“Teacher Lin Zhi, this one is disciple Zamian, a Farmer at the Essence Refining Stage. I’m not from Origin and came here struggling. I need to learn your Seed of Creation technique to keep growing and avoid death,” Zamian said, clapping his hands in respect toward Lin Zhi.

  The teacher, with roots for legs, scaly arms, and six bone-white claws on each hand, responded in his eerie, buzzing voice, nodding slowly. “Curious, curious. Learning my technique at your stage could be deadly. But I admire the sincerity and intent in your voice. You truly believe that my Seed of Creation can help you avoid death.”

  Zamian watched as Lin Zhi’s glowing green roots transformed the floor beneath them into a wooden platform that rose sharply. He couldn’t sense or comprehend how the invisible barrier surrounding the platform came into being, but he could feel its presence.

  As Lin Zhi moved his arm, Zamian activated the Beginning of the Cycle technique throughout his entire body. From his previous encounters, he knew the monster moved slowly, using their battle—or beating—as a lesson for the white-robed disciples below.

  Zamian’s body transformed into its wooden form. His organs, muscles, and bones hardened, taking on a bark-like texture and color, while his blood turned viscous, glowing with a bright green light beneath his skin. The glowing pathways expanded, forming dozens, then hundreds of trails.

  On his oval, hairless, and smooth head, only two holes revealed his eyes, and a grin of glowing green light appeared, unchanging.

  “Curious,” Lin Zhi remarked, his glowing green eyes scanning Zamian. “You use a Primordial Path to aid you, but you do not cultivate it.”

  Zamian’s eyes flashed white and green as he pushed Lin Zhi’s observation aside for now. More pressing was the green orb forming in Lin Zhi’s bony claws.

  ‘Blighted thing,’ he thought as the Seed of Creation materialized, and once again, he felt absolutely nothing. He knew what he needed to observe, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t grasp it. ‘How does he use that Soul Force? How does he imbue intent into that tiny thing?’

  “Your soul is stronger than a Farmer’s should be, disciple,” Lin Zhi said as he flicked the glowing Seed of Creation toward Zamian.

  Momentarily puzzled, Zamian thought, ‘I didn’t even hear the baby’s cry this time!’

  The orb struck him, and Zamian’s instincts flared. ‘Concentrate, your life depends on this, you vermin!’ He berated himself, sending his essence to bolster the Beginning of the Cycle technique while the orb began its assault, devouring his essence and converting it into fuel for its “birth.”

  Zamian’s body remained rooted in place, but his muscles were anything but still. They tensed and contracted, forcing the orb to move within him.

  He noticed something: unless he intended to remove it, the orb wouldn’t resist being moved inside its host.

  As he guided it through his wooden frame, Zamian felt how it relentlessly drained his strength, how it existed solely to draw enough power to be born, to exist, struggling against all odds—and then it clicked.

  ‘It isn’t alive. It doesn’t have self-awareness,’ his eyes gleamed. ‘It’s just a technique. Lin Zhi’s intention is there, yes, but it’s more than that. This is literally his teaching. He imbued the Seed of Creation with what he believes in.’

  Slowly, Zamian raised his right arm, pointing his middle and index fingers at Lin Zhi.

  His essence, fighting against the orb’s relentless suction, moved sluggishly through the flowing sap’s trails of the Beginning of the Cycle technique. Gradually, it gathered at his fingertips.

  ‘Before I was born, I too was just a tiny orb,’ the blinking glow in his eyes intensified. ‘I struggled to become something, to form a body, to be born.’

  +50 Mind Points

  ‘This is why Lin Zhi’s orb becomes a sapling!’ A tiny orb, glowing green and white, began to form at the tip of Zamian’s fingers. ‘This is how Lin Zhi understands the act of being born: a sprout pushing its way through the earth…’

  +50 Mind Points

  ‘The cries I heard when the orb’s glow struck me…’ He felt it, the energy influenced by his intentions and the essence flowing through him. Something deeper, a force from his soul—his Soul Force—entered the orb. ‘It was my own cry.’

  +50 Mind Points

  The orb in his fingers shone with an alternating green and white light. The disciples below gasped in unison, while Lin Zhi merely nodded in silence.

  As the tiny orb solidified, no white text appeared to confirm his success, but Zamian knew. He had done it. He had learned to conjure the Seed of Creation.

