Kaelan walks along the stone path winding through the Chen Kingdom's palace complex—silent steps, slow breath, eyes half-lidded as his thoughts spiral inward.
Spiritual Wizard.
A realm equal to the second stage of transcendence—yet to reach the third stage, only three requirements are known.
And even those feel incomplete.
How many more exist? One? Two? Ten?
There is no answer—only uncertainty and silence.
The three known criteria drift through his mind like constellations:
• Comprehension of a Law to the Meteor Stage.
• Materialisation of Mana.
• Materialisation of Spirit Power.
His comprehension of the Storm Law has reached mid–Dust Stage.
Another two months, he estimates, and I'll touch late-Dust.
Mana materialisation sits under five per cent—progress slow, refinement slow.
That will accelerate once Yuelan reaches the Official Wizard realm.
Dual cultivation paired with a Charm Spiritual Body is a rare advantage—one he won't waste.
Spirit power materialisation stands at 8.27%, and is climbing steadily.
The conscious-core method proved effective—each newly formed conscious thread materialises his spirit a little further.
But… a new obstacle has appeared.
With every new conscious thread, the next becomes exponentially harder.
Not a wall yet, but a mountain in the making.
He can't solve it now—not with current knowledge, not in the current realm.
Later, he tells himself.
When I reach that point, perhaps the answer will already exist.
A breeze brushes past—cool, damp, carrying the scent of earth and distant rain.
The sky is bright—but beneath it, he senses change.
Spring rain… two days from now. The first drop will fall, and the season will turn.
His thoughts shift naturally back to the cultivation criteria.
Something still feels missing.
Law—energy—spirit.
Three pillars.
But transcendence… true transcendence… has three starting paths:
Energy.
Spirit.
Essence.
His steps halt for half a heartbeat.
Essence.
A slow smile forms—not sharp, not triumphant—but satisfied.
Of course.
He resumes walking, lighter now, as if spring arrived early just for him.
"I found it," he murmurs, voice soft yet steady.
"The fourth criterion… and perhaps the final one."
A minute later, he passes beneath a stone archway and steps into the Forging Hall perimeter. The open courtyard stretches before him—lined with brick workshops, smoke chimneys, ore sheds, and barrel racks. Metal clangs, furnaces roar, and the air smells of flame, ash, and steel.
He moves toward one of the buildings.
Inside, three forges stand—two burning hot, their flame dancing gold and blue as craftsmen hammer molten metal. The third furnace is quiet.
Beside it, half-leaning on a workbench with a relaxed posture, sits Guan Nie.
The man straightens instantly.
"Lord Kong," he greets with a respectful bow, "I've finished the item you requested."
Kaelan glances at him—noticing the subtle aura shift. His cultivation has risen.
Mid Wizard Apprentice.
Not bad.
These men once belonged to no sect—rejected for having only ordinary five-element spiritual roots, with fire slightly stronger than the rest. They spent decades stuck at Qi-Sensing, refining tools for the kingdom with no hope beyond the forge.
Until the wizard path reached them.
Kaelan had created the Bronze-grade Golden Flame Meditation Technique specifically for them—simple, stable, and perfectly compatible with their fire-aligned roots.
A path forward—finally.
"Congratulations," Kaelan says calmly, "for breaking through."
Guan Nie lowers his head, pride flickering in his eyes.
Kaelan takes the item from the workbench.
A long rod—dense, cold, refined through repeated tempering. Perfectly straight, drilled through with a narrow hollow channel. Balanced. Stable. No warp. No flaw.
Exactly as intended.
Guan Nie hesitates, curiosity finally winning.
"…My Lord," he asks, "what is this thing used for?"
Kaelan turns the rod in his hand, feeling the weight, the smoothness, the perfect alignment of its bore.
"You'll see."
His answer is simple, but certainty lies beneath it.
He kneels beside the chest and begins removing parts—cold metal, rune-inscribed screws, a trigger mechanism, a firing pin, a carved wooden grip, and small cylindrical cartridges.
The long hollow rod in his hand—the barrel—is only one piece of a greater machine.
Quietly, patiently, he assembles the parts.
Metal clicks, locks, and aligns.
A smooth slide chamber.
A wooden grip fitted to the frame.
A trigger seated beneath a small runic firing mechanism.
And finally, he takes a row of small metallic cylinders from the chest.
Bullets.
Refined by hand. Packed with crude powder. Imperfect—but usable.
Gun complete, he stands.
Without a word, Kaelan walks out of the workshop. Guan Nie, still half-stunned, scrambles to follow him.
