Zamian bled as he sat inside the squishy, dark cocoon imprisoning him. He made no effort to control his body or close his wounds.

  ‘I can’t hear a blighting thing,’ he thought grimly, realizing the roots were soundproof. And this reminded him of when his father locked him inside Yooki’s garden.

  ‘Old man, if you had taken me with you instead of leaving me there, what would have happened?’

  As strength slowly drained from his body, Zamian kept thinking about his next steps. He patted his belly and briefly closed his eyes, checking the contents inside his tube-like organs before smiling faintly.

  He observed his surroundings, which, to him, were as clear as they could be. The brown roots moved slowly, constantly siphoning essence and sending it somewhere.

  As moments passed, minutes turned into hours.

  ‘Was I wrong?’

  For what felt like the tenth time, Zamian doubted his plan before shaking his head.

  ‘No, I need to keep waiting.’

  He still had more than half of his blood, but he had to fight against his own body to prevent his muscles from contracting and forcefully closing his wounds. After all, even his instincts were whispering to him that the situation was becoming dangerous.

  At the same time, he consciously avoided looking at his left arm, though he glanced at his four-fingered right palm every few minutes.

  ‘I hope you all are safe. Really safe,’ he thought, finding solace in the White Dot’s previous notification.

  More hours passed.

  His lips were dry. His body was numb. His vision blurred as he stared at the ceiling, eyes glazed.

  Zamian almost didn’t notice when his prison began to move upward.

  After a few seconds, he seemed to reach his destination. The cocoon bloomed like a grotesque flower, its hundreds of wet roots unfurling at the top.

  Then, those same roots skewered him again.

  Grunting, he endured the pain and disgust as the tendrils pierced through his chest, arms, and legs once more.

  His eyes gleamed as he consciously moved a few tubes inside his body to shield a hidden object.

  Noticing the appearance of new mental sound spheres, each projecting different sounds around him, Zamian felt a sharp spike of pain in his head.

  He was now outside the hole he had been thrown into.

  Accompanying him were not only Fern and the two armored Chosen but also a purple-robed man with small eyes, long brown hair, and a wooden right forearm: Elwood.

  Behind them stood the old Chosen Calla, unarmored and wearing a fresh set of leaf-cloth.

  The Lord Chosen glowed with a green hue, and the roots piercing through Zamian shifted, forcing him to stand and face the five of them.

  Elwood examined Zamian’s condition, briefly smirking before masking his expression and waving his right hand.

  Calla nodded and conjured her viscous liquid, sending a handful in Zamian’s direction.

  The substance splashed against his body and wormed its way into one of his wounds.

  Instantly, he felt it command his body—to close the wounds, to produce more blood, to repair itself—while also numbing him from the inside.

  ‘It’s full of intent, but the only real effect is to make my flesh numb?’ he thought. ‘Is she using a weaker version of her technique on me or this is all she can do? Blighting useless geezer.’

  Worst of all, the hundreds of vines burrowing through his body remained, impeding any healing beyond the stabilization of his current condition.

  "Your mortal cycle would have ended if we left you untreated," Elwood said, breaking the silence. "Of course, Calla here can do more, but only if you cooperate with us."

  Grinning, Zamian ignored Elwood and looked at Fern, raising an eyebrow.

  Due to the numbness, he could still speak plainly.

  "Your master knows how to use his wooden arm in the right place, so why do you still have yours shoved up your as—"

  A slap cut him off.

  Zamian glared at the Chosen carrying the great wooden sword who had hastily approached him to slap his face.

  Fern remained in silence.

  "You are a very, very stupid brat," Elwood said. "You’re strong, of course, and you have a couple of techniques I’m interested in. But let me help you understand your situation."

  Stepping closer, the Lord Chosen's left hand shot up to Zamian’s neck, strangling him.

  "You are a bug," Elwood’s eyes gleamed with green light. "A Zealot who hasn’t found his path forward, who knows a few tricks, and who happens to be the son of a dangerous man. That’s you, Zamian Greenfield. And the only reason you’re still alive is because of your father. Your mortal cycle will end soon, and when that moment comes, I want you to remember one thing."