  Staring at the orb and its dual glow, Zamian thought, ‘Are you helping me or plotting against me, White Dot?’

  He didn’t understand how he could command the white essence to aid him, but it had. ‘What are its effects on me? Is it always helping me, somehow?’

  Shaking his head, Zamian kept moving Lin Zhi’s Seed of Creation within his back. Slowly, he turned his right hand and pressed his two fingers—the ones holding his tiny greenish-white orb—against his shoulder.

  A chorus of gasps erupted from the disciples below as their murmurs grew louder. Yet, Lin Zhi remained unmoving. “Curious, very curious,” the teacher whispered.

  Zamian used his muscles to move his Seed of Creation, even as it devastated his own body, learning from its effects. While Lin Zhi’s orb sought to struggle for birth, Zamian’s was different.

  ‘It’s trying to move on its own,’ he analyzed. ‘It resists when I send it toward Lin Zhi’s orb… Its suction is weaker, but more than being born, it’s trying to survive… To avoid death.’

  Ignoring the pain—a feat only possible due to his repeated experiences here and the strength of the Beginning of the Cycle technique—Zamian once again sent essence to the tips of his fingers, only to dissipate it immediately.

  He repeated the action. His fingers glowed green, only for the color to fade.

  Again.

  And again.

  ‘Love…’ His thoughts turned cold. ‘I don’t feel any love here… I need to learn more.’

  The disciples below began to stir. Many stood, shouting. A few remained calm, either making notes or whispering observations to one another.

  Lin Zhi moved for the first time, scratching his scaly arm. “Curious. You seek to avoid death, yet you knowingly bring yourself closer to it by doing so. Curious, curious.”

  In front of Lin Zhi, Zamian was conjuring more Seeds of Creation, embedding them into his giant wooden body—his shoulder, belly, arms, and thighs.

  Over and over, he created and moved the orbs.

  ‘I can hear the cries now,’ Zamian thought, as dozens of baby-like wails echoed in his mind simultaneously. Even the Astral Seal, which protected his soul, seemed to align with his intent.

  Despite his dwindling essence, Zamian refused to stop. He kept creating more Seeds of Creation, each one consuming less essence, yet infused with more of his intent—to survive.

  Zamian was not Lin Zhi. He was no natural genius, no master of the cycle. He was just beginning to grasp these concepts.

  But there was one truth where his understanding shone clear.

  Death.

  And now, struggling to avoid death, Zamian imbued this intention into the Seed of Creation—along with his desperate struggle to survive.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It mirrored Lin Zhi’s method: infusing his teachings and beliefs into the Seed of Creation.

  But Zamian’s singular belief now was clear—to avoid death.

  ‘What?’ Zamian spat green sap—his blood—as his mind reeled. For some reason, all his Seeds of Creation began moving to the same place, gravitating toward Lin Zhi’s orb, which was rapidly growing in size.

  Sensing the shift, he chose to move Lin Zhi’s Seed by himself once again, his body cracking under the strain, spilling even more glowing sap.

  The other orbs followed.

  ‘I see,’ Zamian thought, placing Lin Zhi’s Seed in his right thigh. He watched as the tiny orbs he had conjured began devouring the essence flowing into the larger orb—while simultaneously feeding on the essence inside it!

  The smaller orbs felt their impending destruction and clustered, fighting to feed off the dominant one.

  And then, while Zamian watched, another change began.

  Long before reaching the fist-sized threshold, Lin Zhi’s Seed of Creation started tearing through Zamian’s bones and flesh!

  ‘These intents… What are they? Zamian’s mind spun. Mine aren’t as strong as Lin Zhi’s… But they’re more numerous.’ He was momentarily awed by how these techniques seemed almost alive, fighting with everything they had to fulfill their purpose.

  But none of this mattered.

  “Come on!” Zamian cried out as his right thigh began folding inward, crushed under the orb’s relentless force. “Where is love?”

  He couldn’t find it.

  Zamian tried to retreat into his dark space—his soul space—but it was futile. Whether it was the growing pain breaking his focus or the nature of his current state, being partially within the soul space already, he couldn’t reach it.

  “Why… Why!” he screamed, his Beginning of the Cycle technique failing, leaving scars, torn muscles, and a soup of organs in place of his once-reinforced wooden body.

