The aftermath of the stone's dissolution was a private hell. For three days, Long Chen burned with an internal fever. His body convulsed with sporadic tremors, muscles knotting and relaxing at random. The tiny vortex of Chaos Qi in his dantian was a hungry, unruly child, feasting on his already depleted vitality. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his dreams filled with swirling grey mists and the echoes of devouring stars.
He dared not seek help. The clan physicians would only sense the bizarre, unstable energy and likely deem him possessed or on the verge of a fatal qi deviation. He endured in silence, in his cold room, surviving on sips of water and the desperate, stubborn will that had become his only asset.
On the fourth day, the fever broke. Weak as a newborn kitten, he pushed himself up. He was gaunt, his eyes sunken, but within them burned a new light—a hard, focused gleam. The Chaos vortex had stabilized, barely, subsisting on a trickle of energy from his own body. It was a leaky bucket, but it was his leaky bucket.
He remembered the fragments of the Primordial Chaos Art. It was not a complete scripture; it was a foundational principle, a brutal methodology. The first step: Body Tempering. Not the clan's method of absorbing spirit herbs and channeling gentle qi to nourish the flesh. This was tempering by devouring and refining.
He needed external energy. Raw, unprocessed life force.
His eyes fell on the half-rotten apple core he'd saved from yesterday's pitiful meal. A ridiculous notion. But the scripture's principle whispered in his mind: All is potential fuel. Refine the essence, discard the dross.
Holding the apple core in his palm, he closed his eyes. Ignoring the screaming protests of his ruined meridians, he focused his entire will on the tiny vortex in his dantian. He imagined it spinning, creating a pull. He directed that pull, not through meridians he didn't have, but through sheer intent and the strange, new connection he felt to the chaos energy, towards his palm.
For an hour, nothing. Sweat beaded on his brow from the mental strain. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible wisp of greenish energy, thin as a ghost, seeped from the decaying fruit into his skin. It was minuscule, the barest hint of wood-attributed life force.
It entered his body and immediately went wild, a foreign intruder causing discord. Before it could cause damage, the Chaos vortex in his dantian gave a lazy spin. A tendril of grey mist reached out. It touched the wisp of green energy and consumed it. There was a brief, internal struggle, a sensation of grinding and purification. Then, the green energy was gone, and the Chaos vortex pulsed slightly, growing ever so infinitesimally stronger. A feedback of warmth, pure and neutral, spread from his dantian, soothing a tiny fraction of the constant ache in his body.
It was the most inefficient, pathetic cultivation session in history. But Long Chen's eyes snapped open, blazing with triumph. It worked.
He had drawn in external energy and refined it without using his shattered meridians. The Chaos Art bypassed them entirely, using his body itself as the conduit and the vortex as the crucible. The refined energy then nourished his body directly. It was a closed, brutal, incredibly inefficient loop, but it was a path.
From that day, his cleaning duties took on a new purpose. He wasn't just sweeping dust; he was hunting energy. He'd linger near the clan's spirit herb garden wall, not to steal—the formations would kill him—but to sit downwind, trying to pull the faint, dispersed wood and earth energy leaking from the plants. He'd volunteer to clean the training grounds after the disciples left, gathering the dissipated traces of their martial qi, their sweat, their exerted life force—all of it raw, chaotic, and perfect for his devouring vortex.
Progress was glacial. A month of this secret, grueling work saw the vortex grow from a grain of sand to a pea-sized swirl of slightly denser grey mist. His physical condition improved marginally. The ashen color in his veins receded a little, replaced by a faint, healthy pink. He could now work a full day without feeling like he would collapse. The constant ache lessened to a dull background hum.
But he was still crippled. He had no combat power, no speed, no strength beyond that of a slightly fit mortal. The Chaos Qi was useless for martial techniques in its current state; it was purely for sustenance and internal refinement.
The test came on a blustery afternoon. He was hauling a bucket of dirty mop water to dump in the drainage ditch behind the kitchens. As he rounded a corner, he came face-to-face with Long Hu and two other cronies, their faces smeared with the satisfaction of a good training session.
"Look who's here! The hall-sweeping genius," Long Hu boomed, blocking the path. "You're in my way, Cripple."
Long Chen tightened his grip on the bucket handles. "The path is wide enough," he said, his voice flat. He kept his eyes down, the old habit of submission warring with the new fire in his gut.
"I said," Long Hu stepped closer, his aura of Body Tempering 6th Layer pressing down, "you're in my way."
One of Long Hu's friends, a sniveling youth named Long Quan, snickered. "Maybe he wants a bath." With a sudden kick, he struck the bottom of Long Chen's bucket.
