For the remainder of the day, Frank allowed his body to rest, but his mind never stopped working. Though he had advanced to Rank 2, there was no triumphant chorus, no divine fanfare heralding his growth. His body had become stronger—yes, denser, more durable—but it was quiet power. It settled into his bones like tempered steel, patient and heavy.

  He had expected more. Perhaps some flash of divine insight, or an awakening of dormant abilities. But instead, what came was... stillness.

  He lay there in silence, staring at the wooden beams of his ceiling. His fingers flexed slightly, marveling at the subtle difference in their strength. Every small movement felt more deliberate, like the parts of his body now operated under a refined, well-oiled rhythm. Even the smallest breath seemed to hum in tune with his Qi, every inhale and exhale a meditation.

  When he sat cross-legged and closed his eyes, the world didn't disappear—it opened up. The wind outside was no longer just wind. It was a conversation between trees and air, soft rustlings woven with tiny sounds he had never noticed before. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, not thunderous but purposeful. Rhythmic. Steady. Like a war drum preparing for battle.

  He cycled his Qi. It moved more freely now, rushing along his meridians with minimal resistance. Once, he had to force it through, like trying to draw water through a clogged pipe. Now it was like a mountain spring flowing downhill—constant, focused, unstoppable.

  But with clarity came understanding.

  He had hit a ceiling.

  The basic Elemental Qi Absorption Technique—the one issued to all beginner disciples—was no longer enough. It served its purpose, but it was slow. Inefficient. Designed for those barely able to gather Qi, not for someone beginning to glimpse the path ahead.

  He opened his eyes slowly, a bitter taste on his tongue. "I need better techniques," he murmured, as if saying it aloud would make it real. "If I keep relying on this... I'll never catch up. Never survive."

  The weight of that truth pressed against his chest.

  The Sect wouldn't give him anything. Not freely.

  Not cultivation methods. Not martial techniques. Not even access to the deeper libraries.

  If he wanted to grow, to live, to matter—he needed Contribution Points. And to get those, he had to take missions. Dangerous ones. Ones where disciples died and only their badges returned.

  Frank leaned back against the wall of his quarters, exhaling shakily. His reflection stared back at him from a polished piece of metal on the table. He looked the same—young, unsure, haunted by the transition from a modern world of concrete and machines to one of monsters and magic. But there was something new in his eyes now.

  Resolve.

  He had always been someone who avoided conflict. Someone who observed from the shadows. But that wasn't an option here.

  Here, weakness was a death sentence.

  The next morning, Frank rose before the sun had fully cleared the mountain ridges that ringed the sect. A soft mist clung to the stone pathways, curling around his ankles like fog searching for a purpose. The world still felt half-asleep—peaceful, almost serene—but beneath that silence was tension. The kind of tension only someone who had tasted real danger could recognize.

  He walked quietly, his steps measured, his breath slow and steady. His body still ached faintly from the previous day's battle—small twitches of pain reminding him that he was alive, but only barely.

  The sect was waking. Doors creaked open. Disciples returned from night missions or pre-dawn meditations. Robes fluttered in the soft breeze. No one paid him any real attention. Just another outer disciple. Just another face among hundreds.

  That suited Frank perfectly.

  He made his way through the familiar alleys and stalls of the marketplace, eyes scanning the racks of low-tier weapons. They glinted dully in the morning light—tools of survival, not symbols of glory. After a moment, he chose a simple spear, its shaft slightly worn but straight and strong. It was unremarkable, and that was the point. He didn't need flash. He needed function.

  The spear felt alien in his hands. Cold. Heavy. Dead.

  Back on Earth, the most dangerous thing he'd ever held was a kitchen knife. Now, he wielded a weapon meant to pierce flesh and bone. He tried a few practice thrusts, awkward and stiff. The movements lacked confidence, but not intent.

  Next came a dissection knife—small, curved, its edge shimmering faintly under a layer of protective oil. It was meant for harvesting monster parts. Another thing Earth had never prepared him for.

