The Great Dao dictates that where there is absolute cold, there must eventually be warmth. But in the mortal realm, warmth does not always equate to safety; more often than not, it is merely the breeding ground for rot.
:
Blackridge Hold was less of a town and more of a festering scar carved into the edge of the Azure Cloud Province. Surrounded by a towering palisade of sharpened ironwood trunks, it was a sanctuary for those the prosperous central plains had rejected: exiled mercenaries, desperate merchants, fugitives hiding from orthodox sects, and rogue cultivators whose foundations were too crippled to ascend further.
It was a place where morality was weighed in spirit stones and human life was cheaper than the mud on the streets. Through the thinning blizzard, a solitary figure approached the
massive, iron-reinforced gates.
To the mortal guards stationed at the watchtower, the approaching silhouette was an anomaly. As the figure drew closer, the rough laughter of the guards died in their throats.
It was a child. He could not have been older than twelve. Yet, there was nothing childlike about his presence. He was barefoot, walking upon the freezing slush as if it were a carpet of silk. He wore a coarse, blood-blackened tunic beneath a magnificent, heavy white pelt streaked with silver-the unmistakable hide of an Alpha Frost-Tooth Direwolf. Over his small shoulder hung a makeshift sack crafted from lesser wolf skins, and in his right hand, gripped with terrifying casualness, was a heavy, rusted iron axe head.
But it was not the massive pelt or the weapon that made the guards subconsciously reach for the hilts of their sabers. It was the boy's eyes. They were pitch-black, dead to the world, projecting a cold, suffocating intent that felt heavier than the winter storm itself.
Shang Jue stopped ten paces from the gate.
Two guards, burly men scarred by frontier skirmishes, stepped forward, blocking the entrance with crossed halberds. They were not true cultivators, but seasoned mortal martial artists who had tempered their flesh.
"Halt," the captain barked, though his voice wavered slightly as his eyes locked onto the Alpha pelt. Greed instantly warred with caution in his mind. An Alpha direwolf pelt in prime condition could fetch enough low-grade spirit stones to buy a man a luxurious life in
the inner cities.
"State your business in Blackridge Hold, beggar," the second guard sneered, stepping closer, attempting to use his massive size to intimidate the boy. "And where did a rat like you scavenge a pelt like
that? Stole it from a dead hunter, did you?"
Shang Jue looked at the men. To his newly opened Dantian and the heightened senses of the Qi Condensation realm, these burly warriors were moving as slowly as submerged stones. He could hear the rapid, greedy beating of their hearts. He could see the absolute lack of Spiritual Qi in their meridians.
They were mortals. Just like his father had been. Yet, they possessed none of his father's warmth, only the base, pathetic greed of scavengers.
"I am here to trade," Shang Jue said. His voice was quiet, raspy from disuse, but it carried a chilling resonance that cut right through the whistling wind. "Step aside."
The captain laughed, a harsh, grating sound, though his eyes remained fixed on the sack slung over Shang Jue's shoulder.
"Trade? A dirt-grubber doesn't trade in Blackridge. The toll for entering the Hold is whatever you carry. Leave the pelts, leave the sack, and maybe we'll let you inside to warm your freezing bones by the slum fires."
The second guard reached out a thick, calloused hand to grab the silver-streaked fur draped over Shang Jue's shoulder. "Hand it over, brat."
The heavens watched. The Great Dao flowed. But Shang Jue did not care for patience or orthodox mercy. The manual pressed against his chest had taught him the Path of Plunder, and the wilderness had taught him the law of the strong.
Before the guard's fingers could even brush the fur, Shang Jue moved.
He did not use the rusted iron. He simply channeled a fraction of the chaotic, icy Qi from his Dantian into his forcefully opened Taiyin
meridian in his right arm. His hand shot out like a striking viper. His small, blood-stained
fingers clamped around the guard's thick wrist.
The guard scoffed at the grip of a child-until an agonizing, freezing force blasted into his arm.
CRACK!
It was the sickening sound of bone splintering under immense pressure. Shang Jue had not just crushed the man's wrist; he had flooded the joint with chaotic winter Qi, flash-freezing the blood in the guard's hand and shattering the carpal bones into a dozen
pieces.
