Seven days passed.
They did not blur together.
Each one cut distinctly into Chen Yuan's body and mind.
By the end of the first day, his muscles screamed in protest.
By the third, his qi circulation ached with dull, persistent pain.
By the fifth, even standing still felt like an act of defiance.
On the seventh day, Chen Yuan finally stopped pretending he was special.
He stood at the same desolate plateau, wind tugging at his robes, and let his arms fall to his sides.
"…I'm not a prodigy," he said quietly.
There was no bitterness in his voice. Only clarity.
He had tried every angle he could think of—speed, redirection, flow, minimal force, reactive stance. He had failed in ways that would have crippled ordinary cultivators.
The only reason he still stood was the system.
The system that patched fractures before they spread.
The system that corrected qi collapse before it destroyed meridians.
The system that allowed him to try again.
Without it, he would have broken himself within a day.
Style Creation Progress: 26%
Status: Incomplete
Stability: Low
Chen Yuan stared at the notification for a long time.
Twenty-six percent.
A week of near self-destruction—for not even a third of a foundation.
He laughed softly.
"So this is what talent looks like without genius," he murmured.
He sat down, cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
But this time, he did not attempt another movement.
Instead, he reviewed.
Not techniques.
Moments.
Times he survived when others should have killed him.
Times his body moved before his mind caught up.
Times he did not overpower—but outlasted.
A principle emerged.
Not dominance.
Not elegance.
Persistence under pressure.
"My style isn't about winning," Chen Yuan realized. "It's about not losing."
That was the shape.
Incomplete, rough—but real.
He opened his eyes.
"…That's enough for now."
He stood and stretched, feeling the lingering ache in his bones. Pushing further without more understanding would only stall him—or worse.
The system responded, almost approvingly.
Style Creation Paused
Progress Preserved
Chen Yuan exhaled.
Then something else surfaced.
A memory.
Whispers from the Inner Court.
Late-night conversations between disciples who thought they would never reach the Ascendant Grounds.
There's something deeper in there.
A weapon.
Left behind.
Chen Yuan frowned.
"A sword," he muttered.
He remembered the story now.
The Conquest.
A blade said to have bathed in the blood of countless warriors. A weapon abandoned not because it was weak—but because no one could wield it without being consumed.
A legend.
Nothing more.
At least—that was what everyone said.
The system reacted instantly.
Strife Volume — Key Object Detected
Designation: The Conquest
Status: Unclaimed
Location: Restricted Zone — Ascendant Grounds Depths
Threat Level: Extreme
Relevance: High
Chen Yuan's breath caught.
"So it's real."
The system did not embellish. It never did.
If it marked something as part of the volume, it was not coincidence.
It was inevitable.
Chen Yuan tightened his cloak and turned toward the deeper mist.
"I'm not strong enough to fight Elders," he said. "I'm not ready to finish my style."
He took his first step forward.
"But I can still walk."
The Ascendant Grounds answered with distant roars.
And somewhere far below, buried beneath blood and memory, a sword waited.