After the last villager's door shut and the street fell silent, Rathmur turned away and stepped back inside. He closed the door firmly behind him, shutting out the torchlit world of fear. Inside, the air was still, but heavy. Reya stood in the small kitchen, her frail figure trembling, her face pale with worry.
She had clearly heard the shouting, the crashes, and the groans of broken men. Her hands were clenched tightly in front of her chest, her lips pressed thin as though bracing for the worst. Her eyes darted toward her son the moment he entered, searching his face for answers.
"Rathmur… what happened out there?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why were they here, shouting like they wanted to kill us?" Her tone was anxious, her body shaking as though old fears had clawed their way back into her heart.
Unseen by her, the faint shimmer of a barrier glimmered across the walls. Aemilia had already created it, silently shielding Reya from the crushing spirit energy that had raged outside. Without it, the clash of Spirit Refiners would have torn through the fragile woman's body like knives. Rathmur himself hadn't even realized it until now.
He looked at her, and in that moment, the weight of her life pressed on him. Since his father's death, Reya had lived quietly, deliberately avoiding attention despite once being the wife of the village's commander of guards. Fear of losing her only son had carved deep lines into her heart. And now, faced with violence once more, it showed clearly in her trembling form.
Rathmur's expression softened the moment he saw her trembling. He forced a reassuring smile onto his face and stepped closer. "It was nothing, Mother. They had a misunderstanding, that's all. They came here shouting, but I explained it wasn't me. They'll leave us alone now." His tone was calm, steady, the kind of lie meant to ease her fears rather than convince her.
Reya's eyes lingered on him, clearly unconvinced. She had lived long enough to know when something was wrong. Yet when she saw him standing before her without a scratch, her tense shoulders eased slightly. "If… if you say so," she murmured, though doubt still flickered in her gaze.
"Alright, Mother," Rathmur continued gently, "finish your work and then go to bed. I have a divine herb. Once you take it, your condition will improve." He smiled as he spoke, though part of him winced at the lie. He couldn't yet tell her about the truth of Aemilia, or the dragon heart.
Her brows furrowed, suspicion in her tired eyes. "A divine herb? And where did you get something like that?" Her tone was soft, but her disbelief was clear—she knew her son too well to accept such things blindly.
"It's really true, Mother. Just… trust me. Get ready quickly." His insistence carried both urgency and affection. He needed her to believe, if only to make her take the cure willingly.
Reya sighed, shaking her head with a faint smile. "Alright, alright. If you say so. But give me half an hour." She turned back to the soup pot, her movements weary but steady.
Rathmur nodded, relief washing over his face. He retreated to his room, closing the door quietly behind him. The space was small and humble: a narrow bed with patched sheets, a rickety wooden table, and a chair that creaked under the lightest weight. The room smelled faintly of aged wood and smoke, carrying the simple scent of home.
For a moment, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the worn floorboards. His mind drifted between the battle outside, his mother's fragile state, and the weight of the dragon heart thundering in his chest.
Rathmur sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers clenching and unclenching as the weight of the evening lingered in his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment and whispered, "Alright, Aemilia. Tell me—how do I treat my mother?"
Her voice spilled into his mind like silk over steel, smooth yet commanding. "Oh, hold your horses, boy. Healing her will come, but first you must understand the foundation of it. Because it doesn't rely on herbs alone. It depends entirely on cultivation." Her tone carried a reverberation that made his bones hum.
"We call it the Way of Transcendence." The words echoed inside him like a scripture. "It is the path where a mortal steps beyond their limits, seizing strength, longevity, even immortality. It is the road to greatness, the climb toward becoming more than human."
For a heartbeat, Rathmur's chest tightened. Immortality? The thought was intoxicating, terrifying, impossible. His pulse quickened as he whispered, "Immortality…"
But her voice sharpened, breaking his awe with its edge. "Do not be blinded by how sweet it sounds. This path is a double-edged sword, boy. Every step forward demands blood. Every advance risks your life. Once you enter this path, it can take you—consume you—in the very next breath."
Her words fell heavy in the dimly lit room. The silence after them was thick, broken only by the steady beat of the black heart inside his chest.
"Believe me when I say this—though cultivators live longer, though they wield strength beyond imagination… a mortal who lives his short, fragile life is often far happier. For cultivators walk in constant shadow, chased by envy, ambition, and death itself. There are no peaceful ends for those who walk the Way of Transcendence."
Rathmur's throat went dry. His hands curled into fists, his mind torn between fear and hunger for the strength she described. A mortal's short life, safe and simple… or the endless climb toward something greater, no matter how bloody? His lips pressed tight before he muttered, half to himself, half to her, "Even so… if it's the only way to protect her, to gain power.… then I'll walk it."
"The path of cultivation is divided into great realms," Aemilia's voice echoed firmly. "And within each realm are ten small stages. These stages are like steps carved into an endless mountain. Each one is difficult, each one painful—but necessary to ascend."
She let the silence stretch for a moment before continuing. "The difference between realms is vast. Not like the difference between a strong man and a weak one… but like the distance between earth and sky, between mortal and god."
Then her tone deepened, steady and absolute:
Spirit Warrior Realm
Spirit General Realm
Spirit Grandmaster Realm
Spirit King Realm
Spirit Emperor Realm
"The gap between a Spirit Warrior and a Spirit Emperor," she said slowly, "is the same as the gap between a frail mortal and an invincible god."
Rathmur's fists clenched as he listened. His chest tightened at the sheer weight of the words. Even the first step sounded impossible, yet the idea of reaching the peak burned like fire in his veins.
"Breaking through each stage is like scaling a mountain," Aemilia warned. "Breaking through a great realm is like trying to climb past the clouds themselves. It demands resources, patience, endurance, will… and above all, luck. Without luck, talent alone is never enough."
Rathmur sat frozen, her words echoing in his mind. Awe and surprise tangled in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he asked, "Then… what's my cultivation level now?" His voice carried both curiosity and disbelief.
"Hmph! Don't interrupt me, boy." Aemilia's tone snapped like a whip, cold and disdainful.
Rathmur flinched slightly, lowering his head. "I… I'm sorry," he muttered.
Her voice returned, calm yet heavy with authority. "You stand at the Seventh Stage of the Spirit Warrior Realm. That is why you crushed those clowns outside with such ease."
The words struck him like thunder. Seventh stage? His fists tightened, his heart pounding faster. Just hours ago he had been a helpless mortal. Now… he was something else entirely.
Author's Note
Sorry for the delay, dear readers! 🙏 I've been busy working on my other novel, "Returned Rise" — a regression + reincarnation story with a fresh concept and daily releases. Please check it out, add it to your library, and drop your power stones (it's free and helps me a lot!).
Don't worry, I'll also keep bringing 2–3 chapters for Mortal Rise regularly!