  Elwood leaned in, whispering in Zamian’s ear.

  "If you didn’t exist, your father would be safe."

  Letting go of Zamian’s neck, the Lord Chosen took a step back.

  "Now, cooperate—"

  Before he could finish his sentence, the taste of blood and saliva filled his mouth.

  Neither were his.

  As Elwood touched his lips, where Zamian had spat, the other Chosen froze, momentarily too stunned to react, bringing silence to the room.

  "What a pervert," Zamian said, his eyes cold despite his light tone. "It was supposed to hit your face, but you just had to open your mouth, didn’t you?"

  Zamian had actually been aiming for Elwood’s eyes.

  Fern moved, conjuring a wooden spear, his glare burning with fury.

  Elwood stopped the enraged man with a wave of his hand and locked eyes with Zamian.

  Zamian stared right back.

  "A few days here will make you understand something," Elwood said, his voice steady. "Before your mortal cycle ends, we can either make you suffer a lot or ease your pain."

  He turned to Calla.

  The old woman glowed with a green hue, and the viscous liquid inside Zamian slithered out through his wounds, splashing onto the floor before dissipating.

  "Think about how you want to spend your last days in this cycle," Elwood said as he turned his back on Zamian.

  He stomped the ground, sending a green wave through the floor.

  The roots piercing Zamian shifted, dragging him back down into the dark hole before sealing the cocoon once more.

  Blood seeped from his wounds, but the lingering intent of Calla’s liquid still urged his body to heal, even as the pain slowly returned.

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  Sitting in a pool of his own blood, Zamian commanded his body to close the wounds and focused on stabilizing himself.

  ‘I knew you would come, vermin,’ he thought. ‘Now I can start.’

  Closing his eyes, he attempted to enter his soul space, but a sudden spike of pain forced them open again.

  ‘The mental sound spheres are diminishing,’ he realized after a moment. ‘The Luminous Senses technique only had a cost to be conjured, but none to maintain itself… Unless the cost isn’t essence.’

  Focusing inward, he checked his head, eyes, and ears before scanning the rest of his body.

  With his precise control and the constant waves of pain, he understood what was happening.

  ‘My body is too damaged to handle the technique.’

  Biting his lip, he recalled how to deactivate it.

  His mind relaxed, and in his soul space, Zamian’s soul moved, making a grasping motion.

  He didn’t control it, but as he dismissed the technique, it moved on its own, helping him.

  In the outside world, the young cultivator blinked, then scowled.

  ‘Was my vision and hearing really this bad?’

  He could still see in the dark, but everything seemed less focused.

  And now, he could no longer hear his own blood rushing through his veins or the beat of his four remaining hearts.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes again.

  This time, he entered his soul space, glancing at the Soul Tome which appeared brighter than before, and then shifted his focus to the two crystals above the humanoid figure’s head.

  Zooming in, he once again noticed how the drawings on each white crystal were different on every side, constantly shifting and moving.

  ‘Lin Zhi’s crystal, the one I received to learn the Seed of Creation technique, still has seven drawings,’ he noted, barely sparing it a glance before turning to the other.

  ‘This one, with sixteen drawings, I received when choosing to learn the One Amongst Myriad Beings technique. You are the step one of my plain, mysterious thing.’

  Focusing on the crystal, Zamian’s vision was engulfed in white light within seconds.

  A mountain materialized before him, its sheer size difficult to comprehend. Its peak stretched beyond the clouds, piercing through the sky itself.

  The behemoth of stone and earth gained color, revealing a vast expanse of greenery. As far as he could see, trees stretched endlessly across the landscape.

  Dots of various colors hovered above the treetops. Only when his vision zoomed toward the middle of the mountain did he recognize what some of them were.

  ‘Birds,’ he realized, watching as his perception passed through these enormous creatures, carrying him deep into the forest.

  ‘Blighting big,’ he thought as he gained perspective. The trunks of these trees were half the size of the Sanctuary’s Colossal Trees.

  ‘A whole forest of them? That’s nuts.’

  His focus shifted, drawn toward a crystal-clear lake, as vast as the entire Camp of Salvation. Its surface rippled gently, the movement of water disturbed only by scattered rocks and the presence of small, multicolored fish swimming in its depths.