  Then came the crafting.

  Two items materialized from the system as always, glowing with faint light:

  Frank raised an eyebrow. The randomness still made no sense to him. Beans and handcuffs? A watch and crystal?

  Yet the system obeyed no logic but its own.

  He focused on the first creation. A gleaming chalice, golden designs swirling along its base like coiling dragons. Elegant. Warm to the touch. It shimmered faintly as if it remembered the idea of sunlight.

  "Inspect."

  Frank nearly dropped it. His eyes widened.

  "Holy moly..." he whispered, voice barely audible over his own heartbeat. "This thing is... absurdly OP."

  He clutched it tighter, half-afraid it might vanish. Ten years—for a cup of Qi? That was priceless. Beyond priceless. The kind of artifact sect elders would kill for.

  He immediately pocketed it, wrapping it in cloth and tucking it deep into his robe. It had to stay hidden.

  The second item was a scroll, aged and worn, with an embossed lotus on the cover. The title read:

  "Buddhist War Cultivation Technique."

  Another Inspect.

  Frank sighed, shoulders slumping. "So, I can't even touch this unless I switch sect paths… or somehow integrate Buddhist principles."

  He traced the edge of the scroll with one finger, thoughtful. Rank 4. It could've been a game-changer. A fast track forward.

  But power came with price tags. Sect betrayal. Execution. Exile. He wasn't ready to pay those prices. Not yet.

  With both crafted items hidden away, Frank left the market and made his way to the mission hall. The spear rested across his back; the knife, sheathed at his waist. His pace was steady, but his mind was a whirlwind.

  The mission hall loomed ahead like a fortress, tall and imposing, its stone doors already open for the day's eager hunters.

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  Inside, a few disciples lingered around the mission board—scrolls pinned like trophies, glowing with opportunity and danger alike. Whispers passed between them: complaints about beast nests, the rising price of fire lotus petals, rumors of bandit attacks near the outer regions.

  Frank kept his head low, his face a mask of disinterest. Eyes forward. Brows furrowed. In truth, his heart pounded like a war drum..

  He approached the board, hands trembling slightly—not from fear, but from restraint. One wrong move here, one word too loud, and someone might take more interest in him than he could afford.

  He scanned the board quietly, looking for something simple. Something he could handle.

  Something that wouldn't kill him. He selected a beginner hunting mission: Demonic Rats. Low rank. Limited danger. Supposedly.

  The hunting ground lay just outside the sect’s perimeter, a forested region tucked into the base of a small mountain range. The trees there grew thick and ancient, their gnarled roots like twisted fingers clutching at the earth. Mist crept between the trunks like a living thing, curling low to the ground, whispering promises of unseen dangers.

  Frank arrived just after dawn. He stood at the edge of the woods for a long moment, spear in hand, heart pounding.

  This was real. There would be no practice dummies. No sparring partners pulling their punches. No retries.

  His breathing came shallow. He clenched the spear tighter until his knuckles turned white.

  “This is what I signed up for,” he reminded himself. “No growth without pain. No strength without blood.”

  He stepped forward into the trees.

  For the first twenty minutes, all was still. Just the sound of his own footsteps over dead leaves and the occasional distant rustle. He kept his eyes sharp, his ears straining. Every shadow felt alive.

  Then—movement.

  A bush rustled. A faint growl echoed.

  Frank froze. Slowly, he turned his head.

  There, slinking from behind a fallen log, came a demonic rat—nearly three feet long, its fur matted with filth and Qi-tainted rot. Its limbs were gnarled, twisted into unnatural shapes. Its eyes gleamed red, too intelligent for a mere beast. Fangs yellow and jagged clacked together with rhythmic hunger.

  Frank’s breath caught in his throat.

  Then it lunged.

  Panic surged. His mind blanked. He reacted on instinct—raw and untrained. He thrust the spear in a wide, clumsy arc. The metal tip sailed past harmlessly, but the wooden shaft clipped the rat’s side with a solid crack.