  Zamian was out of essence, and he recognized that even the essence infused on his body was slowly but surely being sucked by the dozens of orbs.

  Yet, his index and middle fingers of his right hand continued pressing against his ruined body, stubbornly attempting to conjure the Seed of Creation without essence.

  He coughed blood, his eyes falling on the stump where his right leg had once been. His gaze shifted to the dead leaf above it, surrounded by tiny brown forms—akin to seeds—connected to his body and devouring it piece by piece.

  ‘They ended Lin Zhi’s technique,’ he thought, his body numb as the seeds crawled upward, ravaging whatever they could, sucking nutrients from Zamian and even from each other.

  As his vision dimmed, he felt no pain, only a numb curiosity as he observed the form one of his Seeds of Creation was taking. ‘Is this… a tiny wooden baby?’

  The thought lingered in his fading consciousness. His vision blurred, but then, time itself seemed to stop.

  Color drained from the world around him, leaving only white. A bright light of the same color engulfed him, converging into a crystal Zamian knew all too well.

  He left the space, his mind empty as he willed the White Dot to display his stats.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 0005/1000

  Mind: 750/800

  Soul: 380/650

  Dismissing the stats, Zamian hugged the sapling in front of him with his left arm.

  He didn’t cry, didn’t kneel. Even his index and middle fingers remained inside the sapling’s crack.

  “I don’t want to die,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes fixed on the sapling, though his thoughts were far away. “There’s so much to do and so much to learn. I need to save Father, I need to check on Bohlo… and Tulip,” he chuckled faintly. “I want to grow, to learn more techniques, to discover other paths of cultivation… Blighted Lin Zhi, he told me so much and so little at the same time!”

  Zamian lightly bumped his head against the sapling, resting it there.

  “I’m sad,” he muttered under his breath. “I know nothing about the White Dot, or Mother’s book, or that Red World,” another faint chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t even know how stars really are, or how the desert feels. I know nothing beyond this greenish place.”

  A thought crossed his mind, and Zamian closed his eyes before speaking again.

  “Now I understand why you spent so much time reading, Mom. You were chasing something more—to know more, to understand more… I wish I’d had more time to listen to your stories.”

  Leaning heavily against the sapling, a wave of dizziness struck him, and numbness spread through his mind.

  He recognized the feeling—Lin Zhi had taught him well.

  He was dying.

  “I hated you, Mom,” he mustered to speak, his voice faint. “I hated you for leaving without a fight. Hated you for not coming back. Hated you for what happened to Father, but…” Images of Jasmines, his mother, flashed through Zamian’s closed eyes. “I hated you for dying, more than anything… because I had no clue what to do without you.”

  Zamian opened his eyes, which while unfocused, seemed unusually cheerful.

  “But don’t worry, Mom,” he whispered. “I’m not a young boy anymore. I know what to do, and I have my own dreams. I have regrets, yes… but I’m happy I once told you I loved you. So let me say it again… I love you, Mom. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  As Zamian’s eyes lost their luster, a deep urge to avoid death, to keep growing, surged within him.

  In his soul space, the specks of light flickered incessantly. The red ones began to move, forming a vortex.

  The specks blinked, sending their energy—Soul Force—through the dark space. That force sought a way out and soon found a connection.

  Zamian’s pure love for his deceased mother.

  The energy moved, but it wasn’t alive. It followed the path that resonated with itself. Without guidance or any form of molding, it would never leave this dark space.

  And then, it happened.

  Zamian’s urge to avoid death gave the red Soul Force an intention, and a path to follow.

  The red energy broke through an invisible barrier and, guided by Zamian’s will, flowed through his destroyed body. It followed a path from his head to the tips of his right-hand fingers.

  The same fingers that were still buried in the sapling’s crack.

  Sluggishly, the red essence gathered, forming a tiny, pulsating red orb.

  Zamian, who should have celebrated mastering the Seed of Creation technique, did not cheer.

  He did not breathe. His open eyes were devoid of color and life.

  Zamian had died.

  But the Seed of Creation remained.

  Slowly, it absorbed the essence within the sapling, growing larger. Soon, as it reached the size of a fist, cracking sounds echoed through the air. The Seed of Creation was destroying the sapling from within.

  However, instead of forming a sprout or a wooden baby, the orb continued to expand. Tiny lines began to form within the sapling, stretching outward and connecting to Zamian.

