‘I can’t cultivate inside those crystals,’ Zamian thought, recalling what had happened to him in Lin Zhi’s tower. ‘I could use them to upgrade my mind and soul stats, but that seems like a waste and too dependent on luck… It’s better to follow my plan.’

  Coughing, he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘And I can’t see inside my soul when I’m in those crystals, so there’s no way to be sure if all the steps will work as intended,’ he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them, resolute. ‘For now, I need to trust myself, my instincts, and this blighted mute.’

  He coughed again.

  ‘I don’t know what your goals are, White Dot,’ Zamian glanced at the corner of his vision. ‘But you better not start changing things now, do you hear me?’

  Focusing on his body, he used his precise control to move a hidden object through his tubes until it reached his throat.

  He placed both hands below his mouth and coughed again.

  And again.

  With a wet, disgusting noise, spit flew from his mouth, landing in his hands.

  But there was nothing to be seen.

  Only felt.

  Closing his fists, Zamian pressed his fingers around a familiar small object—a smooth, cylindrical shaft ending in a perfectly rounded tip.

  ‘White Key, long time no see,’ he thought, clasping his hands and shutting his eyes.

  Entering his soul space, Zamian willed himself closer to the Soul Tome.

  The humanoid figure remained unmoving, glowing brightly with uncountable specks of white light.

  Positioning himself between the figure and the tome in its hands, Zamian imagined himself having a body, standing in the same posture as the being made of motes of light.

  And then, he started to remember.

  He remembered his childhood.

  The changes in his body.

  The feelings that had surfaced over the past few days.

  After a moment, the Soul Tome shone brighter, and the dark space trembled slightly.

  A surge of white Soul Force entered the Soul Tome, and formless information took shape on each of its massive pages.

  Not only that, but many more pieces of Zamian’s life—everything except the White Dot and a few deeper secrets like Lin Zhi’s, the Red World, or his perspective on the Verdant God—filled the tome’s pages.

  This was the first and most crucial step in Zamian’s plan.

  While trapped in the Root Cage, he had finally pieced together the true purpose of the Soul Tome.

  It was meant to help those on the Light Pathway cultivate!

  ‘I’m more of a dumb oak than Bohlo,’ he thought, continuing to feed more information into the tome. ‘Of course, a Scholar's first technique should be about studying.’

  As white essence started gathering around him, a powerful suction force suddenly pulled it away before it could settle inside his soul, mind, or body.

  The Roots!

  The Deep Ground’s primary form of control was the living roots that siphoned essence from any prisoner as fast as possible.

  When he was inside the Root Cage, no matter how quickly Zamian cultivated, he never reached even one percent of his cultivation progress according to the White Dot.

  And now, inside this cocoon of living roots, it was even more impossible to do so.

  At first, while being carried by Fern and the other two Chosen, Zamian’s plan was simple: gather enough essence to conjure a Seed of Creation, which he firmly believed could destroy any prison.

  After all, it didn’t rely on his own essence but on the target’s.

  Of course, dealing with three Chosen wouldn’t be easy, but at that moment, it was all he could do.

  However, deep down, he had clung to a hidden hope.

  The hope was that Bohlo would find a place to have a breakthrough.

  And when the quest was completed with less than an hour left before its final deadline, Zamian almost laughed out loud.

  It was a double gift for him.

  While it confirmed that his dense friend was safe and stronger, it also gave Zamian the best tool to refine his plan.

  To advance!

  He had waited to reach the Deep Ground, waited for Elwood to do whatever he wanted, and even tried to irritate his enemies enough for them to leave him here for a while.

  Because, by his previous experience, he would need at least a day or two to have a breakthrough.

  As white essence kept gathering and being siphoned from his body, Zamian quickly moved, willing a small current of Light’s essence to flow toward the White Key.

  His intention was clear, forming a trail from the middle of his chest to both palms.

  The roots forming his prison pulsed, dissipating the Light’s essence, preventing him from gathering any amount strong enough to conjure a technique.

  ‘But I don’t need to conjure any technique,’ he thought, opening his eyes and looking at the White Key, now shining brightly in his hands.

  Even before cultivating the Knowledge Pathway, he could use the key. The amount of essence it required was minimal, almost symbolic.

  ‘Don’t disappoint me, White Dot!’ he shouted inwardly as the key in his hands flashed with intense white light, soon consuming him.

