The Mother Planet breathed.
Its mountains slept beneath ancient clouds, its rivers carried traces of spiritual light, and deep within its crust, an unseen will watched over every living being born upon it.
At the edge of a quiet village, beneath a towering old tree whose roots split the earth like veins, an old man sat cross-legged on a stone platform.
His back was straight.
His presence was heavy.
Before him sat a small boy, no more than seven years old, mimicking the posture as best he could. His legs trembled slightly, but his eyes never left the elder's face.
"Grandfather," the boy asked softly, "why can't everyone leave the Mother Planet?"
The wind slowed.
The elder opened his eyes.
They were deep—so deep they seemed to contain entire lifetimes.
"Because," he said calmly, "the human body is a lie."
The boy froze.
"A… lie?"
The elder raised his hand and clenched it slowly.
"Your flesh feels strong. Your bones feel solid. Your blood feels alive."
He loosened his grip.
"But all of it was designed for this planet only."
He pointed gently toward the ground.
"The moment a human body enters the universe beyond our sky, it begins to collapse."
The boy's fingers tightened.
"Collapse… how?"
The elder exhaled.
"Bones crack under cosmic pressure."
"Blood boils under foreign energy."
"Organs fail because they cannot understand the laws outside our world."
The boy swallowed.
"Then how do cultivators survive?"
A faint smile appeared on the elder's lips.
"They survive," he said, "by cleansing what nature gave them."
He stood slowly. The ground beneath his feet hummed faintly in response.
"Cultivation is not about gaining power, Liang."
"It is about removing limitation."
The elder turned, his robes brushing the stone.
"The Mother Planet allows us to cultivate because she knows our bodies are flawed."
"So she grants us nine chances."
"Nine?" Liang whispered.
The elder nodded.
"Nine phases of cleansing."
"Nine steps to erase the mortal design written into your flesh."
He raised one finger.
"The first cleansing removes the impurities you were born with."
A second finger.
"The second reshapes the bones that cannot endure pressure."
A third.
"The third purifies blood that cannot carry higher energy."
His hand continued to rise.
"Each phase strips away something that makes you human."
Liang's chest tightened.
"Then… after all nine?"
The elder looked up—toward the sky.
"After the ninth," he said quietly,
"you will still look human."
"You will still speak like one."
He lowered his gaze.
"But your body will no longer belong to this planet alone."
The tree above them rustled, though there was no wind.
"Only then," the elder continued,
"will the universe stop trying to kill you the moment you step into it."
Liang clenched his fists.
"Grandfather… is cultivation painful?"
The elder did not answer immediately.
Instead, he lifted his sleeve.
Beneath it, faint cracks of light ran across his forearm—like scars carved into his very existence.
"Pain," he said at last,
"is how the body remembers what it must erase."
He placed a hand on Liang's head.
"Today, you will begin the first cleansing."
Liang's breath hitched.
"The Flesh Cleansing Phase."
The elder's voice hardened.
"If you endure it, your path opens."
"If you fail…"
The silence stretched.
"…your body will remind you why mortals were never meant to touch the stars."
High above them, the sky shimmered faintly—
as if the universe itself was listening.