  The creature squealed, staggering to the side.

  Frank’s legs nearly gave out. He hadn’t even aimed. He wasn’t in control. The fear, cold and paralyzing, gripped him like a vice.

  But he forced himself to move. Breathe. He pulled the spear back, set his stance, heart slamming in his chest.

  The rat was dazed, its head shaking side to side. Frank seized the moment. He lunged forward and drove the spear straight through its thorax.

  It let out a rattling scream before going limp.

  His arms trembled as he pulled the weapon free. He stared down at the body.

  “I did it...” he whispered, disbelief washing over him. “I killed it.”

  But then—

  Agony.

  A searing, tearing pain exploded in his leg.

  He screamed, stumbling backward as his spear slipped from his fingers. He looked down and saw another demonic rat latched onto his calf—its teeth buried deep, eyes glowing with cruel delight.

  Frank’s vision blurred. He kicked furiously, and the beast tore away with a wet rip, landing in the dirt with a thud.

  Then he saw them.

  More.

  A dozen red eyes blinked in the mist. Glowing. Watching. Closing in.

  They slithered from the brush, silent and slow, forming a circle around him.

  His thoughts spiraled. He was bleeding. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat. He couldn’t run. He wouldn’t make it.

  “I’m going to die here,” he thought. “On my first mission.”

  But then… a different voice. Quieter. Deeper.

  “No. Move. Fight. Use what you’ve learned.”

  He swallowed hard. He steadied his breath.

  He dropped the spear.

  And assumed the first stance of the 9 Continuous Fist Technique.

  His feet spread. His spine straightened. His fists clenched.

  Qi surged through his limbs—not like a storm, but like a river—steady, sure, pulsing with potential.

  His stance anchored him. The fear didn’t vanish—but it no longer ruled him.

  The first rat leapt.

  As expected, it came from behind. Frank twisted at the hip and ducked low, the movement fueled more by survival instinct than training. His fist shot up, driving a brutal uppercut into the rat’s gut. It let out a shrill squeal—not dead, but flung aside, crashing into a tree with a dull thud.

  More came.

  Frank spun, already lowering into the second stance. His fist arced forward, crackling with surging Qi, and slammed into another rat’s skull. The impact echoed like stone breaking. The rat dropped instantly, twitching once before falling still.

  He didn’t pause. Couldn’t.

  Third stance. His left foot swept around, pivoting his weight as his fist tore sideways through the ribs of a charging rat. Snap.

  Fourth. He exhaled sharply, bracing himself against the momentum as he punched downward into a leaping rat’s spine. Its screech ended mid-air as its body crumpled beneath his fist.

  Fifth. His Qi pulsed chaotically now, his control fraying. The technique burned through his reserves, too heavy for his current rank. But there was no retreat. No other option. He slammed both fists together in a hammering strike, catching a rat mid-jump and pulping it against the earth.

  His body screamed.

  His hands were swelling. Fingers numb. Wrists aching. His breathing was ragged, and his vision flickered at the edges.

  Sixth. He twisted, lashing out with his elbow to deflect a rat’s lunging fangs, then followed through with a gut-punch that folded it in half.

  Seventh. He roared, rage and fear mixing in his throat. He pivoted and punched straight through a rat’s open maw, shattering teeth and skull in a single brutal motion.

  Eighth. The heaviest. He gathered every shred of remaining Qi and threw it into one final, earth-shaking blow. His fist struck the side of a rat’s chest and caved it in, ribs splintering like dry wood. Blood sprayed across his cheek. The rat tumbled limp, twitching once.

  Ninth. He didn’t see the last rat clearly. Just motion. Just instinct.

  He turned.

  He struck.

  A sharp crack, a squelch, a flying body.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Frank dropped to one knee.

  His arms dangled at his sides, trembling uncontrollably. His chest heaved with every breath, each one shallow and painful. Blood trailed down his forearms, leaking from dozens of scratches. The bite on his thigh throbbed—hot, infected, angry.

