Cultivation

Nine hundred ninety-six. Nine hundred ninety-seven. Nine hundred ninety-eight. Nine hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.

Jiang Ci stood in the backyard, her palms slick with sweat. The pine-nanmu hilt of her sword had grown hot from her tight grip, leaving a shallow indentation in her palm.

She did not stop. The sunlight beat down from above, casting a very short shadow on the ground—it was already two in the afternoon, and she had been standing here all morning. From the first light of dawn to the high sun, she had been swinging her sword. Every lift, every drop, repeating the exact same motion.

This sword was not Qinghan. Qinghan was too heavy; with her current strength at the second level of Body Tempering, lifting it was a struggle, let alone swinging it a thousand times. This sword was made of pine-nanmu, which she had asked Yao Wu to help her 'grow' from the ground.

Three days ago, she had planted a finger-thick pine-nanmu branch into the backyard soil. Yao Wu squatted beside it, and the branch took root, sprouting, branching out, and growing into the shape of a sword. The wood was dense and felt warm to the touch, fitting perfectly in her hand.

The only problem was that this was a sword grown from a 'tree'—it had no point, had not been quenched, and didn't even have an edge. When swung, there was only the sound of rushing wind, with no sense of cutting.

But Jiang Ci did not care. What she needed now was not to kill enemies, but simply to push her body to its limits. Relatively speaking, she had chosen the most cost-effective option. This way, she could still practice her swordsmanship, killing two birds with one stone—a highly practical choice.

Yet, only after picking up the sword did she realize that her understanding of the blade seemed to have been partially erased. Although her form and swinging techniques remained, the sword no longer felt as natural in her hand as it once did.

It was like remembering all the formulas, but when picking up a pen to face a problem she used to solve with ease, she found herself completely at a loss.

The count of her swings continued, but her grip was gradually slipping. Her entire arm was trembling with a fine, continuous shudder.

She tried to steady her wrist, tightening her fingers, desperately trying to reclaim control over her own body.

But it was of no use; the hilt slid in her palm, as slippery as a block of ice. She took a deep breath and raised the sword once more.

One thousand eleven. One thousand twelve. One thousand thirteen.

She could feel the threshold of the third level of Body Tempering just ahead—so close. She had walked this path of opening meridians and drawing in qi before:

The physical body, the qi mansion, the meridians—she had crossed every step at the fastest possible speed back then. In those days, she had medicinal liquids and pills. She only needed to sit and guide her vital energy along the designated paths, and her acupoints would open one by one. It had been effortless and efficient.

But that was no longer an option. Her meridians had closed, completely sealed off when her heart was reshaped. She could only use the most primitive, slowest, and dumbest method—using her vital energy to grind away at them. Grinding through that barrier, over and over again.

One thousand three hundred fifty-one. One thousand three hundred fifty-two.

She felt her vital energy boiling. It surged from her dantian, rushing through her limbs and bones like a river blocked for too long that had finally found an outlet. She could feel the sealed acupoint loosening—slowly, reluctantly opening a tiny crack.

Almost there. Just one more strike. Just a little more strength, and she would cross that line.

She clenched her teeth, raising the sword above her head and focusing all her strength into her wrist—and then, her arm froze mid-air.

She tried to push forward, but couldn't. She tried to press down, but couldn't do that either.

In an instant, all her boiling vital energy lost its guidance, starting to backflow, recede, and cool down.

She heard a muffled sound escape her throat—an expression of her refusal to accept another failure. Move! She let her arms fall, barely feeling them as her own. At the same time, the wooden sword flew from her hand.

She bent down to pick it up. Her knees buckled, her center of gravity shifted, and she fell straight forward. She didn't even have time to break her fall with her hands—her arms simply refused to obey.

She hit the ground. Her face pressed against a patch of slightly damp soil, cool and carrying a scent of grass mixed with decaying organic matter.

She felt like she was about to fall asleep. Her eyelids were incredibly heavy, as if weighted down by two stones. Her consciousness gradually blurred, her final thoughts a regret for failing once more, mixed with a slight worry that she might scare someone. After all, she had already failed twice; the last time she collapsed here, she had terrified little Nannan who was passing by...

Very few cultivators relied solely on their own efforts to temper their vital energy and force open their meridians. Only a small number of body cultivators did this, such as Third Master.

But Yao Wu, Hong Jiu, Du Qi, Lu Yan, and even the former Jiang Ci—every single one of them had relied on medicinal assistance to open their meridians.

Using medicine for this carried no risk of an unstable foundation. It was purely an auxiliary tool.

In the early days of humanity, only by continuously tempering their physical bodies did a small number of cultivators emerge to resist natural disasters.

With successive generations of ancestors researching medicines to open acupoints, cultivation became widespread, allowing humanity to establish a firm foothold against successive waves of formless spirit tides.

But the cost of medicine... was simply not something the current Jiang Ci could afford. Yao Wu could accelerate the growth of herbs, but growing plants with medicinal efficacy or special traits without consuming his own lifespan required seeds.

The sword she had asked Yao Wu to make was merely ordinary wood. Its only merit was its density, making it suitable for furniture. Even so, it had left Yao Wu dripping with sweat. After all, his origin source had not yet recovered...

Furthermore, Yao Wu was Lu Yan's friend after all. Even if he could grow the herbs, she couldn't bring herself to ask such a favor of him.

Her consciousness drifted further and further away. She felt a gust of wind sweep over her head, carrying a dense warmth like a sun-baked quilt being pulled into an embrace.

So warm, she thought. The heavy warmth enveloped her consciousness, drawing her down into a deeper, deeper plunge. Deep, deep down.

Yao Wu stood at the backyard entrance, looking at the two oil-paper packages that had just slipped from Lu Yan's hands. One of them wasn't tied tightly, and half a piece of osmanthus cake rolled out, crumbling on the steps. He covered his face. "I knew it."

He spoke in a low voice, with no surprise in his tone, only a tired calm. He had tried to dissuade him just now, holding Lu Yan's arm and saying, "Let her take a breath on her own," and "If you rush over like this, she might not want it," and "She needs time." Lu Yan had said nothing. He had simply pried Yao Wu's fingers away, one by one, and walked toward the lawn.

He watched as Lu Yan squatted down, lifting Jiang Ci from the ground and letting her rest against his shoulder.

Yao Wu took a step back and looked up at the sky. "The sky is indeed sky, and the earth is indeed earth." He leaned against a nearby pavilion pillar. The vermilion pillar was peeling slightly; as he leaned, two more pieces of the cracked lacquer crumbled off.

Yao Wu suddenly remembered that long ago, someone had held him like this. Back then, he had been severely injured and could barely move. Someone had dug him out of the ruins and held him in their arms for a long time.

Her faint scent of tea seemed to linger around his nose once more.

He missed her a little.