They leave the forging perimeter and cross the yard, reaching the archery training grounds—a flat stretch of earth marked with wooden targets at staggered distances.
Kaelan stops at an empty lane.
Raises the weapon.
Loads a bullet.
A soft mechanical click.
*BOOM.*
The shot echoes like thunder.
The projectile punches into the target at thirty meters, a perfect hole directly at the centre.
Guan Nie flinches.
Kaelan loads another round.
Fires again.
*BOOM.*
The fifty-meter target—hit dead centre.
Again.
One hundred meters—bullseye.
One hundred twenty-five—bullseye.
One hundred fifty—barely shifted from centre.
At one hundred seventy-five meters, the bullet lands inches away—still lethal, but no longer perfect.
Not because of the aim.
But because of the gunpowder's crude refinement.
Kaelan lowers the weapon.
"That's enough—for now."
Guan Nie stands frozen, eyes wide, jaw slack—his heart racing with a mixture of awe and fear.
He has forged swords, spears, halberds, and spirit tools.
But nothing—nothing—like this.
Kaelan tosses the gun toward him.
Guan Nie fumbles—barely catching it.
"L-Lord—what… what is this thing?"
Kaelan looks at him, expression calm and steady.
"A gun."
His tone shifts—sharp, commanding.
"From today forward, the Forging Pavilion has only one task: refine ten of these and five hundred bullets every single day."
Guan Nie sputters, stunned.
"W-What!? Every day?!"
"You already have the refining method. You will oversee the process."
Kaelan turns, already leaving.
No room for debate.
No room for fear.
Just expectation.
Guan Nie stands frozen—gun in hand, future in front of him.
Kaelan walks back across the training ground, re-entering the forging perimeter.
The forge hall is silent—no ringing metal, no hammer rhythm, only embers breathing inside the massive furnace.
Kaelan stands before it, the glow reflecting in his eyes.
A quiet thought slips out of him.
"…What should I refine next?"
He folds his hands behind his back and thinks.
Not of weapons.
Not of armour.
Not of tools.
But of obligation.
Two months from now—the Decade Auction of the Silver Treasure House.
A gathering of powerhouses:
Saint clans, ancient sects, demon races, old monsters…
and every major founder of a cultivation path.
He has the invitation.
More than that—he must go.
It is the perfect stage to seed the Wizard Path worldwide.
A chance that may not come again for decades.
But—
He cannot leave.
Not while the war continues and the Chen Kingdom balances on a knife's edge.
He exhales.
"So I must send… a clone."
But there is another obstacle.
A clone of one per cent strength cannot fly the distance.
Even if he walks the entire way, he wouldn't reach before the auction.
If he flies using wind magic, the mana cost is too great.
Which means…
"I need a spiritual tool capable of flight."
His gaze lifts slowly to the towering furnace.
Heat rolls across his skin—thick, heavy, almost ceremonial.
His voice becomes a whisper of decision.
"…A Flying Ship."
The words become reality the moment they leave his mouth.
His mind sharpens.
Blueprints assemble themselves across his thoughts—lines, runes, formations, weight distribution, propulsion arrays, spiritual wings, core structures, stabilising nodes.
He thinks deeper.
"If the clone will travel alone, it must have combat effectiveness equal to a Divine Mind realm cultivator."
The Silver Treasure House Auction was never peaceful.
Every decade, treasures worth wars changed hands.
Sometimes, they caused wars.
So the ship could not merely fly.
It must protect.
Kill.
Survive.
Another thought pierces through:
"It must also be a natal-type tool—something that can harmonise with me and lend power to my consciousness even when I am not inside it."
His brows lower, focused.
"That means formations…"
Not simple arrays—but living ones.
Self-sustaining, self-repairing, self-reactive.
A formation that strengthens with his spirit and can act as both weapon and armour.
"To reach Divine Realm combat strength, the spiritual tool must be of Spiritual Treasure Grade."
His fingers tap lightly against his sleeve.
"And preferably… the highest quality."
Low-grade would function.
Medium-grade would serve.
But high-grade?
That would make it feared.
Legendary.
Unforgettable.
A symbol—not just a ship.
A statement.
Kaelan's lips curve slightly—not amusement, but anticipation.
"I've refined Spiritual Treasure-grade weapons before… but never a flying ship."
Challenge flickers behind his eyes.
Then—resolve.
He lifts his hand.
Mana flows.
The furnace roars awake.
Metal storage arrays surrounding the room tremble, chests unlock, rare materials shift—responding to his intent.
As molten light spills across the forge floor—
Kaelan begins designing the flying vessel inside his mind.