Sipping a steaming cup of peach tea, Zamian sat quietly, his mind wandering over his cultivation progress as the conversations around the room continued. The lively chatter was interrupted by a nudge on his arm.

  “Uh, Z, what do you think?” Bohlo asked, balancing two wooden cups of tea in his hands, the right one still steaming. “Hot tea or cold tea?”

  Zamian looked at his friend’s clear eyes and smirked, noting Bohlo was actually wearing a shirt this time. “It depends,” he replied. “How cold are we talking about?”

  “Uh… like water cold,” Bohlo mumbled, shifting his weight.

  “Yeah, then I’d rather drink hot tea,” Zamian decided, taking another sip from his own cup.

  Looking around the room, Zamian observed Soho and Tulip deep in conversation, animatedly sharing tales of their favorite forms of entertainment in the Sanctuary—tree climbing, woodcarving, throwing games, and more. Kurt, ever curious, chimed in occasionally, asking for clarification on what these activities involved.

  Zamian’s gaze lingered briefly on Kurt’s neck, the faint memory of his earlier outburst flashing through his mind. Clearing his throat, he drew everyone’s attention.

  Sitting at the rectangular table in the small, cozy room, the others quieted at the noise. Zamian tapped the table lightly and looked directly at Kurt. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, pointing at the outsider’s neck.

  Kurt scratched his beard, which almost reached his neck, and smiled disarmingly. “Great Sir, don’t worry about it. This? It’s nothing—not even a mark remained. It was—”

  “No,” Zamian interrupted. “I was angry and attacked you without justification.”

  “I’m sure Sir wouldn’t have done—” Kurt started, his smile faltering, but Zamian cut him off again.

  “Listen to me, Kurt.” Zamian sighed, his tone heavy. “If those people hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve broken your neck.”

  The room fell silent, and Kurt’s eyes shook for a moment under Zamian’s unwavering gaze. Slowly, the outsider licked his lips, picked up his cup, and stood. Moving to Zamian’s side, he placed his cup down and sat beside him.

  “Too bad you don’t have alcohol here, Great Sir. We could be toasting and forgetting all about this right now,” Kurt said, his smile slowly returning as he nodded toward Zamian’s cup.

  “What?” Zamian asked, puzzled.

  “Come, come. Take your cup, Sir. Let’s toast and leave the past where it belongs,” Kurt said with a wink. “Please, don’t forget my own brother tried to kill me over and over. I was already starting to miss the feeling of near death.”

  The casual jest earned a chuckle from Soho and a small smile from Tulip, easing the tension in the room. Zamian stared at Kurt for a moment before his lips twitched into a reluctant grin.

  Chuckling and shaking his head in disbelief, Zamian took his cup and clinked it with Kurt’s. The outsider shouted with a wide smile, “Cheers!”

  Zamian replied, his lips curving into a slight smile, “Cheers.”

  Kurt then threw his arm around Zamian’s shoulder and turned to talk with Soho. “On the Oasis, we drink to have fun and also warm each other’s beds. It gets really cold down there. We even call this juice rare,” he added, pointing at the tea.

  Zamian shot the man a glare.

  Feeling the intensity of Zamian’s gaze, Kurt chuckled nervously and slowly removed his arm. “I meant women’s beds, Great Sir. Warm women’s beds.”

  Before Zamian could respond, another muscled arm slung around his shoulder. Turning, he saw Bohlo grinning.

  “Kurt! Z knows nothing about women! He has to peep like a creep,” Bohlo teased, shaking his head before taking a sip of his tea. “Now, as a Zealot, I guess he understands that, with just one order, he could have dozens of women!”

  “Great Sir could have much more than that!” Kurt chimed in. “I’d say a hundred!”

  “A thousand!” Bohlo shouted.

  “A hundred thousand!” Kurt countered, raising his cup triumphantly.

  As Kurt and Bohlo escalated their absurd competition, with Zamian stuck between them, the pale cultivator thought, ‘Crazy, all of them.’

  “This reminds me of something,” Tulip interjected, drawing the trio’s attention, while Soho calmly spooned another mouthful of soup. “Yokki sent scouts to look for her daughter, and she expects that when they find Lakea, you will lead the rescue, Zamian.”

  The room fell silent for a moment before Bohlo broke it cheerfully. “Z! Is this her way of saying she approves of your marriage? Finally!”