The guard let out a blood-curdling shriek, dropping to his knees in the slush, clutching his ruined, rapidly blackening hand.
The captain froze in absolute horror. He looked from his screaming comrade to the dead-eyed boy. His martial artist instincts finally recognized what he was looking at. The speed, the unnatural force, the freezing aura.
A Cultivator. This starved, ragged child was a Cultivator. "I said," Shang Jue repeated, his voice never rising above a cold whisper, "step aside."
The captain dropped his halberd. It clattered loudly against the frozen stones. He scrambled backward, pressing himself against the heavy wooden palisade, his face pale with terror. In the frontier, offending a wandering cultivator-even a young one-was a guaranteed death sentence. Sects wiped out entire towns for lesser
insults.
"A-apologies, Young Master!" the captain stammered, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the mud. "This one had eyes but could not recognize Mount Tai! Please, enter! The toll is waived for esteemed Cultivators!"
Shang Jue did not smile at the display of submission. It only deepened the cold abyss within him. When his father was alive, honest and hardworking, the world crushed him. Now that Shang Jue possessed the power to shatter bones, the world bowed.
Falsehood, he thought, his dark eyes sweeping over the groveling guard. The entire mortal coil is built on falsehood and fear. I will break it all.
He stepped past the screaming guard, his bare, frostbitten feet leaving faint red prints on the damp cobblestones as he crossed the threshold into Blackridge Hold.
The interior of the settlement was a chaotic assault on his heightened senses. The streets were narrow, choked with deep,
freezing mud and the refuse of thousands of desperate souls. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of roasting meat, cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, metallic tang of forged
iron.
Rough mercenaries with scarred faces paused their drinking
outside dilapidated taverns to stare at the boy. Street urchins hiding in alleyways watched him with hungry, calculating eyes. Everyone saw the Alpha direwolf pelt. Everyone saw the rusted iron.
But as they looked closer, as they felt the terrifying, chilling aura
radiating from the twelve-year-old boy, their predatory gazes shifted to wary apprehension. The wolves of the town recognized a predator that did not belong in their pack.
Shang Jue ignored them all. His stomach cramped violently, reminding him of his immediate, mortal needs. The direwolf meat had fueled his breakthrough, but he needed human food, clean water, and most importantly, information. He needed to convert his chaotic wilderness spoils into the currency of the Cultivation world: Spirit Stones.
His dark eyes scanned the wooden signs hanging from the chaotic array of buildings. He passed a blacksmith, a brothel, and a butcher, until his gaze landed on a two-story structure made of polished dark wood, standing in stark contrast to the slums around it.
Hanging above the door was a wooden plaque engraved with a silver cauldron: The Hundred Herbs Pavilion.
This was not a mortal apothecary. The faint, sweet smell of spiritual
herbs and the subtle, stabilizing array formations etched into the doorframe told Shang Jue everything he needed to know. This was a business run by cultivators, for cultivators. doorframe told Shang Jue everything he needed to know. I his was a business run by cultivators, for cultivators.
It was the perfect place to unload his Beast Cores and the remaining Frost-Marrow Weed.
Shang Jue pushed the heavy wooden doors open, stepping out of the freezing mud and into the fragrant, warmly lit belly of the pavilion. The true game of deception and plunder was about to
begin.
The interior of the Hundred Herbs Pavilion was a stark, jarring contrast to the frozen hell of Blackridge Hold.
As the heavy wooden doors swung shut behind Shang Jue, the howling wind was instantly silenced, cut off by a minor sound-dampening array etched into the threshold. The air inside was thick and warm, heavy with the intoxicating, layered fragrances of dried ginseng, crushed spirit-lotus, and simmering medicinal pastes.
Shelves of polished dark wood lined the walls, filled with jade boxes and crystal vials. To a mortal, this room was a treasury of miracles. To Shang Jue's newly awakened Dantian, it was a chaotic symphony of ambient spiritual energy.
He stood near the entrance, his bare, bleeding feet leaving dirty puddles on the spotless wooden floor. His blood-stained Alpha pelt and the feral, dead look in his eyes made him stick out like a rusted blade in a jewelry box.
