"We can't let him escape. Capture him alive—or kill him."
The leader's voice snapped through the darkness, fury burning in his eyes.
The young cultivator staggered through the twisting alleys of the midnight city.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving like a bellows. Blood soaked his clothes, and his battered body screamed at him to stop. His meridians were stretched to their limits. His core was cracked. His muscles trembled from exhaustion.
Yet he continued forward.
One step.
Then another.
He couldn't stop.
Not here.
Not now.
Every second stretched into an eternity as the mansion he once called home finally came into view.
His vision blurred.
"I'm finally here..." he whispered.
His knees nearly buckled.
"Just wait until I—"
He coughed violently, struggling to draw another breath.
"When I recover... you'll all pay."
His trembling hands clenched.
"Every single group that hunted me down like a dog."
A voice suddenly rang out from ahead.
"Who goes there?"
A gate guard stepped forward, hand moving toward his weapon.
The young cultivator tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
His body folded in on itself.
He collapsed.
The guard rushed forward, initially intending to drive the intruder away from the gate.
Then he recognized him.
His expression changed instantly.
"Young Master...?"
Another guard hurried over.
"What happened?"
"Quick!" the first guard shouted. "Call the Patriarch and Matriarch!"
The second guard froze.
"Why?"
"The young master has returned!"
His voice trembled.
"He's badly wounded!"
The gates erupted into chaos.
"How did he make it here in this condition?"
"Get the healers!"
"Bring the emergency medicants!"
"Clear the inner hall!"
"We're running out of time!"
Orders flew from one guard to another as the mansion's servants and cultivators scrambled into action.
Within minutes, Sifir Midnight had been carried beyond the gates and into the heart of the mansion.
Yet not everyone was surprised by his return.
Far beyond the mansion's perimeter, several cultivators stood concealed within the darkness.
They watched silently as Sifir disappeared through the gates.
One of them finally spoke.
"What now, Leader?"
The leader's eyes remained fixed on the mansion.
"He's crippled."
His voice was cold.
"If he leaves, capture him."
A pause.
"Or kill him."
The surrounding cultivators nodded.
"Post sentries around the mansion. Monitor everything. If anything happens, inform me immediately."
"Yes, Leader."
Another cultivator glanced toward the mansion.
"We should leave before anyone notices us."
The leader nodded.
"Go."
One by one, the figures vanished into the night.
None of them noticed the faint ripple of darkness that passed through the shadows after they departed.
Deep within the mansion, a private medical chamber was dimly illuminated by magic orbs embedded in the ceiling.
The scent of medicinal herbs and burning incense filled the room.
An oppressive silence hung over the chamber.
Several figures stood around the bed.
Every one of them possessed an aura powerful enough to make ordinary cultivators tremble.
Yet none spoke.
Their attention remained fixed upon the young cultivator lying motionless on the bed.
Sifir.
His body was covered in wounds.
His breathing was shallow.
His complexion was pale.
The vitality within him was so faint that it was almost impossible to sense.
At the head of the room stood Murda Midnight, Patriarch of the Midnight Clan.
His arms were crossed over his chest.
His aura was vast and tempestuous, like a storm waiting to break.
"What is the situation?"
The lead medic swallowed before answering.
"Patriarch Murda..."
He glanced toward Sifir.
"This young cultivator has suffered catastrophic damage."
Murda's expression darkened.
"Be specific."
"The core is cracked. His meridians are severely damaged, and the strain placed upon them is extreme. I'm surprised they haven't completely shattered."
The medic took a slow breath.
"His body contains only a fragment of its normal life force. Frankly, it's a miracle he survived long enough to reach the mansion."
Murda stared at him.
"Can you save him?"
The medic hesitated.
"There are options."
Murda's gaze sharpened.
"Then speak."
"None are ideal."
The medic raised one finger.
"First, he can disperse his current cultivation and begin again from the Awakening Plane. This would be the safest method. His damaged core would no longer have to sustain his current cultivation, allowing him to establish a new foundation."
"And the second?"
The medic raised another finger.
"We could attempt to repair the damaged core and rebuild his body around it."
Murda's eyes narrowed.
"The risk?"
"Extremely high."
The medic's expression became solemn.
"If we fail, he dies."
"And if you succeed?"
"He may retain some of his cultivation."
The medic paused.
"But he would lose most of the body-tempering foundation and battle prowess he has accumulated."