  ‘If I punch him, he might die. Stay calm,’ Zamian thought, a headache forming—not from soul damage this time.

  Standing, Zamian peeled Bohlo’s arm off and strode toward the door. Opening it and peering outside—grateful it wasn’t one of the strange vined doors—he scanned for signs of anyone nearby. Finding none, he stepped back inside and leaned against the wall.

  “So, what did you guys talk about?” Zamian asked, crossing his arms.

  Kurt turned to him and answered, “Sir, we discussed almost the same topics as when you questioned us back then.”

  “Almost?” Zamian raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Kurt said with a casual shrug. “Because of her daughter, I suppose. She asked a lot more questions about Mistress Clarice.”

  Noticing Tulip nodding in agreement, Zamian felt compelled to probe further. “What kind of questions?”

  “Well… Her favorite dishes, favorite colors, who she talked to, if she was in good form, if she liked to walk, what she used to carry with her, if she spent a lot of time alone… Sir, a lot of questions,” Kurt said, shaking his head.

  Frowning, Zamian shifted his gaze to Tulip. “What about you? Did she ask about the current Lord’s Chosen scheme?”

  Tulip nodded. “Yes, and I told her everything. That guy, Chosen Fern, seemed like he wanted to attack me, but Yokki didn’t let him.”

  “Don’t focus on that,” Zamian replied, catching her confused look and elaborating. “He tried to attack me too… Or better yet, he faked it. Just think of the three of them as a group of pretenders.”

  Tulip hesitated but nodded slowly. Zamian couldn’t shake the memory of Fern's theatrics, and how his instincts hadn’t flared up during the confrontation—a troubling thought.

  “Anyway,” Tulip added, “I barely spoke. Most of the talking was done by Kurt.”

  Crossing his arms, Zamian couldn’t help feeling uneasy. “Did they ask about me?”

  “No, Sir,” Kurt answered quickly. “And even if they had, I would’ve lied for you.”

  Curiously, Zamian’s instincts didn’t signal deceit. Kurt was telling the truth.

  “They didn’t ask anything,” Tulip confirmed, frowning slightly. “Not even how we met.”

  “They didn’t talk to me or Dad either—not about you or anything else,” Bohlo added, eager to chime in.

  Soho remained quiet, focused on his meal.

  ‘They aren’t lying,’ Zamian thought. ‘Maybe those three already expected me to check and avoided asking questions about me altogether.’ He furrowed his brow, choosing to set the concern aside for now.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Looking at Tulip again, he asked, “And when will Lakea’s rescue happen?”

  Tulip shrugged, popping a grape into her mouth. “Don’t know. Depends on when they find her location.”

  A sudden noise interrupted them—Soho’s spoon clattering to the floor.

  “Sorry, sorry,” the older man said, his hands trembling. “These old hands are tired.”

  “Uh—better for us to get some rest, Dad,” Bohlo said, standing to help his father. He shot Zamian an apologetic glance. “Hope to see you more often, Z. We’ll be meeting at every mealtime.”

  Zamian patted his friend’s shoulder with a nod. “I’ll try,” he said with a smile. “Now go rest. And take that shirt off—it’s weird seeing you with it.”

  He then laughed and laughed, but it quickly faded as the room grew silent.

  “Mom made it for me,” Bohlo murmured with a sad smile. “I’ll wear it a little longer.”

  Zamian opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.

  Bohlo patted Zamian’s wooden armor and whispered, “She made a few extras. I can give you one if you get tired of walking around like that, Z.”

  Meeting Bohlo’s clear, earnest gaze, Zamian shook his head. “Go on. Bring me one tomorrow.”

  Bohlo nodded. “Good rest, everyone. See you tomorrow.” With that, he guided Soho to their room, closing the door softly behind them.

  Zamian sat down again, shooting a glance at Kurt. “We should steal some alcohol from outside,” he said, sipping his tea.

  Kurt chuckled. “Of course, Great Sir.” The man then stretched, feigned a yawn, and stood up. “Anyway, I’m tired. There’s barely any Earth essence to cultivate here, so I need some sleep. Good to see you, Great Sir. And bye to you too, Tulip.”

  Without waiting for a response, Kurt hastily left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Frowning, Zamian took another sip of his tea and looked around.

  He realized he and Tulip were now alone in the room.

