—one in which even a single drop of blood can transform countless toxins—it would be unwise to let him fall under your care."
"But, Sect Leader, what harm is there if I recruit him?" Sister Li retorted, her eyes flashing with defiant charm. "I would merely take him as my registered disciple… I've only heard about this particular poisonous body and have longed to study it."
The leader continued, "Junior sister, although he has a mixed spiritual root, if nurtured with ample resources, his potential might allow him to reach even the Foundation Establishment stage. With his 'Zhi Li Du Shen' form, if he manages to mature—say, reaching the later stages of Foundation Establishment—he could conceivably become a Golden Core expert. Who among our peers would then dare claim that he is not formidable? Even if his progress slows to a level just beneath late Qi Condensation, his early promise in Foundation Establishment is hardly to be dismissed."
Addressing the assembly, the Sect Leader's calm voice carried authority as he added, "We know that few in recent centuries have achieved a 'Zhi Li Du Shen' state. In fact, only three individuals in billions of years have ever accomplished this. To have someone manifest it as early as the Qi Condensation stage—only to be stymied at the Foundation level—is a severe blow to our expectations."
At that moment, just as Sister Li was about to retort with her own opinion, a clear, youthful voice rang out, "Sect Leader, Sister Li, I think I'll take this young fellow in as my registered disciple!" All eyes turned to see little Bamboo Peak's Wei Shidi—always sporting a gentle smile—speak up.
The voluptuous Sister Li, her tone a mix of surprise and playful reproach, said, "Oh, little disciple, that is most unexpected. You, a grand cultivator of Golden Core stature, are now recruiting a disciple of only the Qi Condensation level? How can that be?"
Wei Shidi retorted lightly, "Sister, did you not also say you wished to recruit him? Is this just a ruse to claim him for yourself, perhaps even to use him for your own purposes? Remember, among our seven disciples there is already one Qi Condensation disciple on record. Adding one more is not a great issue. When they eventually reach Foundation Establishment, I will formally take him in as an apprentice. Moreover, you all mentioned that his mixed spiritual root requires far more resources than those available to your peaks. Compared to the allocations on the other peaks, data from Little Bamboo Peak is far less contested."
Sister Li fell silent for a moment, and several others nodded in agreement. They noted that while other peaks boasted massive numbers of disciples—and consequently intense resource competition—Little Bamboo Peak, with its fewer than twenty students, enjoyed a relative abundance of resources per disciple. Over the years, as enrollment in other peaks skyrocketed, resource competition had become extremely fierce. Even those who had once left Little Bamboo Peak now regretted their departure. None had foreseen that the peak master would eventually choose to keep only a select few and lock the peak, ensuring that although resources were allocated equally, there would be little internal rivalry.
The solemn Sect Leader nodded approvingly at Wei Shidi's practical thinking. "Wei, you're quite right. Take him in and cultivate him well. Perhaps, in time, he will become a significant asset. With that in mind, we can afford to allocate a bit more for Little Bamboo Peak each year."
A voice among the assembly complained, "Sect Leader, even though Little Bamboo Peak has so few disciples, you are still willing to loosen the allocation. How can you defend his position so leniently?"
Others quickly chimed in, "Yes, yes indeed—our sect numbers number in the thousands; every year resources are stretched thin..." One dissenting voice was promptly silenced by another who declared, "Enough chatter! Every peak has its own system. Though Little Bamboo Peak has fewer disciples, everyone here knows exactly how much resource it receives annually. Any extra is finite—it's merely that the internal competition is lower. In four years, during the period when all four sects prepare to venture into the secret realms looking for spirit herbs and other treasures, each peak will be able to claim an extra ten percent of resources every year. And when we face those so-called prestigious sects, the objects we harvest are not merely incidental."
At these words, there was a murmur of appreciation among the gathered cultivators. Thoughts of extra resources for Little Bamboo Peak stirred memories of past harvests and the grim expressions of rival sect members. Calculations were silently exchanged among them.
After further discussion of various matters, the assembly eventually disbanded. Half an hour later, the group exited the grand hall in orderly fashion, their spiritual auras flickering like lights in the twilight as they departed one by one.
Meanwhile, Li Yan sat on his bed, lost in reverie. He gazed out the window, watching spirit birds weave graceful arcs in flight while ethereal mists danced above a nearby pond. The entire scene felt dreamlike, as if he were suspended in an impossible reverie.
He recalled how, last night, upon awakening he had been assailed by a gentle aroma of sandalwood. Slowly opening his eyes, he had seen white curtains above him—draped with flowing tassels that swayed softly in the breeze. Beneath him lay a soft wooden bed, its headboard adorned with exquisite carvings, and a sumptuous brocade quilt covered his body. The room was modest, furnished only with that bed and a table with chairs placed near the window. Through intricately carved lattice windows, a scene straight out of a fairy tale spread before him: small hills, a pond reflecting shimmering light, clusters of green lotus stems interspersed with pink lotus blossoms. From time to time, golden fish would leap from the water, sending droplets of sparkling water onto the broad lotus leaves, where crystal-clear beads would slowly trickle toward the edges before dropping back into the pond.
Li Yan shook his head in disbelief and looked around; everything was exactly as he had seen it—a warm, sheltered room rather than the wild woodland of Da Qing Mountain. He moved to stand, intending to get out of bed. Yet as he brushed aside the quilt and peered down, he noticed something baffling. His body bore not a trace of pain: the grievous injuries from the battle—the broken leg he would have sworn was shattered and punctuated by fire poison—were nowhere to be seen. He recalled that he had used his right leg to kick at the military advisor during their fierce confrontation, only to have it broken by his foe's force. But now, as he examined his right leg, it seemed utterly unblemished. He even lifted his left thigh; there was no scar, no sign of the vicious "Wind Blade Technique" that should have marred his flesh. Could it be that the whole killing of the military advisor had been nothing more than a dream? Or is it that what he is experiencing now is all a dream?
With a trembling hand he pinched his own face. Just then, as the pressure from pain on his cheek registered and a sharp sting reminded him that something was amiss, a clear voice reached his ears: "You're awake."
At that moment, as the lingering sting on his face mingled with confusion in his mind, Li Yan was left to wonder what was real and what might be a figment of his restless, half-forgotten dream.
Thus, as the voices of the sect's inner circle—discussing the fates of disciples, the harrowing events surrounding the military advisor, and the implications of a rare, toxic cultivation state—faded into the background, Li Yan found himself caught between the vivid recollection of yesterday's brutal combat and an inexplicable present where every injury, every wound, had seemingly vanished. The delicate interplay of fate, cultivation, and chance appeared, in that quiet moment, to blur the line between nightmare and reality, leaving him to question whether he had—and perhaps should have—ever truly awakened from the shadows of his past.
Such is the nature of life on the path of cultivation: amid fierce battles, ruthless judgment, and the cold calculus of resource allocation, even the miraculous recovery of a body may seem as if conjured by magic. And yet, for Li Yan, nothing was as it once had been. The soft, gentle ambience of his chamber and the surreal tranquility of the courtyard now stood in stark contrast to memories of pain and strife. In that uncertain moment, he wondered if his soul alone now remained—free of injury yet isolated in a body mysteriously whole. Only time would reveal whether that echo of reality was merely a fleeting illusion or the true nature of his hard-won immortality.