Chapter 10: The Third Step
Chapter 10: The Third Step
The mist clung to Mistveil Valley like a living shroud, its tendrils weaving through the twisted trees and blanketing the earth in a perpetual haze. Ming You stood at the mouth of a secluded cave, its entrance half-hidden by a curtain of vines, the air within cool and damp against his skin. At twenty-two years of age, he carried the 2nd stage of Qi Condensation within him, its dual strands a quiet force he had honed with relentless precision. His gray robe hung neatly on his lean frame, the jade slip of the Threads of Chance and the scroll of the Ninefold Mist Barrier concealed within his sleeve, twin pillars of his ascent.
The cave was a sanctuary he had discovered days prior, its isolation a gift for a mind that thrived in shadows. The sect buzzed with preparations for Ashen Hollow's looming threat, its disciples distracted by drills and rumors, leaving Ming You free to pursue his own ends. He had slipped away under the guise of fetching water, his absence unremarked, his presence a ghost among the living. The Veil of Fortunate Shadows pulsed faintly in his Qi, a secret he wielded with cold discretion, its subtle influence a thread he pulled to shape the world.
He stepped inside, the darkness swallowing him, the faint drip of water echoing off the stone walls. His boots crunched against the gravel floor, each sound a calculated risk he mitigated with a sweep of his senses. The cave stretched deep, its ceiling jagged with stalactites, its air heavy with the scent of moss and earth. Ming You settled against a smooth boulder, his posture rigid, his hands resting on his knees. The jade slip lay before him, its glow a faint beacon in the gloom, calling him to its depths.
The 2nd stage of Qi Condensation had become a foundation, solid yet insufficient. The Threads of Chance promised more—twelve stages, each a step toward immortality, a prize he would seize with ruthless ambition. He closed his eyes, his breath a steady rhythm, his mind a fortress of icy focus. The dual strands of Qi stirred within him, their warmth a tool he bent to his will. He sought the third strand, a milestone to sharpen his edge, to widen the gap between him and the fools who surrounded him.
The process was familiar now, a dance of patience and intelligence he had mastered through sleepless nights. He guided his Qi through his meridians, its flow a river channeled by his intent, seeking the subtle currents of the valley's spiritual energy. The cave amplified them, its walls resonating with a faint hum he felt rather than heard. His Qi responded, coiling tighter, a third strand forming like a shadow cast by the first two. Pain flared briefly, a sting in his chest as the energy strained against his limits, but he crushed it with unyielding resolve.
Hours passed, the drip of water a metronome to his persistence. Sweat beaded on his brow, his body trembling faintly, but his mind remained a blade—cold, sharp, unemotional. The third strand solidified, intertwining with the others, its presence a quiet triumph. Ming You opened his eyes, his breath steadying, his senses heightened. The 3rd stage of Qi Condensation was his, a step closer to the power he craved, its benefits immediate—his perception sharpened, faint spiritual fluctuations in the air now tangible to his touch.
He rose, his movements fluid, his gaze sweeping the cave. The Veil of Fortunate Shadows rippled through his Qi, a technique he had tested but not mastered. He extended it now, its lattice weaving outward, a shadow of fortune that brushed against the world. The cave's stillness shifted, a faint rustle drawing his attention to a crevice in the wall. He approached, his fingers probing with resourceful care, and found a small, luminescent stone—a minor spirit crystal, overlooked by lesser eyes. The Veil had guided him once more, its subtle nudge a confirmation of its worth.
He tucked the crystal into his sleeve, his lips curling into a mirthless smile. "Fate bows to the patient," he murmured, a poetic whisper that echoed in the dark, a rare indulgence of his buried artistry. The crystal was a trifle, its energy weak, but it was his—a resource to hoard, a bargaining chip for the future. His mind turned to the sect, its stores, its arrays, its inevitable clash with Ashen Hollow. Each piece was a thread in his tapestry, one he wove with Machiavellian precision.
Footsteps approached, heavy and deliberate, shattering the cave's solitude. Ming You's senses snapped to alertness, his Qi withdrawing, the Veil cloaking him in subtle obscurity. He pressed against the wall, his form blending with the shadows, his breath silent. An elder emerged from the mist beyond the entrance—Elder Liu, his scarred face stern, his single eye scanning the valley. A patrol, likely, drawn by the sect's heightened vigilance.
Ming You remained still, his caution a shield, his heart a drum of detached purpose. Liu paused, his gaze lingering on the cave, but the Veil of Fortunate Shadows nudged fortune aside—the elder turned away, his steps fading into the mist. Ming You exhaled, his tension easing, his mind noting the encounter. The Veil had spared him scrutiny, its power a quiet ally in his schemes.
He emerged from the cave, the mist greeting him like a conspirator, its dampness a cloak for his thoughts. The sect loomed above, its towers piercing the haze, its disciples oblivious to the predator in their midst. Chen Hao awaited there, his loyalty a chain Ming You would tighten with calculated care. Lin Xuefeng brooded, his rivalry a whetstone for Ming You's blade. Elder Zhang offered knowledge, a resource to exploit with opportunistic ruthlessness.
The Threads of Chance pressed against his chest, its secrets a map to immortality he would follow with fearless persistence. The Heavenly Dao's warning lingered, a distant thunder he dismissed with cynical detachment. Let it watch—he would dance beyond its grasp, a shadow weaving fate to his design. The 3rd stage was a milestone, but the path stretched far, and he would tread it alone, self-reliant and unscrupulous, leaving no obstacle unbroken.
He returned to the sect under dusk's cover, his presence unremarked, his steps a whisper on the stone. The outer disciples' hall welcomed him with its familiar squalor, Chen Hao's snores a testament to his trust. Ming You sat, his mat a throne of solitude, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The crystal's faint glow warmed his sleeve, a prize claimed through cunning, a symbol of his ascent.
His Qi pulsed stronger now, its triple strands a foundation he would build upon with strategic patience. The sect was a crucible, its chaos a forge. Ming You closed his eyes, his mind a labyrinth of plans, each turn a calculated risk. Ashen Hollow would strike, and he would turn their fury to his gain—herbs stolen, arrays sabotaged, blame shifted with manipulative grace. He would rise, a phoenix from their ashes, his ambition a flame that consumed all.
The mist swirled outside, a mirror to his soul—elusive, unpredictable, a veil for his schemes. He was no hero, no savior, but a schemer clad in shadow, his heart cold, his will iron. Immortality was his star, and he would pluck it from the heavens, no matter the cost. The night deepened, and he schemed, a poet of destruction, his words silent but deadly, his path unyielding.