  As he stared at her, Tulip spoke, “How are you feeling?”

  Surprised by the question, he took a moment to answer, mumbling, “Agitated, I guess. I’m a little better now, seeing how Bohlo and Uncle Soho are dealing with everything.”

  Humming, Tulip locked eyes with Zamian, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “Weird,” she said. “I thought you’d be depressed, anxious, sad, and sorrowful.”

  Seeing her little smile, Zamian shook his head, chuckling. “Your sense of humor is one of the most unique I’ve ever encountered.”

  Biting her lips, she shrugged. “As far as I know, you don’t know a lot of people with any sense of humor.”

  “Dealing with my parents’ sense of humor was already enough, thank you very much,” he replied, noticing how Tulip’s blue eyes seemed particularly striking in the dim light.

  After a moment of silence, Tulip asked, “What’s your dream?”

  “What?” Zamian blinked, caught off guard.

  “Your dream,” she repeated, gesturing toward him with her free hand. “What’s your life’s goal?”

  “What kind of question is that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just making conversation,” she shrugged again.

  Thinking for a moment, Zamian hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer, but Tulip simply sat there, waiting, her gaze warm.

  After a few breaths, Zamian muttered, “Saving my father from himself.”

  He braced himself for questions, expecting her to ask for an explanation, but instead, she surprised him by asking, “And after that?”

  “Wh-What?” Zamian stammered.

  “After saving your father, what do you want to do?” she asked, her dark blue eyes fixed on him.

  Momentarily lost in her gaze, Zamian found himself grappling with the thought. ‘After…saving my father?’ He had never considered what might come next. Why would he? Saving his father seemed monumental enough—a mission that could consume a lifetime.

  ‘But…’ he tapped the table lightly, thinking, before finally answering. “I want to learn more about cultivation.”

  She tilted her head, smiling. “Now I’m lost,” she said. “Your dream, after saving your father, is to learn about something you do daily?”

  Zamian scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Kind of,” he admitted, smacking his lips. “I believe we know almost nothing about cultivation. So I want to learn, become stronger, and discover more about it.”

  “What for?” Tulip asked, leaning forward slightly. “Power? To rule over commoners? To create a better Sanctuary?”

  Zamian shook his head firmly. “No,” he said, meeting her gaze with clarity in his eyes. “Just to cultivate. I discovered that I like it.”

  ‘I don’t want to simply get stronger,’ he thought. ‘I want to enjoy my journey—my path of cultivation.’

  As those words settled in his mind, a notification appeared before him:

  +50 Mind Points

  Zamian’s smile broadened.

  “Good for you, then,” Tulip said, mirroring his smile.

  “What about your dream?” Zamian asked.

  “To kill the Lord Chosen and find a better place to live,” she spoke calmly.

  Zamian felt goosebumps. Only now, staring at her, he noticed the deep hatred she harbored for the Lord Chosen.

  “What do you dislike about here?” he asked, avoiding direct queries about her plans and expectations regarding her dream.

  “Everything,” she said, then smiled. “Well, almost everything.” She winked. “I feel trapped and controlled, and I hate this feeling. It’s…suffocating. The worst part is that I don’t think it’ll change anytime soon.”

  Noticing Tulip’s sudden downcast tone, Zamian forced a laugh. “I’m happy you don’t hate everything, or I wouldn’t have a good sleep.”

  Smiling again, Tulip shot Zamian a knowing look. “Do you want me to make sure you have a good sleep?”

  “Wh-what!” Zamian stammered.

  Chuckling, Tulip stood up, prompting Zamian to do the same.

  “Calm down,” she said, stepping closer and placing her hands on his armored shoulders. She caressed the wood armor lightly while staring at him.

  Tulip was about Zamian’s height, a fact that only now struck him, making her tall for a woman. Thinking about this only made Zamian notice her dress, and how it hinted at her curves.

  He gulped. ‘I’m grateful for wearing a wooden armor,’ he thought.

  Tulip leaned closer to Zamian’s head and gave him a small peck on the cheek.

  As Zamian blushed furiously, she walked past him, laughing. “Sleep well, Zamian,” she said, leaving the room and closing the door.

  Touching his cheek, Zamian shook his head, sitting back down.

  Lost in thought, Zamian watched as his tea grew cold, and he finally took a sip. “Yep, it’s better hot.”

