Merin opens his eyes after three full days of seclusion.
The first thing he smells is himself.
A sharp, acrid stench clings to his skin, heavy and unpleasant, the residue of impurities forced out during refinement.
He frowns slightly and exhales.
Dark-gold Qi surges outward from his body in a controlled wave.
The lingering impurities are incinerated instantly, reduced to drifting motes that vanish into the air.
The dark-gold sheen stabilises, sinking back beneath his skin.
Complete Inner Qi Refining Realm.
The path behind him is sealed.
The next step lies ahead.
The Four-Element Outer Seal Realm.
Also called the Outer Sea Qi Refining Realm.
Merin does not stand.
He closes his eyes again.
This realm is not about force.
It is about breath.
Balance.
Transformation.
He opens himself.
Not physically, but fundamentally.
The first element enters—Yang.
Warm, expansive, radiant.
It pours in through his breath, through his skin, through the subtle openings between meridians.
Yang Qi spreads like sunlight through his body, igniting vitality.
Then Yin follows.
Cool.
Heavy.
Silent.
It seeps in from the shadows of existence, settling into his bones, his marrow, anchoring what Yang would otherwise let spiral out of control.
Life comes next.
Not vitality alone, but growth itself—the quiet persistence of existence.
It flows into him gently, nourishing, stabilising, connecting body and spirit.
Finally, Death.
Still.
Absolute.
Not decay, but finality.
It arrives without resistance, without sound, a cold certainty that gives shape to all things.
The four elements remain separate at first.
Then they begin to rotate.
Slowly.
Measured.
A roulette forms within his dantian.
Yang and Yin oppose.
Life and Death balance.
As the rotation accelerates, his golden blood-Qi cloud is drawn inward.
Compressed.
Refined.
Pulled apart and recombined endlessly.
The cloud darkens, thickens, condenses.
Then—
Rain falls.
Drops of Qi descend from the rotating mass, each droplet crimson with a faint golden tint.
They strike the floor of his dantian.
One by one.
A pool forms.
A sea.
It grows steadily.
One meter.
Two.
Three.
The rotation continues.
Merin does not stop.
He lets the Qi cloud dissolve entirely.
Every last strand is consumed.
The rain intensifies.
The sea expands.
Four meters.
Four point three.
Four point five.
Four point five seven meters.
Only then does the rotation slow.
The four elements dissolve back into balance.
The Outer Sea is formed.
And the feedback begins.
Qi surges outward violently.
Merin's body convulses.
His skin tightens, then splits.
It peels away like shedding bark, sloughing off in dry sheets.
Hair falls in clumps.
Teeth loosen and drop from his mouth.
Pain is present—but distant.
He observes it as part of the process.
Beneath the discarded shell, new skin forms.
Pale white.
Smooth.
Laced with a subtle golden sheen that glows faintly in the dim light.
Fresh hair grows in, dark and strong.
New teeth emerge, perfectly aligned.
His pores appear sealed—but they are not.
They rest closed, waiting.
Now, at will, he can open them and draw ambient spiritual energy directly through his skin.
A cultivator's body.
Refined.
Complete.
Merin remains seated.
He does not leave the cultivation room.
Instead, he reaches into his memory and opens the White Spider Saint's scripture.
It unfolds in layers of understanding rather than words.
Four primary laws dominate the text.
Cause and Effect.
Puppetry.
Transformation.
Fear.
This is not a pure scripture.
It is an interpretation.
Filtered through Ye Weiran's Dao.
He cannot adopt it wholesale.
If he does, his Dao will be stained by hers.
He reads anyway.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He studies how she views causality—not as inevitability, but as threads that can be plucked, tightened, or severed.
He studies puppetry—not crude control, but influence layered so subtly that the target believes they move of their own will.
He studies transformation—not shape alone, but identity.
And fear—not terror, but anticipation, the quiet pressure that bends choices before action occurs.
Merin does not imitate.
He analyses.
He dissects.
He discards what does not belong to him.
And begins to form something new.
Outside the Duan estate, far from the cultivation room—
Ye Weiran walks through the capital in human form.
She inhabits the body of a woman now.
Elegant.
Unremarkable.
Perfectly forgettable.
She begins small.
Robbing corrupt merchants.
Extorting hidden hoards.
Redistributing wealth.
Not to the poor masses.
To herself.