The wooden bucket flew from Long Chen's hands, the filthy water arcing up and splashing down over Long Hu's clean training robes.
Time froze.
Long Hu looked down at the dark, greasy stain spreading across his chest. His face, initially stunned, transformed into a mask of pure rage. "You dare?!"
It was an accident, but reason had left Long Hu's eyes. This was the perfect excuse.
"Teach this waste a lesson he won't forget!" Long Hu snarled, not even bothering to use proper technique. He simply lunged, a meaty fist aimed straight for Long Chen's face.
The old Long Chen, the genius, would have seen a dozen ways to counter. The current Long Chen had only one: survive. He couldn't match speed or strength. He dropped into a low crouch, not a martial stance, but the instinctive move of someone avoiding a falling object. Long Hu's fist whistled over his head.
Surprise flickered on Long Hu's face, replaced by greater anger. "Think you're clever?" He pivoted, his leg sweeping in a low kick aimed at Long Chen's knees.
Long Chen threw himself backward, landing hard on the cobblestones, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He rolled clumsily, just avoiding a stomp from Long Quan. There was no elegance here, no technique. It was pure, desperate scrabbling. He used the bucket, the wet stones, his own smaller size—anything to evade.
But he couldn't evade forever. A kick from the third lackey caught him in the ribs as he tried to rise. A sickening crack echoed, and white-hot pain exploded in his side. He gasped, curling involuntarily.
Long Hu stood over him, grinning. "See? Trash belongs on the ground." He raised his foot, aiming to stamp on Long Chen's injured ribs.
In that moment of impending agony, something primal surged within Long Chen. Not the Chaos Qi—it was too weak, too internal. It was the will that had communed with the broken stone, the defiance that had embraced the chaotic scripture. His eyes snapped up, meeting Long Hu's. They were no longer the eyes of a defeated cripple, but pools of cold, simmering fury.
Long Hu hesitated, unnerved for a split second.
It was enough. With a grunt of pain, Long Chen shot his hand out, not to block, but to grab the ankle of Long Hu's standing leg. He had no strength to throw him, but he pulled with all his weight and desperate leverage, yanking towards himself.
Long Hu, unbalanced, swore and stumbled forward, his stomping foot coming down awkwardly on the wet stone. He slipped, arms windmilling, and crashed down heavily beside Long Chen, his fine robes now soaked in the same filth.
"You little—!" Spitting mud, Long Hu scrambled up, his face purple with humiliation and rage. He was about to launch a truly vicious assault when a sharp voice cut through the courtyard.
"What is the meaning of this commotion?"
Elder Long Kuan, the resource steward, stood at the end of the path, his expression like carved ice. He took in the scene: the spilled bucket, the three disciples standing over a curled, bloodied Long Chen, the mud stains on Long Hu.
Long Hu immediately pointed at Long Chen. "Elder! He attacked me! Splashed me with filth and tried to trip me!"
Long Kuan's gaze shifted to Long Chen, who was slowly, painfully pushing himself to his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs. The Elder's eyes held no sympathy, only cold assessment. A public brawl, especially involving a disgraced former genius, was a stain on clan discipline.
"Fighting amongst clansmen is forbidden," Long Kuan stated. "Long Chen, for provoking an altercation and neglecting your duties, your spirit grain ration is halved for the next month. Clean this mess and report to the punishment block for three days of solitary reflection." His eyes flicked to Long Hu. "You. Control yourself. Do not lower yourself to brawling with servants. Now, all of you, disperse."
The verdict was delivered with finality. Long Hu shot Long Chen a look of pure venom, but with a smug curl of his lip, he and his friends swaggered away.
Long Chen remained on his knees, the pain in his ribs a sharp counterpoint to the cold fury settling in his heart. He had been beaten, blamed, and punished. He had gained nothing.
But as he watched Long Hu's retreating back, a new understanding crystallized. The Chaos Art gave him a path, but it was slow. Too slow. He needed better fuel. The faint energy of herbs and sweat wasn't enough. The scripture whispered of devouring the essence of life itself.
His gaze, still burning, drifted past the kitchen drainage ditch, towards the dark, brooding line of the Blackwater Mountains that loomed beyond the city walls. Where mortal disciples trained with spirit herbs, the mountains held demon beasts. Beasts whose flesh, blood, and cores were dense with violent, potent life force.
A dangerous, insane idea took root. To temper his body with chaos, he would need to walk into the jaws of the beast.
He hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the fiery protest from his ribs. The pain was just another ingredient. He would use it. He would use everything.
His foundation was not of jade, or iron, or even blood. It was being laid, brick by agonizing brick, on a bedrock of pain, scorn, and a hunger that was starting to mirror the devouring vortex in his soul.
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