Murda said nothing.
The medic continued.
"In truth, Patriarch, rebuilding him from the beginning may give him the better chance of surviving."
Murda stared at Sifir.
Memories from his own youth surfaced.
He remembered the days when he had fought tooth and nail for the right to become Patriarch of the Midnight Clan.
Back then, Murda had been known for an unbreakable defense and terrifying mastery of Earth, Metal, and Darkness.
He had dominated battlefields through overwhelming strength, ruthless tactics, and an iron will.
But time changed everything.
He had once been the former Patriarch.
He had surrendered the position when an heir appeared capable of carrying the clan into the future.
His son had possessed extraordinary talent.
He had been destined to inherit everything.
Until his life was cruelly cut short.
Murda's gaze softened for only an instant.
Cultivators often spoke of blessings and calamities as if they were separate things.
They weren't.
They walked together.
Where there was a blessing, calamity could follow.
Where there was despair, opportunity could emerge.
Murda turned away from the bed and looked toward the elegant chair positioned near the wall.
A man sat there quietly.
His frame was slim yet robust, and although he appeared to be in his mid-forties, his eyes carried a depth far beyond his apparent age.
Several strands of gray touched his temples.
His clothing was simple but refined, resembling that of a spiritual monk.
Beaded bracelets wrapped around his left wrist, while a string of meditation beads hung around his neck.
This was Loaded Night.
Patriarch of the Night Clan.
Unlike Murda, whose presence resembled a raging storm, Loaded's aura was eerily calm.
It was the silence before armies marched.
The stillness before war.
The quiet formation of countless forces awaiting a single command.
Murda looked at him.
"What is your opinion, Loaded?"
Loaded glanced toward Sifir.
"Hard to say."
His voice was casual.
"No one can predict Heaven's will."
He gently rolled one of the beads between his fingers.
"Heaven gives life and death as it pleases. What it gives, it may take just as easily."
The room's pressure increased.
Loaded's expression gradually became colder.
"What concerns me more is why this cub was the last to return from the Elder's mission."
Murda's eyes narrowed.
"Only two others returned."
"And that was more than a year ago."
Loaded's gaze hardened.
"Why?"
Murda's expression darkened.
"We know there are people moving in the shadows. People playing sinister games, believing they control the board."
A trace of disdain entered his voice.
"They know nothing."
Loaded leaned forward.
"Then answer me this."
His eyes locked onto Murda.
"Why wasn't this cub properly trained at your estate?"
The temperature of the room seemed to drop.
The rivalry between the Midnight and Night Clans was ancient.
Their bloodlines were intertwined, yet their relationship had never been peaceful.
Loaded's voice sharpened.
"If I remember correctly, Sifir accepted that Elder's mission while under your watch."
Murda's expression remained cold.
Loaded continued.
"If it weren't for your thieving son stealing my only daughter—the heavens' one blessing to me—and fathering this child who now lies half-dead..."
His killing intent suddenly surged.
"I would end his existence myself."
Murda's eyes flashed.
But Loaded wasn't finished.
He glanced toward the unconscious youth.
"However, he is the last surviving member of my Night Clan's main branch."
His killing intent slowly receded.
"As much as I would enjoy continuing this conversation, the matter before us is more important."
"Enough."
The voice was firm, mature, and alluring.
The tension in the room immediately shifted.
A woman sat nearby.
She possessed the natural elegance and seductive grace expected of a woman of her position, but tonight there was no warmth in her expression.
Only frost.
This was Glory Midnight.
Murda's wife.
The current Matriarch of the Midnight Clan.
Beside her sat Sayaro Night, Matriarch of the Night Clan.
Within Liger society, the patriarchs traditionally wielded military authority, while the matriarchs governed the clans' internal affairs—and often determined the fate of those who lacked sufficient standing to protect themselves.
Glory's gaze swept across the room.
"What matters most is that Sifir has returned."
Her voice was calm.
"Once he recovers from these injuries, we can decide what comes next."
She folded her hands.
"Until then, we wait."
Silence returned.
Incense smoke curled slowly through the room, drifting between the two patriarchs and two matriarchs.
Old grudges.
Old memories.
Old deaths.
Everything remained unspoken.
Only Sifir's faint breathing disturbed the silence.
Proof that he was still alive.
While the adults argued over his future, something entirely different was happening within Sifir.
Deep inside his spiritual realm, an endless darkness stretched in every direction.