  Inside the cocoon, only the squishy sound of shifting roots remained as the White Key dissolved into Light’s essence.

  Meanwhile, Zamian’s senses were overtaken by infinite white light, and he felt himself falling.

  Even now, stronger and more attuned to the Light Pathway, he still lost all sensation of his body, as if he had melted into the light itself.

  His thoughts stilled. A deep calm washed over him, and a soft hum filled his ears.

  Then, nothing.

  No sound.

  No sense of time.

  Just the white light.

  Finally, when Zamian was on the brink of losing his perception of self—his memories, his desires, his cultivation—about to become one with the white light…

  He saw darkness.

  Experienced, he avoided opening his eyes too quickly, instead using his special physique to assess his condition.

  He took a few moments.

  Then, his eyes blinked, and a smile formed on his lips.

  Zamian was wearing the same clothes as before, riddled with holes and stains.

  But his body wasn’t the same.

  His eight hearts beat faster, his blood rushing through his veins, no longer blocked by broken paths. All his tube-organs were intact, his muscles unscathed, and his bones whole.

  Most importantly, Zamian lifted both hands to his face, counting his ten fingers.

  A grin spread across his lips.

  "White Dot," he said. "Show me my blighted stats and information."

  PERSONAL INFORMATION

  Name: Zamian Greenfield

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  Level: 3 [100%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway: Knowledge

  Title: None

  STATS

  Body: 6400/6400

  Mind: 7600/7600

  Soul: 7400/7400

  Zamian started to laugh.

  A maniacal, unfettered, hysterical laugh.

  "It blighted worked!" he shouted, jumping on the pristine white floor, which had a door of the same color on one side, with blackness surrounding everything else. "You blighted mute, I love you!"

  A moment later, composing himself, Zamian walked toward the massive door.

  His eyes glowed white as he muttered, "Worst case scenario avoided. Now, I can at least survive and attempt to flee there," he paused, grinning. "But why stop there?"

  Close to touch the door, he halted. "Wait, I don’t need to enter yet. It’s safer to have a breakthrough while I’m here."

  As he was about to turn around, he stopped.

  He didn’t want to stay.

  Zamian didn’t know why, but this black space—once a source of fear and anxiety—now filled him with a single sensation.

  Strangeness.

  "A flaw," he muttered. "This is like a giant flaw in my Light Pathway."

  He hesitated for a second before shaking his head.

  "I can’t cultivate here like this," he decided, touching the door. "It’s not worth the risk."

  The moment he touched the gate, white light engulfed him, pulling him through.

  Once again, he stood inside the library without a ceiling—the place he believed to be the First Floor of the White Tower.

  And, just like before, a single white book rested on its shelf.

  But this time, he ignored it entirely.

  Sitting cross-legged where he stood, he closed his eyes.

  "White Dot, if you dare bring that book to me, open it, and make me choose a blighted technique without my permission, I’ll blind myself," he said.

  Receiving no response, he nodded in satisfaction.

  "Good dot," he smirked. "Now, besides survival, let’s see if I actually have a fighting chance."

  He willed himself into his dark space, where the humanoid figure and the Soul Tome awaited.

  With practiced ease, he shifted his perception and began inputting information about himself into the tome.

  He was already filled with essence, so his goal wasn’t just to gather more.

  As more and more Soul Force poured into the tome, enriching it with Zamian’s memories, perceptions, beliefs, and intentions, the young cultivator focused entirely on the task.

  He lost himself in the process, deep in thought, debating with his instincts.

  Of course, when he first planned all of this, he had anticipated it.

  Every time he, Bohol, or Tulip used the unorthodox cultivation method of acting like a Farmer or a Scholar, in his case, they fell into a trance.

  Especially for him, this was far worse.

  He believed the reason lay in his soul. It allowed him to extend his cultivation sessions, correct flaws, and process Light’s knowledge far deeper than most.

  A bless and a curse.

  That was why he usually lost a whole day to this kind of cultivation.

  In fact, the only reason he ever woke up while still having soul points was because his inner self recognized that he had achieved the session’s goal—filling himself with essence.

  But now, he had no more room for essence.

  Except, of course, if it was to be infused.

  Infused into his body, mind, and soul.