  He looked around through bleary eyes.

  The rats were dead.

  He was alive.

  But it didn’t feel like victory.

  He collapsed.

  The forest was utterly quiet now. The mist hung around him like a shroud. Distant birds called, uncaring. The earth was cold beneath him.

  He lay there, unmoving, as the adrenaline faded. And then—he cried.

  Not loud sobs. Not screams. Just soft, broken breaths. Tears rolled down his face silently, mixing with dirt and blood. He trembled not from pain, but from the emptiness clawing at his chest.

  “I don’t want to be here anymore,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I want to go back...”

  Back to his apartment. Back to warm meals and quiet nights. To anonymity. To comfort.

  But that world was gone.

  He curled up on his side, hands pressed to his chest, as if trying to hold himself together. The pain wasn’t just physical—it was deeper. It was the pain of displacement, of isolation, of being forced to become something he never asked to be.

  He wasn’t a warrior.

  He wasn’t chosen.

  He was just... Frank.

  Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time lost all meaning in the numbness.

  Eventually, he forced himself to sit up. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He had to. He couldn’t stay broken forever.

  He crossed his legs and closed his eyes.

  His breathing slowed.

  With effort, he reached inward—past the pain, past the fear—and touched his dantian. The Qi there was faint but present. Waiting.

  Slowly, painfully, he began to circulate it.

  Drawing from the forest around him, he gathered the ambient elemental Qi. It was slow—slower than usual. His body was battered, his spirit shaken. But the process worked.

  His pulse steadied. His breath deepened.

  His mind quieted.

  Minutes passed.

  Maybe hours.

  Frank didn’t know. Time had slowed into a thick, shapeless thing, muffled by pain and fatigue. The forest mist hung like a cold blanket around him, soft and uncaring. The silence pressed in from all sides.

  Eventually, with a low groan, he forced himself upright. His body screamed in protest—his legs shaking, his hands numb, his breath shallow. But he moved.

  He had to.

  Collapsing into a cross-legged position, he closed his eyes and reached inward, drawing on the small flame of discipline still burning within him.

  He began to meditate.

  Slowly… painfully… he pulled the ambient elemental Qi from the air. It was weak, barely a whisper in the wind, but it flowed to him. He guided it into his dantian, letting it swirl and settle. His breathing began to even out. The panic that had clung to his chest began to loosen. His pulse slowed.

  When his dantian felt full enough, he activated the basic body cultivation technique. The gathered Qi surged through him—into his limbs, his chest, his battered leg. It was no miracle. The wounds remained. But the worst of the bleeding stopped, and the pain dulled from fire to smolder.

  A familiar chime echoed in his mind as the system’s interface flickered into view:

  Frank stared at the numbers, blinking.

  “Seems like one unit of elemental Qi equals one unit of body Qi, since I filled my dantian with elemental Qi and then converted some to body Qi 400 points of Qi was transferred into the body...” he muttered, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “And I think... my mastery in the 9 Continuous Fist Technique just leveled up.”

  His body still ached—deep, bruising aches that settled in the joints and bones—but his mind felt clearer. The fog of terror had receded. What remained was exhaustion… and a strange sense of resolve.

  He took out the small dissection knife.

  The first cut was shaky. His hands trembled, blood still drying beneath his nails. But he pushed through it. One by one, he extracted the claws and fangs from the demonic rats. The work was grim and silent. Each movement was a quiet declaration: I survived. I fought. I lived.

  By the end, his satchel held proof. Tangible, bloody proof that he had completed his first mission.

  He retrieved his dented spear from the dirt and stood. The weight of the satchel tugged at his shoulder. His leg protested every step. But he walked—slow, limping, determined—toward the safe zone where the bodies of the dead sect disciples could be retrieved or the alive one's could be healed.

  He didn’t feel pride.

  Not yet.

  But he was alive.

  And that meant something.

  It meant that, for today at least, the world hadn’t beaten him.