There was no sky.
No ground.
No horizon.
Only darkness.
Then—
A faint light pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
The darkness rippled like water disturbed by a falling star.
The light grew brighter.
Sifir suddenly gasped.
His eyes snapped open.
He staggered upright, breathing heavily.
"Where... am I?"
He looked around.
Nothing.
Only shifting mist and darkness.
"What is this place?"
His voice echoed into the emptiness.
"And what is the purpose of making me do all of this?"
A deep voice answered from somewhere within the darkness.
Amusement colored every word.
"Haha..."
"If it weren't for me, you would have died back there."
Sifir froze.
The voice continued.
"It was you who woke me from my slumber."
Sifir's eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?"
A low chuckle echoed around him.
"Your cultivation is low."
The voice carried open disdain.
"Pitifully low."
Sifir clenched his fists.
"To think I had to save an ant like you."
The disdain in the voice deepened.
"How shameful."
Sifir ignored the insult.
"Then where am I?"
"You are inside your inner world."
Sifir looked around again.
His expression became wary.
"Why bring me here?"
"Because we have business to discuss."
The voice suddenly became serious.
"Tell me."
"How much strength do you think you need to exact revenge on that Elder?"
Sifir's expression hardened.
His hands slowly tightened into fists.
"Enough."
The answer came quickly.
But hesitation remained beneath it.
The voice laughed coldly.
"You sound ridiculous."
Sifir's eyes narrowed.
"Then tell me what I should do."
"This is the fastest and most prudent path available to you."
The voice became colder.
"What other choices do you have?"
Sifir fell silent.
He hated admitting it.
But the voice was right.
He had lost almost everything.
His cultivation was damaged.
His core was cracked.
His body was broken.
The people hunting him were still out there.
And the Elder remained alive.
The voice continued.
"If you rebuild your cultivation normally, it will take you at least fifteen years."
Sifir's expression tightened.
"Fifteen..."
"And that's assuming everything goes perfectly."
The voice emphasized every word.
"No setbacks."
"No ambushes."
"No betrayals."
"No major injuries."
"You would be starting from nothing."
Sifir lowered his gaze.
Then the voice changed.
"But my method is different."
Sifir looked up.
"You will forge a stronger foundation than the one you possessed before."
The voice carried absolute confidence.
"Your body will surpass its previous limits—even within the same realm."
"Your battle prowess will rise."
"Your cultivation will become more stable."
"And when you finally emerge..."
A cold chuckle echoed through the darkness.
"You will no longer be the same cultivator who entered this place."
Sifir stared into the darkness.
"How long?"
"Seven years."
The answer came without hesitation.
Sifir's eyes widened.
"Seven years?"
"The first year will be devoted entirely to recovery and body tempering."
The voice became firm.
"This is not negotiable."
"The second year will be spent mastering the Midnight Clan's basic techniques and skills."
"You currently execute roughly forty percent of them effectively."
Sifir's expression darkened.
"Forty percent?"
"Don't look so offended."
The voice laughed.
"I'm being generous."
Sifir gritted his teeth.
"The third year will focus on the Night Clan's techniques."
"Your execution is sloppy and inconsistent."
"The fourth year begins your cultivation of a method known as the Nine Noble Truths."
Sifir's expression changed.
"The Nine Noble Truths?"
"Yes."
"A body-cultivation method preserved within the Midnight Clan."
"You must obtain it."
Sifir frowned.
"They won't simply give it to me."
"I don't care."
The voice remained indifferent.
"Steal it. Earn it. Bargain for it."
"Do whatever is necessary."
"You must have it."
Sifir's eyes narrowed.
"And the fifth year?"
"A cultivation method from the Night Clan."
The voice paused.
"Sincerity of No Truth."
Sifir's expression became even more serious.
"That's one of their highest-level methods."
"I know."
"And again, you must obtain it."
Sifir slowly exhaled.
Both clans guarded their strongest cultivation methods fiercely.
Even though he carried the blood of both houses, neither clan would simply hand such treasures to him.
Obtaining them would be dangerous.
Possibly deadly.
Yet the voice continued.
"The sixth and seventh years are where the true transformation begins."
Sifir listened carefully.
"You will alternate between the Nine Noble Truths and Sincerity of No Truth."
"The two methods will reinforce one another."
"You will temper your body."
"Strengthen your meridians."
"Rebuild your core."
"Refine your foundation."