  Outside, from the Library’s ceiling, Light’s essence rained down, forming a vortex, bathing Zamian’s body in its glow.

  White essence seeped into his bones, muscles, and blood.

  Then, a stream of energy flowed into his soul, forming more and more white crystals.

  Lastly, the essence dissipated into an unseen place, strengthening his mind.

  A little over two hours passed before he finally opened his eyes.

  Zamian felt full. His body glowed with a faint white hue, pulsing with power.

  Before he could fully recover from his trance or will the White Dot to show his stats, a wall of white text materialized in front of him.

  Your Body Stat Cap has reached a milestone → 8000/8000

  Your Mind Stat Cap has reached a milestone → 8000/8000

  Your Soul Stat Cap has reached a milestone → 8000/8000

  Analyzing…

  Level: 3 [100%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway: Knowledge

  All stats capped

  Cultivation level capped

  Initiating breakthrough to Level 4 - Mortal Tier - Knowledge Pathway

  His pale body shone with an even brighter white light as the Light’s essence from above continued pouring into him, fueling his breakthrough.

  Meanwhile, his mind was flooded with memories.

  They passed rapidly, some scenes repeating. Most of them featured his father, Dante, or his mother, Jasmine.

  He later saw himself in small skirmishes with Bohlo, arguing with Lakea, or playing with other kids.

  Then came the memories of pain—falling and getting hurt, cutting himself on trees, or getting sick from eating something he shouldn’t have.

  Next, books flashed before him, the knowledge he had consumed over the years. Most of them faded away, leaving only the ones he had written about himself.

  A sense of calmness accompanied these memories, forming a cycle. But beneath that calm, his instincts whispered.

  At first, he ignored them. He chose which memories to focus on—mostly the peaceful ones with his family and friends.

  And then, he saw Yokki.

  A friend of the family.

  One of his mother’s friends.

  The calm shattered, tainted by rage and disgust.

  His instincts screamed, and this time, Zamian listened.

  He had known all along what they were telling him to do. He had simply refused to acknowledge it.

  He couldn’t advance like this.

  This wasn’t his path—a path of living in the past, clinging to fond memories, surrounded by loved ones.

  His path was one of suffering and struggle, where happiness could only be found at the end.

  The memories shifted again.

  Now, he saw himself fighting Zealots and Great Warriors, slaughtering them.

  He saw Warlord Ruen.

  He saw Lin Zhi. Eve.

  He saw his arm being severed.

  And he remembered Fern, Elwood, and all the Chosen who had stood against him.

  Then, Zamian focused on a memory of his father.

  Dante, broken and unable to speak, dealt with deeper issues that the young man couldn’t fully understand. Yet, even in that shattered state, he had looked for his son, stood before him, and brought him to a safer place.

  He had told Zamian how he felt.

  That he loved him.

  Then came the memory of Bohlo, crying for his dead mother Misandra, making Zamian stand beside him for her Departure Ritual.

  How his friend had always been there for him.

  And lastly, the vision of his slap across Tulip’s face flashed through his mind.

  He had failed her.

  No matter how little time he had, he should have explained things to her. Talked. Confessed his feelings. So that neither of them would be left with regrets, no matter what happened.

  He recalled their conversations, their emotions

  Most of all, the last words he had spoken to her, and the way he had made her cry.

  Tulip, Bohlo, Dante.

  He had connections. He had reasons to live.

  But he couldn’t persist just for others.

  His memories shifted again—this time, to himself.

  He saw his own journey in cultivation.

  The first time he had tried and failed to cast the Everbark technique.

  The last time he had transformed into the Beginning of the Cycle form.

  He saw his discoveries about the world of cultivation.

  Eve’s immense power.

  The different races among Lin Zhi’s disciples.

  His mother’s book.

  The endless possibilities of the future. The knowledge yet to be learned.

  And then, when his memories had shown him everything, he saw himself.

  A white light.

  He saw himself leaving his mother’s womb, being born into the world.

  The beginning of his cycle.

  And then, his memories shifted to the moment he had touched the sapling created from his mother’s body, when he had pressed his hand to it and poured out his emotions.

  He had died there.

  And his new cycle had begun.

  His memories dissolved into white essence, forming a brilliant vortex that enveloped his body, mind, and soul.

  Zamian heard a multitude of whispers from the Light’s essence.

