The two moons that Elder Maeve had spoken of waxed and waned, silver sickles growing into luminous pearls before vanishing into the dark. Seasons in the valley began to turn. A cooler wind whispered down from the northern peaks, carrying the first hint of autumn. The leaves on the deciduous trees at the forest's edge began their slow, beautiful decay, turning from green to gold and crimson. For the village, it was a time of frantic activity, the final push to gather the harvest and prepare for the coming cold. For Lian, it was a period of torturous, monastic patience.
His days remained a study in deception. He was the village's beast of burden, his true power masked by a carefully constructed persona of slow-wittedness. His nights, however, were a secret forge. In the sanctuary of the Sacred Grove, he waged war against himself. The knowledge Maeve had given him provided a ladder, but he had no interest in climbing it rung by rung. He would not form a "Golden Core" or a "Stable Foundation." His path was different. His path was conquest.
He focused his will on the tempest in his Dantian. The deep, grounding Qi from his Body Cultivation—the mountain—and the wild, chaotic Qi from the lightning—the storm—were two titans locked in eternal combat. A normal cultivator would seek to pacify one and elevate the other, or find a gentle harmony. Lian sought to enslave them both. He forced them together, not to merge, but to orbit one another in a state of perpetual, high-speed conflict. He was not building a foundation; he was forging a star. A spinning vortex of earth and sky, a black hole of competing energies held in a fragile, impossible balance only by the sheer, unyielding force of his will. The strain was immense. More than once, he felt the vortex threaten to tear itself apart, an internal cataclysm that would have annihilated him from within. Each time, he wrestled it back from the brink, his will sharpening with every victory. The process was not refining him in the traditional sense; it was compacting him, making his energy denser, more volatile, and infinitely more potent.
His lessons with Maeve continued, their strange truce solidifying into a routine. He would ask his questions in his rough, simple tongue, and she, with the weary resignation of a woman trying to explain tides to a leviathan, would answer.
"The Core Sects..." he grunted one night, the two words a demand for a volume of information.
"They are the true powers of this land," Maeve explained, her eyes on the Spirit Spring, as if she couldn't quite bear to look directly at the force of nature before her. "Not like our village, or even the bandits in the hills. They are kingdoms unto themselves, with tens of thousands of disciples, vast resources, and masters who have reached the Core Formation realm, or even higher. The caravan comes from the territory of the Jade Sword Sect, the most powerful of the southern sects. Their way is the way of the sword—discipline, precision, and an unyielding code of honor."
She paused, a flicker of a painful memory in her eyes. "They see the world in black and white, Lian. Order and chaos. Good and evil. A being like you... they would not seek to understand you. They would seek to erase you."
Lian remained silent, but the information was logged, analyzed. The Jade Sword Sect. A potential future enemy. An obstacle.
"The caravan," he said, shifting to his more immediate concern. "It is strong?"
"It has to be," she sighed. "It carries a year's worth of wealth. It is guarded by the sect's own disciples, elite warriors at the peak of Foundation Establishment, led by a captain who is likely a half-step into Core Formation himself. They are not like the guards at our gate. They are true killers."
The day finally came. A cry went up from the watchtower, a sound of genuine excitement and relief. "The caravan! The caravan is sighted!"
The entire village emptied into the central path, a wave of eager, chattering ants. Lian, hauling a massive log on his shoulder, stopped and watched, his face a mask of dull curiosity. From the south, a cloud of dust rose from the road, and from it emerged a sight that made the village look even more pathetic than he had imagined.
It was not a few merchants with carts. It was a moving fortress.
At its head rode a dozen figures on tall, armored horses that snorted plumes of steam in the cool air. The riders were clad in immaculate, interlocking jade-colored armor, their faces grim and disciplined. The Qi they emanated was sharp, clean, and dangerous. Behind them came the massive, covered wagons, their wheels groaning under the weight of their cargo, each pulled by a team of hulking, ox-like spiritual beasts. More guards flanked the wagons, their hands never straying far from the hilts of the longswords at their hips.
The entire procession exuded an aura of wealth, power, and lethal efficiency.
The villagers cheered and waved. Lian simply watched, his gaze sweeping over the guards, analyzing their strength, their formations, their discipline. They were strong, yes. Organized. But he saw the same flaw he had seen in the training students back in the other world: a rigidity, a reliance on form and equipment. They were predictable.
His eyes came to rest on the lead rider. The captain. He sat taller in his saddle, his armor slightly more ornate. He didn't look at the cheering villagers. His gaze was fixed forward, his Qi a coiled spring of controlled power. This was the half-step Core Formation master Maeve had spoken of. Lian felt the serpent in his own Dantian stir in response to a worthy opponent.
The caravan rolled to a halt in the center of the village, and the trading began. Elder Maeve negotiated with the captain, exchanging the village's meager surplus of Ironwood timber and medicinal herbs for salt, metal, and cloth.
Lian was tasked with unloading the heavy crates from the wagons. It was the perfect cover. As he lifted a crate filled with bolts of silk, he "accidentally" let it slip, its contents spilling onto the ground near a group of off-duty guards. As he clumsily gathered the smooth fabric, his ears picked up their conversation.
"—another beast attack near the Serpent's Pass," one said, shaking his head. "We lost two men. But Captain Jian was incredible. His 'Void-Cutting Sword' technique sliced the alpha's head clean off." "Still," another guard muttered, "the north grows wilder every season. And the pay stays the same."
Lian's hands stilled on a bolt of silk. Serpent's Pass.Captain Jian.Void-Cutting Sword. The names meant nothing, but the context meant everything. They had a route. They had a leader. And they had established techniques. He had found his library. This caravan was not just a link to the wider world; it was a mobile classroom and armory. He had to be a part of it.
He finished gathering the silk and moved away, his mind already spinning with calculations. He needed a way in. A way to join them, to travel with them, to learn from them before he eventually surpassed and consumed them. He scanned the bustling scene, his eyes looking for an opening, an opportunity.
He found it in the form of a posted notice on the village's central message board. The caravan was recruiting two additional baggage guards for the perilous return journey north. The work was hard, the danger immense. The only requirement was strength and a willingness to obey. The test would be held at sunset.
Lian looked at the notice. Then he looked at the proud, jade-armored sect disciples. Then he looked at his own dirt-caked, powerful hands.
At sunset, as the applicants gathered—a handful of hopeful, nervous young men from the village—a shadow fell over them. Lian, the Simple Giant, stepped forward, his face a blank canvas, his intention a hidden storm.