  Standing up again, he left the room, heading not toward his cultivation garden but to the main hall.

  After knocking on a few vined doors that opened briefly to let him through, Zamian exited the central building. As usual, even after the last meal, a throng of people moved up and down the place.

  ‘Too little space for too many people,’ Zamian thought, noting how most gave him a wide berth, avoiding his path.

  He also consciously avoided them. He remembered one anecdote his mother had told him about a cultivator accidentally stepping on a commoner’s foot, only for the crowd to beat the commoner to death out of fear the cultivator might retaliate.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like that, but well, I’m on a streak of seeing incredible things lately,’ he thought, chuckling inwardly.

  Less than an hour later, Zamian arrived at the edge of the Camp and touched the smooth wood of the dome. The entire structure had no doors or windows, and once people entered, they rarely left.

  Zamian knew there weren’t enough cultivators to watch the walls—but why would they need to? Most Zealots couldn’t even make a dent in this wood! They’d have to actively expend essence just to hope for an opening.

  Well, most of them.

  Scanning for signs of people and finding none, Zamian clenched his right fist. “Time to stop going with the flow,” he muttered, smiling.

  He punched the wall.

  It dented, but it didn’t break.

  “We’re just getting started, my wooden friend,” he said, muttering as he delivered another punch.

  And another!

  After four more punches, his fist broke through the wall, creating a hole the size of his torso. Zamian noticed how the broken parts fused with the floor, the wall slowly regenerating.

  Laughing, he took a fighting stance, his eyes flashing white and green as he began testing the best ways to move his body for maximum destruction.

  A punch.

  A kick.

  Another punch.

  After dozens of rapid attacks, a section larger than Zamian opened in the wall, and before it could regenerate, the pale cultivator dashed through.

  Outside, knee-high blades of grass and giant white leaves surrounded him. Without stopping to rest, Zamian began to sprint.

  During the meal earlier, Zamian’s thoughts had calmed, granting him an insight.

  ‘My father has no clue about my true strength,’ he recalled. ‘He left me here because he thought I wouldn’t be of any help.’

  “But, old man,” he muttered as he ran in the direction his father had come from, “I have my own ways to help you!”

  And no matter what, Zamian had realized something while speaking with Tulip—a hard truth about himself.

  “I like it!” he shouted to the wind. “I like to cultivate! I like to grow stronger! I like this thrill!”

  Like Tulip, he didn’t want to feel trapped.

  As Zamian sprinted forward, he spotted a hole in the ground up ahead and sensed a familiar presence.

  ‘Got you,’ Zamian thought, laughing as his eyes glowed white and green. His wooden armor crumbled, and a dark green light enveloped his body.

  Marlos’ eyes widened as he sensed the spike in essence. Stomping his right foot into the ground, he punched forward, sending a green essence pulse through the earth. A shockwave erupted, flattening the surrounding grass.

  A rectangular wooden wall emerged between them.

  ‘Maybe he’s called the Warrior Chosen because he used to be an outsider,’ Zamian mused, completing his transformation as he leaped over the wall.

  Midair, he spotted Marlos’ fist emerging from behind the wall, summoning a squarish wooden pillar aimed at him.

  But Zamian wasn’t surprised.

  Instead, Marlos was the one caught off guard.

  Above him, for the first time, he saw Zamian’s enhanced transformation—one that no one, not even Zamian, had seen before.

  This one was an enhanced version!

  While Zamian’s eyes still alternated between green and white, his understanding of the human body had deepened—its limitations, its inner workings, its fragility.

  This time, Zamian hadn’t merely turned his skin and muscles into wood; his bones and some of his organs had transformed as well. Even his blood had changed into a glowing green sap, forming visible paths beneath his skin.

  With these changes, Zamian’s size nearly doubled, making him three times his original stature—almost twice as large as Marlos.

  His essence burned faster, emitting a radiant green hue. Unbeknownst to Zamian, the glowing sap formed patterns across his face, giving him the appearance of a monstrous grin.

  As Marlos gathered his wits and reached for his halberd, Zamian used the wooden pillar as a springboard, propelling himself over Marlos and landing inside the hole in a single bound.

  Slowly letting go of the halberd, Marlos closed his mouth and looked at the crumbling pillar in disbelief.

  Shaking his head, he scratched his beard and laughed.

  “Ohohoho, what kind of monster did that lunatic give birth to?”