  They were revealing the paths he could walk.

  This wasn’t about changing his Pathway, but about how he would continue cultivating it as his own.

  ‘Is this the truth about cultivation?’ he wondered. ‘Everyone below a Chosen—no, below an Essence Merging cultivator—is just following a path, but then they must begin forging their own?’

  Amidst the myriad of whispers, a few resonated with him.

  Yet, there was one—the loudest—that repeated a single phrase over and over again:

  ‘Breaker of the natural order, bearer of a perpetual body, an unshackled lifeform.’

  Everything he had done, everything he had learned, everything he was, presented him with the possibility of a path.

  But his new body—his physique—the very symbol of the new cycle he was living, was the one that resonated with him the most.

  ‘It gives me hope… hope that I can save my father, my friend,’ he thought. ‘And it wasn’t created by that vermin Verdant fake god… but by me, the White Dot, and my feelings about my mother.’

  Zamian’s instincts fell silent, all except the one resonating with the Nameless Physique.

  Then, a surge of information flooded his mind, and for the first time in a long time, he found himself inside a visualization.

  A visualization that wasn’t in his control.

  He was surrounded by a myriad of white lines, shifting and twisting in an endless black space.

  He recognized them immediately.

  They were the same drawings from the white crystals.

  Each line pulsed with a unique sensation, resonating with something deep within him.

  ‘Power.’

  ‘Shield.’

  ‘Velocity.’

  ‘Fly.’

  ‘Sadness.’

  At first, he was lost, merely observing the flowing lines. Then, another passed close to him.

  ‘Senses.’

  Recognition struck him like lightning. Even though he had never seen this line before, he knew it. It was part of him, part of the Light’s essence inside him, the foundation of his Luminous Senses technique.

  As more lines passed, he recognized others.

  ‘Struggle.’

  ‘Birth.’

  ‘Transformation.’

  And then, Zamian understood.

  This breakthrough was different. He wasn’t being gifted a technique by the Light’s knowledge.

  This time, he had begun his own path.

  This time, he could create a technique.

  Seizing the moment, memories of the Chosen he had fought flashed through his mind. He recalled their techniques, analyzing their strengths and weaknesses. Then, his thoughts turned to Lin Zhi’s and Eve’s techniques.

  Eve had created her technique before forming her Core.

  Had she done it during her breakthrough? Or after becoming an Essence Refining cultivator?

  He didn’t know.

  But he did know the power of a technique crafted by a mortal.

  He knew what he wanted to do.

  As if sensing his intent, dozens of lines surged toward him.

  He quickly discarded most of them, choosing only the ones that resonated with his physique and his goals.

  As he made his selections, he realized there was a limit—four.

  At his current stage, he could only handle a technique composed of four lines.

  With that in mind, he took more time than he could notice to discard dozens of others until he was left with the four.

  The first was ‘Battle.’

  He had considered Struggle, but it suited Lin Zhi more than him. He searched for Death, but found nothing resembling it. In the end, thinking back on his path, Battle resonated with him the most. He would need to fight.

  The second was Unshackled.

  This one was obvious. It pulsed in harmony with his physique, bringing with it a deep sense of freedom—freedom from external forces, from rulers, from the so-called natural order, from the machinations of a certain fake god.

  The third, and hardest to choose, was ‘Curiosity.’

  Zamian hesitated. He didn’t want to pick it. But the more he considered discarding it, the more wrong it felt—an emptiness creeping in, like throwing away a part of himself. In the end, he accepted it.

  The last, the fourth line, was ‘Self.’

  It didn’t resonate as strongly as the others. It didn’t feel wrong to discard, but neither did it feel right. Yet, when he held onto it, he felt the other three lines strengthen as if reinforcing his foundation.

  So, he made his choice.

  The four lines intertwined, merging into a bright white light.

  But before the process could be completed, something unexpected happened.

  Eight more lines surged from the distant horizon, colliding with his selections. They twisted, shattered, and devoured each other, breaking apart and reshaping.

  And when the chaos settled, only four lines remained:

  ‘Beginning.’

  ‘Struggle.’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘Self.’

  The lines fused, forming a single intricate drawing.

  And before Zamian was expelled from this space, he felt it—the method to conjure his new technique, the connection to his path, and its very name.

  ‘Awakening of True Self.’