  Nestled at the water’s edge, a wooden cottage rested. Unlike the buildings in the Sanctuary, it wasn’t made from single segments of wood or roots but constructed from cut-down logs, stacked and assembled with much care.

  A gap in the ceiling allowed puffs of green smoke to escape, drifting lazily into the sky.

  Zamian’s perspective settled in front of the cottage’s wooden door.

  As he regained control of his body, he took a deep breath and activated his Luminous Senses technique.

  The wooden scent of the place had a sweet undertone, and all around him, the forest sang.

  Small critters scurried through the underbrush, their tiny paws pattering far away. Resonant, low growls of unseen beasts rumbled in the distance, while the cackling of birds layered the symphony of wilderness.

  From inside the cottage, Zamian’s enhanced hearing detected calm, measured footsteps and the faint sound of stirring liquid.

  As someone approached the door, Zamian braced himself.

  The wooden door creaked open.

  And Zamian froze.

  A gentle voice reached him as the cottage’s owner held the door with one hand and a wooden bowl filled with vegetable and meat soup in the other. She looked at him with a sweet smile.

  "Hello, I was busy cultivating and didn’t notice you coming."

  Zamian heard her soft voice, akin to a whispering breeze, and kept staring at the speaker.

  In front of him stood a woman as beautiful as Yokki, wearing nothing but a fur top and a matching skirt. Her skin was fair, almost as white as Zamian’s, and her eyes were a soft, glowing green—the same color as her long hair.

  Her figure was lean, yet her curves were ample.

  And finally, her ears were pointed.

  None of that, however, mattered to Zamian.

  The moment she opened the door, an overwhelming pressure slammed into him. His Astral Seal fought relentlessly, trying to keep the force from crushing his soul.

  Unfortunately, his body and mind had no such protection.

  That was why he stood there, glaring like a fool with dizzy eyes, his thoughts scattered.

  "Oh," the woman murmured, her eyes glimmering with a green hue as the pressure suddenly vanished. "A mortal? How did you get here?"

  Frowning, she let go of the door and used her free hand to usher Zamian inside, pulling him by the arm.

  Still recovering from the suffocating presence, Zamian blinked and suddenly found himself sitting on a wooden chair near a fire embedded in the wall.

  "Fireplace," he muttered, recalling the name from a book he had read long ago.

  But he couldn’t remember the book’s name.

  "You aren’t from Origin."

  Jerking his head to the right, he saw the green-haired woman looking at him with a corked eyebrow. She carried two wooden bowls, each with a carved spoon resting inside.

  Placing one in his lap, she sat across from him, a wooden chair appearing beneath her as if from nowhere.

  ‘I didn’t even sense her using essence,’ Zamian thought, gripping the bowl and glancing at its contents.

  Inside the bowl were an assortment of unfamiliar vegetables and pieces of meat.

  The aroma was rich and hearty, a deep, savory scent mixed with sweet and earthy notes. There was also something fresh and slightly spicy, rounded off with hints of herbs.

  He glanced at her.

  “I’m not from Origin,” he said.

  "Don’t worry, I’m not from Origin either,” the woman said, eating a spoonful of the soup. “Come, eat. I used the remains of mortal beasts and plants, so your body won’t explode,"

  Zamian licked his lips, glanced at the woman, and imitated her, scooping up both vegetables and meat with the spoon.

  The moment it entered his mouth, his tongue was coated in a deep, savory, unfamiliar flavor. The soup was warm, and the soft pieces of meat were tender and juicy, blending perfectly with the sweetness of the vegetables and the complex seasonings.

  Salivating, his eyes widened as he continued eating.

  Within seconds, he had emptied the bowl, staring at its now-barren state.

  After a moment, he remembered where he was and looked at the woman.

  She was still eating, slowly, holding the bowl in her left hand and the spoon in her right.

  He took the opportunity to observe the interior of the cottage.

  As expected, most of the objects were made of wood, and the furniture was minimal, but a few details stood out to him.

  First, the cottage didn’t appear to have any separate rooms. It was a single rectangular space with just one door, no walls dividing its interior.