"And accelerate your cultivation."
The voice became colder.
"By the end of those seven years..."
A pause.
"You will break into the Heaven Realm."
Sifir stood silently.
His thoughts raced.
Seven years.
It sounded impossible.
Yet after everything that had happened, impossible was beginning to feel like the only option he had left.
Still, one question remained.
"Why?"
The voice fell silent.
Sifir continued.
"Even if I can obtain those two cultivation methods... both clans will consider them priceless."
His eyes narrowed.
"So why are you helping me?"
A long silence followed.
Then the voice answered.
"At least you understand that nothing in this world is free."
Sifir waited.
"I do have a purpose."
The voice became colder.
"But for now, you are too weak to be of any use to me."
Sifir's expression changed.
"When I reach the True Emperor Realm, I will tell you what I require."
Sifir's eyes widened slightly.
"Until then..."
The voice laughed softly.
"Consider this an investment."
"An investment in your future."
A pause.
"And in my return."
Sifir stared into the darkness.
There was something about those words that disturbed him.
Something he couldn't understand.
But he had no time to dwell on it.
Suddenly—
A violent pain tore through his body.
"Gah!"
Sifir clutched his chest.
The darkness around him trembled.
A brilliant light erupted from within his spiritual realm.
White radiance flooded everything.
The mysterious voice faded into the distance.
"Begin."
Sifir's consciousness was swallowed by light.
The faint twitch of Sifir's fingers drew every eye in the medical chamber.
The powerful figures turned simultaneously.
Surprise flashed across their faces.
They had expected him to remain unconscious for days.
Perhaps longer.
Yet only hours had passed.
"Sifir!"
Murda moved immediately toward the bed.
"Lower your voice, Patriarch Murda."
Sayaro Night's cold voice stopped him.
"He's barely awake."
Murda paused.
Then cleared his throat.
"My apologies, Matriarch Sayaro."
Sifir's eyelids slowly opened.
His vision was blurry.
Shapes moved around him.
He could barely distinguish their faces.
"Sifir."
Glory's voice was softer.
"Can you hear us?"
Sifir swallowed.
His throat felt like sandpaper.
"Yes..."
His voice was weak.
But steady.
Murda leaned closer.
"Can you tell us what happened?"
Sifir stared at the ceiling.
His body felt broken.
Yet something within his mind had changed.
He remembered the voice.
The seven years.
The two cultivation methods.
The promise.
His eyes slowly hardened.
"Give me seven years."
The room fell silent.
Murda frowned.
"Seven years?"
Sifir nodded weakly.
"To recover my cultivation."
His fingers curled into the sheets.
"I will become the sharpest blade of the Midnight and Night Houses."
Loaded's expression changed slightly.
Sifir continued.
"I only need seven years..."
His breathing became heavier.
"And two cultivation methods."
No one spoke.
Seven years could change everything.
Seven years could also destroy everything.
Yet no one laughed.
No one dismissed him.
Because behind Sifir's exhaustion, they could see something that hadn't been there before.
Hunger.
Not the hunger of an ordinary cultivator.
The hunger of someone who had already lost everything except the will to rise again.
Loaded's expression became cold.
"We cannot promise you anything."
Sifir looked toward him.
"The Night Clan is not obligated to shelter you while you recover."
Loaded's voice carried no warmth.
"But you are my daughter's son."
His eyes narrowed.
"What I can promise is this."
"I can end your misery."
Sifir remained silent.
Murda stepped forward.
"I will not promise miracles."
His voice was low and hard.
"But I will personally oversee your training."
Sifir looked at him.
"There are candidates among the younger generation who possess greater talent than you."
Murda's expression became severe.
"If you want to surpass them, you will have to prove yourself."
He leaned closer.
"If your effort does not match your ambition..."
His eyes hardened.
"I will end you myself."
Glory's expression changed slightly.
Murda continued.
"Patriarch Loaded, I will not allow you to kill him."
Loaded's eyes narrowed.
"If it comes to that..."
Murda's aura surged.
"I will risk my life for this child."
Loaded barked a mirthless laugh.
"Murda."
He shook his head.
"You never were one to gamble."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then Loaded looked toward Sifir.
"Still... despite our differences, and despite the stronger talents within my clan..."
His expression softened by the smallest amount.
"I will give you a chance."
"He is my daughter's son."
Murda nodded.
"I will grant you one year."
Sifir's eyes narrowed.