Behind a long mahogany counter stood a thin, rat-faced man in silken green robes. The clerk possessed the faint, unstable aura of a Cultivator at the very beginning of the First Stage of Qi Condensation. His foundation was laughably weak, built on cheap pills rather than the harsh tempering of the Great Dao.
The clerk looked up from his ledger, his nose instantly wrinkling in profound disgust.
"Get out," the clerk spat, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. "The soup kitchen is three alleys down. We don't hand out alms to freezing beggars here. You are dirtying my floor."
Shang Jue did not move. His expression remained a mask of impenetrable frost. He walked slowly toward the mahogany counter, his footsteps completely silent despite his heavy burden.
He reached into his makeshift sack and pulled out the two walnut-sized Frost-Tooth Direwolf Beast Cores, along with a tightly bound bundle of the remaining Frost-Marrow Weed. He dropped them onto the polished wood.
Clack.
The faint, pale blue light of the cores pulsed softly in the warm room, immediately dropping the ambient temperature around the counter.
The clerk's eyes widened, his pupils contracting with sudden, naked greed. He leaned forward, inspecting the items. He was a low-level cultivator, but he had the eyes of an appraiser. He could see that the cores were fresh, the residual bestial intent still violently swirling within the crystal.
He looked back up at the ragged, starved
boy. His mind quickly calculated a scenario: A lucky scavenger. Found the corpses of beasts killed by a high-level cultivator in the wilderness and looted them. He has no idea
what these are worth.
" Well, well," the clerk sneered, a greasy smile spreading across his face. "You found some shiny rocks and some weeds in the snow.
They are barely usable. The impurities are too high. I suppose, out of the goodness of the Pavilion's heart, I can offer you... ten mortal silver coins. Enough to buy yourself a hot meal and a pair of boots."
Ten silver coins. In the Cultivation world, mortal currency was less valuable than the dirt on Shang Jue's feet. A single low-level Beast Core was worth at least three
Low-Grade Spirit Stones. One Spirit Stone
could be exchanged for thousands of gold pieces in the mortal kingdoms.
The Great Dao is a thief, but the merchants of the mortal coil were simply pathetic.
Shang Jue did not argue. He did not raise his voice. He simply placed his right hand flat on the mahogany counter.
He channeled a surge of the chaotic, abyssal Qi from his Dantian, forcing it down his violently opened Taiyin meridian.
A thick, visible layer of white frost instantly bloomed across the polished wood beneath his palm, creeping rapidly toward the clerk. The temperature in the room plummeted. The sheer, murderous intent that had slain
the Alpha direwolf leaked from Shang Jue's pores, crashing into the clerk like a physical wall of ice.
The clerk gasped, stumbling backward, his silken robes suddenly feeling paper-thin against the terrifying chill. His weak Qi Condensation aura was instantly suppressed by the chaotic gravity of Shang Jue's presence.
"I am not a beggar," Shang Jue whispered, his voice carrying the resonance of a cracking glacier. "And I am not a fool. Spirit Stones. Or I will freeze the blood in your veins and take them myself."
"Insolent brat!" the clerk shrieked, panic mixing with humiliated rage. He reached under the counter, his hand grasping the hilt of an engraved dagger. "You dare threaten the Hundred Herbs Pavilion?!"
"Enough, Li."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed a dense, stabilizing weight that instantly shattered the tension in the room.
From a curtained doorway at the back of
the shop, a man stepped forward. He wore simple, unadorned gray robes, but his aura was vast, deep, and tranquil. He was a cultivator in the Foundation Establishment
realm.
The clerk immediately dropped the dagger and bowed in a panic. "Manager Zhao! This filthy rat-"
"Silence," Manager Zhao commanded,
not even looking at the clerk. His sharp, calculating eyes were fixed entirely on Shang Jue.
The manager walked to the counter, his gaze sweeping over the frostbitten, blood-stained boy. He noted the heavy Alpha pelt, the
deep, freshly scabbed wounds on the boy's chest, and the terrifyingly cold, abyssal Qi lingering in the air.
This is no scavenger, Manager Zhao thought, his heart skipping a beat. This boy is a demon crawled out of a mass grave. That Qi... it is too chaotic, too brutal. He killed those beasts himself.
