Morning light spilled through the cloud-curtain above the sect, turning the spirit-trees silver. The dew smelled faintly of thunder; somewhere, a sword formation hummed to itself, rehearsing for war.
In the middle of his courtyard, Yang Yin Long woke to that sound and stretched until his bones cracked like old bamboo. Last night's feast still lingered on the air—barbequed spirit-beast, Elder Qin's peerless wine, laughter that could almost convince a man the cultivation path was simple.
But when he looked at the sky, that illusion dissolved.
Today was the day he would change his cultivation path.
He washed quickly, tied his robes, and looked once more at the small stack of jade slips and contribution tokens on his table. Decades of missions, beast hunts, formations cleaned and fields tended—all the quiet work of a man preparing for something larger. Counting the free right to choose a technique from his initiation years ago, he now had enough to buy two techniques few outer-sect disciples even dared to think about.
"Dual cultivation of body and qi," he murmured. "If I don't try it now, I'll never move beyond ordinary."
He left the courtyard, boots tapping the stone walkway, and headed toward the tallest building on the sect's eastern ridge—the Technique Pavilion.
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The Pavilion of Hundred Paths
The building was older than most mountains. Every brick smelled faintly of ink and ozone; the air shimmered with sealed formations. It was said that even a Nascent Soul cultivator could be erased from existence if they tried to steal from within.
At the gate, the guards bowed but didn't question him. Everyone knew this quiet man with the calm eyes who had spent years in the reading chambers, copying ancient scrolls by hand just to feel their rhythm.
He climbed past the ground floor, past the second, until he reached the upper hall where Elder Yan waited.
No one knew Elder Yan's true cultivation. Some whispered that he had long since reached the King Realm, others that he'd once walked the battlefield of Saints. He looked ordinary—thin, gray-robed, eyes half-closed—but every breath he took resonated like thunder in a bottle.
When Yin Long stepped inside, the old man opened one eye. "So, you finally made up your mind?"
"Yes, Elder Yan." Yin Long bowed. "I wish to exchange for two techniques."
The old man's eyebrow rose. "Two?"
"One Qi cultivation technique and one body cultivation method."
Elder Yan leaned back in his chair made of thunder-wood. "Speak."
Yin Long took a breath. "For the Qi path, the Thunder Origin Sword Technique. For the body, the Divine Axe Opening Heaven Method."
The room went very still.
The elder's eyelid twitched. "You aim high."
He gestured, and two lights appeared between them—one blue-white, one gold. Within each hovered the outlines of ancient scripts, pulsing gently.
Elder Yan's voice grew thoughtful. "The Thunder Origin Sword Technique… versatile, dangerous. It molds itself to one's root attribute. Metal becomes Golden Thunder—sharp, pure. Fire becomes Thunder Fire—explosive. Water, the calm Lightning of Tides. Wood, the growing Thunder Sap. Earth… Earth Thunder, dense and unstoppable."
He gave a soft grunt. "Few dare to cultivate it without a natural thunder root. The backlash alone has crippled men."
Yin Long bowed again. "Then I will endure what others cannot."
The elder chuckled. "Ambition. Good. Now, this other one… the Divine Axe Opening Heaven Method."
He waved his sleeve; the golden light flared, filling the hall with the echo of axes splitting creation itself. For an instant Yin Long saw visions—mountains shattering, seas divided, a giant carving reality apart.
"This is no ordinary body technique," Elder Yan said quietly. "It forges the bones into axe-heads, the tendons into strings of divine metal. It grants a passive physique—one that strengthens even while asleep. But it demands a monstrous will. The pain of remolding flesh into Dao metal has driven cultivators insane."
Yin Long's tone remained calm. "I have prepared for that pain all my life."
The elder looked at him a long moment, then smiled faintly. "Perhaps you have. You always were the quiet storm."
He set the two jade slips before him. "The rules stand. You can still change your Qi technique twice more, if you ever regret your path. But the Body Cultivation Method—once chosen, it is bound. Even I cannot help you reverse it."
"I understand." Yin Long took the slips reverently. They pulsed once, acknowledging their new master.
The elder's gaze softened, just slightly. "You've come here for decades, reading instead of boasting. I thought you'd die in obscurity. Don't prove me wrong by dying in glory."
Yin Long smiled. "I'll try not to."
"Go, then," the old man said, waving him away. "And don't burn the courtyard when the thunder answers you."
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The Study of Heaven and Flesh
Back in his courtyard, Yin Long placed the slips before him and sat cross-legged. The sun was high; cicadas hummed. The world felt deceptively ordinary.
He pressed his consciousness into the first jade slip. Instantly, a world of thunder unfolded—swords rising like mountains, each blade crackling with a different hue. Lightning rained upward, dancing to an unseen rhythm. Words of the technique etched themselves into his soul:
' Thunder is not born—it awakens where will meets metal.
Sword is not wielded—it exists where intent cuts through silence.'
He breathed deeply, feeling the resonance with his golden spiritual root. Deep within his dantian, faint sparks began to gather. His meridians thrummed in response; threads of metallic qi coiled around a core of pale lightning.
Golden Thunder—the first whisper of his new path.
He withdrew before it overwhelmed him and turned to the second slip.
The moment his mind touched it, his body screamed.
The Divine Axe Opening Heaven Method was no gentle manual—it was commandment and catastrophe. He saw himself standing in endless darkness, a giant shadow above him raising an axe that could split time.
Each swing shattered parts of him—bone, tendon, flesh—then reforged them in the heat of a thousand suns. Sweat poured down his real body though he hadn't moved. His heartbeat echoed like war drums.
He endured.
For hours he sat unmoving, letting the first stage of comprehension etch itself into him: "Split the mortal shell, reveal the metal within."
When he finally opened his eyes, dusk had fallen. His robe clung to him, soaked through. The air smelled faintly of ozone; faint threads of thunderlight ran across his skin before fading.
He exhaled slowly.
"Thunder for the sword, axe for the flesh. Let's see how far these two can carry me."
He looked toward the distant horizon where the main sect hall glowed faintly. Somewhere above those clouds, fate and unseen gods were surely arguing over his path. He didn't care.
For now, there was only cultivation. And the sound of thunder answering a mortal's heart.
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