  Second, a large pile of furs lay in the left corner of the house, and with his enhanced vision, he noticed that the arrangement formed a contour—as if someone had been lying there frequently.

  Lastly, there were no windows or openings, yet the orange glow from the fire illuminated the place in an eerily natural way.

  Smacking his lips, Zamian turned back to the cottage’s owner, just as she finished her meal.

  She stood, picked up his empty bowl, and, without him sensing even a flicker of essence, made both bowls and spoons disappear.

  Returning to her chair, the woman crossed her arms, a palm-sized leaf appearing in her right hand.

  She fanned herself in fluid motions while absentmindedly gathering her hair with her left hand, cooling the back of her neck.

  Looking at Zamian, she finally spoke.

  "My name is Eveniel, but you can call me Eve. What’s your name?"

  "Zamian. You can call me… Zamian."

  "Okay, Zamian," she nodded. "You’re wearing the White Leaf Sect robes, so I know you’re a disciple. But what are you doing here? How did you get here?"

  Zamian’s thoughts raced, but he found only one answer to give.

  "I was sent here to learn the One Amongst Myriad Beings technique."

  Eve chuckled. "Are you one of the Elder’s bastard children?"

  "Wh—"

  "You’re not even at the Essence Merging Stage," she said, shaking her head. "Why would those proud Immortals bring you here?"

  Zamian’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The way she called them ‘Immortals’… why did it sound demeaning?’

  Eve stood up, the leaf fan dissipating as she walked toward the door.

  "Let’s go. I’ll show you the technique, and then you can go back to your books."

  Seeing her turn her back to him, Zamian hastily stood and followed.

  "Teacher Eve, one moment!"

  "I’m not your teacher."

  "I have a question."

  "My deal with them is to show you the technique, that’s all," she said, opening the door.

  "Wait," Zamian called out. "How can I advance to the Essence Merging Stage?"

  Eve stopped in her tracks and turned her head slightly to look at him.

  Her eyes flashed green, and suddenly—Zamian’s body stopped moving.

  His blood froze. His hearts stopped beating. His thoughts came to a screeching halt.

  A moment later, everything returned to normal, and an icy chill crawled down his spine.

  Eve was now standing much closer, her glowing eyes locked onto his. Her voice, once sweet and carefree, had turned cold and sharp.

  "What kind of lifeform are you?" she asked. "Are you a clone of that Demon?"

  Zamian’s instincts remained silent, yet he sensed immense danger.

  Just by looking at this powerful woman, he detected something new blossoming from her.

  Fear.

  "No! I’m a Light’s Pathway cultivator who came here to learn! I don’t even know who is Demon!"

  "Then why is your soul protected by such a powerful seal?" she hissed.

  The world shifted. Everything was bathed in a green glow.

  "...It was a divine reward!" he answered hastily, gasping as the cottage dissolved into green essence.

  A massive wave of Nature’s essence rippled outward, turning everything into floating green specks.

  The only sounds in the distance were the frantic cries of beasts fleeing.

  "A divine reward? From a god?" she asked, her body growing larger.

  Weird symbols formed around, akin to the white crystal’s drawings.

  With no time to think, and his instincts still silent, Zamian blurted out, "I guess so!"

  "Then die, betrayer of your kind and god’s believer," she scowled, her voice filled with anger.

  Zamian felt nothing.

  Time seemed to pause.

  He glanced at his body—it was disintegrating into green specks, dissolving into Nature’s essence itself.

  Color faded from the world, and white light flooded his vision.

  Then, everything converged into a white crystal with sixteen sides.

  One of its drawings faded. Now, there were only fifteen.

  Exiting his soul space and feeling his battered, wounded, and essence-drained body, Zamian reflected on his last moments.

  And he smiled.

  ‘Did that woman call me a betrayer because she thought I believed in a god?’

  His eyes gleamed.

  ‘Does that mean powerful cultivators don’t like gods?’

  Not wanting to waste time, he closed his eyes again, sinking into his dark space.

  ‘I’ll have some more questions for you, Eve,’ he thought, zooming in on the two crystals above the humanoid figure’s head, before diving back into Eve’s crystal.