Manager Zhao looked at the two cores and the weeds on the counter, then back to Shang Jue's dead eyes.
"My clerk is an idiot whose eyes are blinded by mortal copper," Manager Zhao said smoothly, offering a polite, albeit guarded, nod. "Forgive his transgression, young friend. The frontier breeds poor manners."
Shang Jue did not withdraw his hand from the frozen counter. "The price."
Manager Zhao smiled faintly. He appreciated ruthless efficiency. "Two standard Frost-Tooth Cores and a bundle of Frost-Marrow Weed. I will offer you eight Low-Grade Spirit Stones. It is a fair market price for Blackridge Hold."
Shang Jue stared at the man. Eight spirit stones were a fortune to a mortal, but Shang Jue knew the true game had just begun.
Slowly, his left hand reached into the makeshift sack. He pulled out the final item.
He placed the Alpha direwolf's Beast Core onto the counter.
It was the size of a large apple, radiating a dense, freezing mist that immediately caused the nearby medicinal herbs to wither. The ambient spiritual energy in the room violently violently shifted, drawn toward the massive crystal.
Manager Zhao's breath hitched. His calm facade cracked, replaced by utter shock.
"An Alpha core," Zhao breathed, leaning in. He looked closely at the crystal, then his eyes snapped to the rusted iron axe head strapped to the boy's waist, and finally to the massive silver-streaked pelt he wore.
To kill an Alpha Frost-Tooth Direwolf required a Cultivator at the Peak of Qi Condensation, or a team of seasoned hunters. For a half-starved, twelve-year-old boy to possess it meant he either had an unimaginably powerful master backing him, or he was a heaven-defying monster himself.
In the cultivation world, you do not cheat monsters. You invest in them.
"Twenty," Shang Jue stated flatly, cutting through the manager's shock. "Twenty Low-Grade Spirit Stones for the small cores and the grass. And for the Alpha core... I want thirty Spirit Stones, and a bottle of your finest blood-refining pills."
Manager Zhao narrowed his eyes, rapidly calculating the margins. The boy was overcharging for the small cores, but the Alpha core was rare enough to make the Pavilion a massive profit if auctioned in the central plains. More importantly, establishing a favorable transaction with a dangerous unknown variable was good business.
"Done," Manager Zhao agreed without hesitation.
He waved his hand, and a small, embroidered pouch materialized on the counter, followed by a pristine jade bottle. Storage magic.
" Fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones, as
requested," Zhao said, his tone turning respectful. "And a bottle of 'Iron-Blood Condensation Pills.' They are meant for late-stage Qi cultivators to fortify their
internal organs. For someone of your... unique constitution, they should accelerate your healing significantly."
Shang Jue picked up the pouch. He opened
it, sensing the dense, pure, civilized Qi radiating from the translucent, thumb-sized stones within. He had successfully plundered the wilderness, and now, he had plundered the merchants.
He took the jade bottle, placing both items securely inside his tunic, right next to the ancient manual that had started it all.
"We are always looking for reliable suppliers of high-tier beast materials," Manager Zhao offered, leaning against the counter. "If you hunt again, the Hundred Herbs Pavilion will offer you fair rates."
Shang Jue turned away from the counter, his bare feet moving silently toward the door.
"I am not a hunter," Shang Jue replied coldly, pushing the heavy wooden doors open, allowing the howling winter wind to rush back into the warm room. "I am just passing through."
He stepped back out into the frozen mud of Blackridge Hold. He had wealth, he had medicine, and he had power. The next step was to find a place to consume his gains, fortify his shattered body, and prepare to shatter the next gate of the heavens.
To possess wealth in the mortal realm without the strength to defend it is to hold a bleeding piece of meat in a den of starving hounds.
As Shang Jue stepped away from the Hundred Herbs Pavilion, the heavy pouch of Spirit Stones hidden beneath his tunic felt heavier than the rusted iron in his hand. He did not need his heightened senses to know he was being followed. The Alpha direwolf pelt he wore was a beacon, but the fact that a ragged boy had just walked out of the most expensive establishment in Blackridge Hold was an absolute declaration of unguarded treasure.