With ill-got gold, she purchases an art salon on Qinyun Street.
Paintings.
Poetry.
Music.
A gathering place for scholars, artists, and thinkers.
Her followers were once desperate, rough, and expendable.
Now she wants refinement.
Belief shaped by admiration, not fear.
A new web.
And this time, she will weave it slowly.
From within his carriage, Chu Feng lifts the curtain slightly and looks toward the building ahead.
The plaque reads Qionghua Art Salon.
Elegant characters, restrained yet confident.
He narrows his eyes.
Across from him, Jing Ji sits straight-backed, hands folded, waiting.
"So this is the new art salon," Chu Feng says.
"Yes, Lord," Jing Ji replies.
Chu Feng's gaze remains fixed on the building.
"Why should I choose this place for my party?"
His current identity is flawless.
A member of the Chu Family of Mian Province, east of the capital province, wedged between Dongji and Shi Provinces, bordering the Zhao Kingdom. A reclusive noble clan rarely interacts with the capital. Years of infiltration had hollowed the family from within until only a shell remained.
Now that the shell belongs to him.
Any investigation would find nothing.
The party is not for indulgence.
It is an announcement.
A declaration that the Chu Family has entered the capital's stage.
Jing Ji answers carefully.
"This salon was purchased only days ago by a new owner."
Chu Feng's fingers tap once against the window frame.
"Mysterious owners attract curiosity," Jing Ji continues. "Curiosity attracts nobles."
Chu Feng shakes his head faintly.
"That alone is not enough."
Jing Ji hesitates, then adds, "On the opening day, the owner revealed a treasure."
Chu Feng finally looks at him.
"A treasure that allows one's consciousness to enter an illusion indistinguishable from reality."
Silence lingers.
Chu Feng's eyes sharpen.
"You want the party held inside the illusion."
"Yes, Lord."
Chu Feng exhales slowly.
He pushes the carriage door open and steps down.
"Show me."
The moment he enters the salon, his breath stills.
The space inside does not resemble a building.
It feels like a forest.
Web-like structures form the walls—delicate, luminous strands layered upon one another, glowing faintly like moonlit silk. Pillars resemble pale trees, branching upward and vanishing into shadowed ceilings. Light filters down in soft, shifting patterns, as if passing through leaves.
Paintings line the walls.
But they do not feel flat.
Each one radiates depth.
The air hums with quiet sound—distant insects, soft wingbeats, faint birdsong—never loud enough to distract, only enough to make the illusion settle into the senses.
Chu Feng takes another step.
The floor responds with a subtle give, like packed earth beneath moss.
People move through the salon in hushed wonder, their expressions unguarded and softened without their awareness.
Nobles pause mid-step, scholars forget their composure, artists drift closer to the walls, and even cultivators unconsciously loosen their vigilance.
Inside this space, thoughts of the party dissolve, and the need to meet the owner slips quietly from Chu Feng's mind.
High above, on the top floor, Ye Weiran sits with her chin resting in her palm, her spirit spreading lazily across the salon.
Disappointment lingers in her gaze as she watches ordinary figures wander beneath her web, none worth a second thought.
Then something enters her perception.
A presence wrapped in thick heaven-and-earth energy crosses the threshold below.
Ye Weiran straightens instantly.
Her boredom vanishes as she rises from her seat and steps out of the office, her feet already turning toward the stairs.
Down below, Chu Feng stops before a painting.
The scene depicts a forest forged of metal, towering steel trees rising into a colourless sky.
Figures move between them wearing strange garments, mirrored masks reflecting fractured faces that do not belong to this world.
The painting feels cold, distant, and strangely alive.
Chu Feng wonders who could have painted such a thing, and from where the vision was taken.
His thoughts scatter.
A voice reaches him.
"Do you like the painting?"
It is calm.
Unhurried.
Threaded with a softness that settles into the mind before the sound fully registers.
Chu Feng turns.
A woman stands beside him.
Her robes are plain yet well-fitted, unadorned and effortless.
Her hair is loosely tied, a few strands falling naturally along her face.
She is beautiful, but not in a way that demands attention or overwhelms the senses.
Her features refuse to settle when not observed directly.
When the eye drifts, the mind fills the gaps differently, as if she exists slightly out of alignment with certainty.
She smiles faintly.
Chu Feng meets her gaze.
"I don't know," he says honestly.