  If a Soul Path cultivator had witnessed this, they would have understood—the lines represented Zamian’s love for his mother.

  The sapling cracked further, its structure weakening as it leaned toward Zamian. With every passing moment, more lines emerged, binding the two closer.

  Hours passed. The lines wove together, forming a cocoon around Zamian. It was as though the sapling itself had become pregnant with him.

  At last, the sapling was fully consumed by the cocoon, destroyed completely in the process.

  A flash of white light appeared in Zamian’s lifeless eyes, and white text materialized within them.

  Main Quest: Destroy an Unholy Sapling before the end of the month

  Reward: Special Physique (??)

  Status: Complete

  Analyzing reward…

  Error… Inheritor’s condition decaying.

  Choosing Special Physique…

  Error… Inheritor already possesses a Special Physique.

  Analyzing Physique…

  Body of Perpetual Control detected.

  Analyzing environment…

  Creating Unique Physique…

  Using Inheritor’s Soul and Mind Points…

  Applying Reward…

  As the messages flashed, the bright cocoon of red lines pulsed with intensity, releasing a wave of red energy.

  Wherever it passed, the energy left behind a connection—a red line to the soil, the broken trunks, and even the bodies of the outsiders scattered nearby.

  The lines then began pulling everything inward.

  The cocoon pulsed, shrinking in size as organic material meshed against it, dissolving into multicolored liquid—essences from different pathways.

  Inside the cocoon, Zamian’s lifeless body curled into a fetal position, glowing with alternating white and green light.

  The red lines connecting the cocoon to his body converged at his belly.

  His body started to dissolve. His torn skin peeled away, disintegrating into specks of multicolored light. His muscles and bones broke apart, and his blood evaporated.

  All that remained was a tiny white sphere surrounded by multicolored liquid.

  The red lines pumped every particle of light into the sphere. It grew rapidly, taking the form of a human fetus. In moments, the form aged into a male baby, eyes closed and pale skin blinking with a radiant white light.

  The transformation continued. The baby grew older in seconds, becoming a toddler, then a child, and then a young teen.

  Though his face resembled Zamian’s, the body was different—more muscular and taller. When the body reached its late teens—Zamian's current age—the black hair, no longer shoulder-length, cascaded down to his waist.

  The entire body emitted a brilliant white glow, like a coat of light enveloping it.

  As the multicolored liquid entered his still body, a powerful ripple spread through the cocoon.

  A sound akin to a war drum echoed, followed by another.

  While his blood took on a red hue, all his organs were originally white. Most of them resembled his past organs but appeared fortified, with one notable exception: his heart.

  Inside Zamian’s chest, not one, but eight orbs connected with his veins, pumping blood. One rested on the left, one on the right, another at the front, one at the back, two above, and two below, forming a perfect pattern around an invisible middle point.

  His muscles twitched as the multicolored liquid seeped through his skin’s pores. His cultivation, which had returned to be as weak as a commoner’s, began to rise steadily. It climbed back to its peak, halting when he reached the full essence a Zealot could store.

  The remaining liquid fortified his body, and while impossible to see, the liquid also transformed into essence, flowing into his dark space and an ethereal, unknown place beyond.

  Inside Zamian’s soul space, the multicolored specks poured in. Most were engulfed by the countless white specks of light. There were so many white specks that the humanoid figure of his soul space was now a being of pure white light, different from the multicolored form it had once been.

  As the cocoon completely collapsed and any trace of the liquid seemed to be absorbed, its remnants rushed to Zamian. His body greedily devoured every fragment that touched him. The young cultivator, eyes still closed, took a deep breath.

  As he lay there, sleeping naked amidst the ruins, the surroundings told the story of what had transpired.

  As far as the eye could see, there was only barren ground, resembling weathered wood, and scattered white leaves shining their faint light from above.

  The colossal roots, the Erasmus Colossal Tree itself, the saplings, the tree trunks, and even the outsiders’ bodies—none of them remained.

  White lines of text flashed in front of Zamian, waiting for him to read when he woke up. Far away, where the Children of Verdant had built walls of vines and roots and were supposedly fighting against outsiders and traitors, a spike of essence surged. The walls began to wither and slowly sink back into the ground.

  The moment this essence flared, Zamian’s instincts screamed at him, echoing like the cry of a newborn.

  Zamian gasped, and his eyes shot open.