He navigated the twisting, muddy streets as the sky darkened, casting the slum into deep shadows illuminated only by the sickly orange glow of fire barrels.
Three figures detached themselves from the darkness of a narrow alleyway, moving to intercept him. They were local cutthroats—mortal mercenaries whose bodies were scarred from tavern brawls and frontier skirmishes. They moved with the silent coordination of predators accustomed to ambushing easy prey.
"Hold a moment, little lord," the lead mercenary sneered, drawing a jagged, rust-pitted falchion. The two others fanned out, blocking the exit, drawing heavy iron clubs. "It's getting dark, and the cold is bitter. Why don't you share a bit of that warmth you just collected from Manager Zhao? Hand over the pouch, and we'll let you keep the pelt."
Shang Jue did not stop walking. His pace remained steady, his bare feet sinking into the freezing mud.
"I have no warmth to share," Shang Jue whispered, his dark eyes locking onto the leader.
"Then we'll carve it out of you!" the leader barked, lunging forward with a sweeping strike aimed at the boy's legs, intending to cripple him.
The mercenaries expected a child's panicked flinching. They expected a desperate plea for mercy.
They did not expect the abyss.
Shang Jue did not use his Qi. To waste the chaotic energy of his Dantian on mortal trash was an insult to the Path of the Origin. Instead, he relied entirely on the explosive physical strength granted by his newly cleansed flesh.
He stepped inside the arc of the falchion with terrifying speed. Before the mercenary could adjust his grip, Shang Jue swung the rusted iron axe head in a brutal, upward arc.
CRUNCH.
The heavy iron wedge smashed directly into the leader's jaw, shattering the bone into fragments and snapping his head back with such force that his cervical spine severed instantly. The man's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the mud like a puppet with its strings cut, dead before he even realized he had been struck.
The remaining two mercenaries froze, their heavy clubs halting mid-air. The arrogant sneers vanished from their faces, replaced by absolute, paralyzing horror. They looked at the dead man in the mud, then at the twelve-year-old boy whose expression had not changed a fraction of an inch.
Shang Jue turned his dead eyes toward them, raising the blood-dripping iron.
"Run," he commanded, a single syllable that resonated with the chill of the grave.
The mercenaries did not hesitate. They dropped their weapons and scrambled over each other, fleeing back into the dark alleyways like beaten dogs.
Shang Jue did not give chase. He wiped the rusted iron on the dead man's cloak and continued his march. He had established his boundary. The shadows of Blackridge Hold would whisper of the demon child in the white pelt, and the vultures would learn to look elsewhere.
Ten minutes later, he found what he was looking for.
At the edge of the Hold stood a heavily fortified stone building. Unlike the wooden taverns, this structure had no windows on the ground floor. A heavy iron sign hung above the reinforced door: *The Iron-Blood Sanctuary*. It was a secure inn specifically catering to rogue cultivators needing safe havens for breakthrough meditations or injury recovery.
Shang Jue entered the dim, smoke-filled lobby. A burly, scarred woman with a faint Qi Condensation aura sat behind a thick iron grate.
Shang Jue walked up to the grate and pulled a single Low-Grade Spirit Stone from his pouch. He placed the glowing, translucent gem onto the metal counter.
"A sealed chamber," Shang Jue demanded quietly. "With a grade-one isolation array. No food, no water, no interruptions. For three days."
The woman's eyes widened at the sight of the Spirit Stone. One stone was enough to rent the best room for a month. She quickly snatched the gem before any other patron could see it, her demeanor instantly shifting to obsequious respect.
"Right away, Young Master," she said, handing a heavy brass key through the grate. "Chamber Seven, down the hall to the lowest sublevel. The array draws from the earth line; once you lock it from the inside, not even a Core Formation expert could scry your presence."
Shang Jue took the key and descended into the damp, stone-carved bowels of the sanctuary.
Chamber Seven was spartan. It contained nothing but a stone slab for meditation and a faint, glowing geometric circle etched into the floor—the isolation array. As he turned the heavy iron lock, the hum of the array activated, sealing the room in absolute silence and cutting off all connection to the outside world.
For the first time since the heavens shattered his home, Shang Jue was truly safe.