"One year?"
"One year to recover."
Murda's voice became iron.
"After that, your training begins."
He turned toward the medic.
"Prepare everything."
Then he looked back at Sifir.
"Prepare yourself for hell."
Loaded stood.
"I mirror Patriarch Murda's pledge."
His gaze settled upon Sifir.
"Do not allow Murda's faith in you to turn to ash."
"Use that year wisely."
The council finally began to disperse.
One by one, the powerful figures left the chamber.
Eventually, Sifir was alone.
The magic orbs cast a soft glow across the room.
His bones ached.
His breathing remained shallow.
Every part of his body felt exhausted.
But beneath the pain...
Something had changed.
Sifir stared at the ceiling.
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"I, Sifir Midnight..."
His eyes slowly closed.
"...will rise again."
A pause.
"I will kill those who must die."
His fingers tightened against the sheets.
"This is the road of cultivation."
He took one final breath.
"I begin again."
His eyelids dropped.
His consciousness slipped into a dreamlike haze.
The patriarchs and matriarchs of the Midnight and Night Clans remained in the hallway after the others had departed. The lead medic stood before them, preparing to explain exactly what awaited Sifir.
The medic folded his hands within his sleeves.
"I believe the young cultivator already understands that he must disperse his cultivation. The crack in his core makes continuing his current cultivation impossible."
Glory's expression tightened.
"But the damage isn't severe enough to prevent him from cultivating again?"
The medic shook his head.
"Fortunately, no. The crack is serious, but it is not beyond repair. Once his cultivation is completely dispersed, his core should be capable of supporting a new foundation."
"At least that is good news." Glory released a heavy breath. "It could have been far worse."
Murda remained silent for several moments before asking,
"Beloved... when Sifir spoke of seven years, was he referring to seven human years or seven years by Liger standards?"
Glory glanced toward him.
"I don't know. We will have to wait and see."
Loaded's expression remained unreadable.
"And his battle prowess?"
The medic hesitated.
"That is more complicated."
Murda's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
"Cultivation and battle prowess are not the same thing. Cultivation can be dispersed and rebuilt. Battle prowess is developed through the body, senses, combat experience, techniques, skills, and accumulated instincts."
The medic looked toward Sifir's room.
"Because his body has suffered such severe damage, there is a strong possibility that much of what he developed will have to be rebuilt as well."
Murda slowly placed a hand over his face.
"So... a total reset?"
"The short answer is yes."
The medic paused.
"But the long answer is no."
Murda lowered his hand.
"What do you mean?"
"The knowledge remains."
The medic's voice became more deliberate.
"He may lose the physical foundation that allowed him to express his former strength, but he has already walked that road once. He knows how to circulate energy. He knows how to temper his body. He knows how to fight. He knows his techniques."
He looked directly at Murda.
"He won't be starting from the same place as an ordinary cultivator who has never cultivated before."
Loaded's eyes narrowed slightly.
"So his foundation will be destroyed, but his experience will remain."
"Exactly."
The medic nodded.
"That distinction may become extremely important."
Murda's expression grew grim.
"He will still have to begin from the Awakening Plane."
"Yes."
"The entire nine levels?"
"All nine."
Murda exhaled slowly.
"The Awakening Plane alone will determine whether he can establish a foundation strong enough to support what comes afterward."
Glory folded her arms.
"Then that's where we concentrate our efforts."
Murda nodded.
"We will provide him with the finest resources available. The best medicines. The best body-tempering materials. The best teachers. If he must rebuild his foundation, then we will make certain that foundation is stronger than the one he lost."
Loaded gave a quiet scoff.
"You sound unusually confident."
Murda looked toward him.
"I'm not confident."
His eyes hardened.
"I'm preparing for the possibility that this child may actually accomplish what he claims."
Loaded studied him for a moment before giving a faint smile.
"We don't agree on much, Patriarch Murda."
Murda turned away.
"At least we agree on this."
For once, neither patriarch challenged the other.
The two clans had spent generations divided by blood, pride, and old grudges.
But for the moment, they shared a single objective.
Give Sifir a chance to rise.
The patriarchs and matriarchs separated soon afterward, each returning to their respective clan to begin making preparations.
Neither of them knew that the seven years Sifir had requested would not simply be a period of recovery.
They would become the foundation of an entirely different cultivator.
And deep within Sifir's spiritual realm, something ancient was already waiting.