He let out a long, steady sigh.
"I have to be patient," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "It's possible there's just a limit to how much I should use it. After all… it is too overpowered. It's not surprising if there's a cap."
His voice was low, resigned—but not defeated. Just honest.
He stared at his hands again, fingers flexing slightly. The strength was still there, the weight of what he was hadn't vanished. But the silence of the merit gnawed at him, demanding caution.
His brows knit. He didn't like it—being unable to control something he relied on. But recklessness wouldn't help. Panic wouldn't help. What he needed… was control.
His thoughts narrowed, sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.
"I should control my emotions properly," he said under his breath, the words spoken more like a reminder than a revelation. "After all… that could be the cause of my death."
The truth sat heavily on his shoulders, but this time, it didn't crush him. It steadied him.
Impulse, fury, impatience—those were traits of a beast, not a predator.
He'd seen too many powerful cultivators fall not because they lacked strength, but because they lost clarity. Let rage or grief or pride guide their hand instead of reason.
He couldn't afford to make the same mistake.
Not in this world. Not in this body.
"This face of mine…" Yanwei muttered, fingers grazing the rough line of the jaw again. "What was his background?"
Another pause.
And then a quiet, unimpressed breath.
"Right. No background. Just a stray with no connections, no backing. Low talent, too."
He leaned back slightly, letting the thought linger.
Low talent—the bottom rung of cultivation potential.
In this world, the strength one could reach wasn't decided solely by effort or fortune. It was shaped by the core foundation of their body and soul—talent, divided into five known tiers: Low, Middle, High, Extreme, and Heavenly.
With Low talent, the limit was brutal: Rank 2, at best. Even reaching that took years, sometimes decades. Their bodies simply processed spiritual energy too poorly, too inefficiently. No matter how many pills they consumed or how early they started, breakthroughs came slow. Painfully slow. Their meridians weren't built for it, and their foundations couldn't bear the strain.
Middle talent widened the path. Reaching Rank 4 became possible—but it still demanded time, resources, and the right sect backing.
High talent was where things got serious. Rank 6 became achievable, and cultivators at that level were already people the average sect would invest in. These were your senior disciples, future elders, solid cultivators with real potential.
Then came Extreme talent. Rare. Feared. Those with it could climb to Rank 8—a realm where most cultivators would never even dream of standing. A person with Extreme talent could dominate entire provinces, shake apart rival sects, and carve out a legacy even the world would struggle to erase.
That was Yun's talent.
But above it all, unreachable by most, was Heavenly Talent.
Only those born with it had the potential to reach Rank 9—the ceiling of this world.
But Rank 9 wasn't just a number. It wasn't just the next step up.
It was the peak. The summit. A level where the laws of the world started to respond to you instead of restrain you.
Rank 9 cultivators didn't need to shout to assert their strength. Their mere presence twisted the environment. Clouds shifted. Storms followed. Rivers bent around them. Forests grew still. Not because of any technique—but because the world itself recognized their existence as dominant.
When two Rank 9s fought, entire regions held their breath. Mountains could collapse. Cities could be swept off the map. Their duels didn't end with broken bones—they ended with landscapes reshaped and nations trembling.
They weren't cultivators anymore.
They were calamities.
And the moment someone reached Rank 9, the world changed around them.
That was why Heavenly Talent was so rare—and so dangerous.
Because if such a person was born, the world noticed. Sometimes there were signs—strange weather, sudden phenomena. Sometimes there wasn't. But the result was the same. Entire sects would scramble to either protect them… or claim them.
If an Extreme Talent like Yun had to hide, then a Heavenly Talent would have to vanish entirely. Because people would stop treating them as people. They'd become opportunities. Resources. Weapons.
Some would want to nurture them.
Most would want to use them.
And yet… even with all that said, the system wasn't absolute.
There were still those who broke their limits.
A Low Talent cultivator who somehow clawed their way to Rank 3. A High Talent pushing to Rank 7. It wasn't supposed to happen—but sometimes it did.
Not because of divine favor. Not because of destiny.
But because of luck.
A forbidden technique. A pill stash. A dead master with no time to scream.
Because this world was flawed. Mysterious. Still evolving. And from time to time, someone without the required talent clawed their way up anyway.
Surpassing the limits of one's designated talent tier was unbelievably rare—maybe one in ten thousand cultivators could break beyond their "limit."
Those rare individuals became legends in their own right—called prodigies or chosen of fate in their sects.
In this backwater corner of the world, such miracles stirred excitement and awe.
But out there, in the wider lands governed by true power?
It wasn't unheard of. Not common, but no longer impossible.
"So when this low-talent brat reached late-stage Rank 1 at a young age… someone noticed."
A Rank 2 cultivator.
Yanwei's gaze lowered.
"That Rank 2 isn't watching out of kindness," he murmured. "He's trying to live longer."
At that level, cultivators were already running against the clock. Breakthroughs weren't optional—they were necessary. Without one, they'd fall into decline. Slowly. Painfully. Most of them were well aware of that fact. Which meant that any unusual case, no matter how minor, became valuable.
"A servant with nothing… reaching late-stage Rank 1 too fast?" His voice held no real interest, just quiet observation. "Of course someone noticed."
To most, it wouldn't be worth the effort. But to someone pressed for time, with no other chances left, it was enough to draw attention.
He wasn't being watched because he was promising.
He was being watched because someone saw a possibility. However slim.
A possible method. A secret cultivation path. Something buried beneath the surface that could, if understood, become the key to one final breakthrough.
Yanwei's expression didn't change.
But in his mind, the puzzle was already clear.
"There's nothing there," he said simply. "Just a servant who got fed up, waited for his master to relax, and took everything."
The boy had killed his master—not out of strategy, not out of ambition—but out of bitterness. A slow, quiet kind that built over years. One day, the opportunity showed itself, and he didn't hesitate.
He stole the pills. Ingested them. Advanced.
That was it.
"No hidden inheritance. No heaven-defying constitution." Yanwei exhaled faintly. "Just someone who wasn't supposed to move forward… forcing his way up once."
And now, a Rank 2 cultivator had his eyes on that lie, hoping it was the truth.
Hoping there was something more.
"Too bad," Yanwei muttered, folding his arms behind his head. "There's nothing to find."
Just borrowed strength. Temporary gains. And a shadow that someone else is now wearing.