He dropped the heavy Alpha pelt onto the floor and sat cross-legged on the stone slab. He stripped off his ruined, blood-crusted tunic, revealing a torso painted in grotesque shades of purple bruising and deep, freshly scabbed lacerations from the direwolf claws. His body was pushed to its absolute breaking point.
He reached into his pouch and retrieved the pristine jade bottle Manager Zhao had given him. He popped the cork.
Instantly, a rich, coppery aroma filled the small room, accompanied by a wave of heat. He tipped the bottle, rolling a single *Iron-Blood Condensation Pill* into his palm. It was a deep crimson, perfectly round, and radiated a dense, fiery medicinal Qi.
Orthodox cultivators would take this pill by shaving off tiny fragments, dissolving them in pure spring water, and meditating for weeks to gently coax the fiery energy into their organs, terrified of the pill's violent heat damaging their delicate internal meridians.
Shang Jue looked at the pill. He recalled the silver text of *The Genesis of the Ultimate Truth*: *'Let it tear you apart, and reforge yourself in the agony.'*
He tossed the entire pill into his mouth and swallowed it whole.
It did not feel like medicine. It felt like he had swallowed a live ember.
As the pill reached his stomach, the outer shell dissolved, and a terrifying explosion of boiling, fiery Qi erupted within his mortal vessel. It was a completely different sensation from the freezing, chaotic Qi of the direwolf. This was condensed, refined, explosive heat.
*BAM!*
A muffled explosion echoed inside his own chest. Shang Jue's eyes shot open, blood vessels bursting in his sclera, turning his eyes entirely red. He bit his lip so hard it bled, refusing to scream.
The fiery medicinal Qi acted like a raging wildfire, attempting to scorch everything in its path. It rushed toward his organs—his heart, his lungs, his liver—threatening to incinerate them from the inside out.
But Shang Jue's severed heart was not defenseless.
He forcefully activated his Dantian. The gray, chaotic vortex of Abyssal Qi spun violently to life, surging out of his center to meet the invading fire.
The two energies clashed violently within his bloodstream. The freezing, chaotic Qi of the wilderness fought against the refined, fiery Qi of the pill. The battlefield was Shang Jue's own flesh.
Agony beyond mortal comprehension racked his body. Sweat poured from his pores, instantly evaporating into steam in the freezing room. His muscles convulsed, bones creaking under the intense internal pressure.
Crush it! Shang Jue commanded his chaotic Qi.
Devour the fire!
Using the absolute, terrifying density of his willpower, he used his Dantian's energy as a massive hammer, relentlessly striking the fiery medicinal Qi, breaking its refined structure, and forcefully assimilating it.
As the fiery energy was subjugated, it was driven directly into his internal organs. The heat no longer incinerated; it forged.
His lungs, damaged by the freezing gales, were bathed in the iron-blood energy, expanding and turning resilient, capable of drawing breath from the thinnest atmospheres. His heart, the very core of his circulation, thudded with the heavy, booming resonance of a war drum, pumping Qi-enriched blood to every extremity. The deep lacerations on his chest began to itch violently, the scabs falling away to reveal fresh, unnaturally tough skin beneath.
Hours passed. The fiery battle within slowly subsided, replaced by a profound, heavy solidity.
When Shang Jue finally opened his eyes, the red had faded back to the abyssal black. He exhaled a long breath, and a stream of gray, heat-distorted air shot from his lips, striking the stone wall with a faint *crack*.
He looked down at his hands. They were no longer the frail, calloused hands of a starved woodcutter. The skin was smooth but possessed a faint, metallic sheen. He clenched his fist, feeling a terrifying, condensed physical power that rivaled the Demonic Beast he had slain.
He had not just healed his wounds. By violently devouring the high-tier pill, he had fortified his Mortal Foundation to an extreme degree. His Dantian had expanded, the vortex spinning with a denser, more profound gravity.
He had taken a firm, unshakable step toward the Second Stage of Qi Condensation.
"The heavens forge their weapons in fire," Shang Jue whispered to the silent, sealed room. "I will forge myself in the abyss."
He closed his eyes once more, ignoring the passage of time, and sank into a deep, meditative trance, allowing the chaotic Qi to continue reshaping his mortal shell. The true Cultivator had been born.