De-Reece cautiously enters the village, eyes scanning everything—the worn dirt paths, the simple but sturdy wooden houses, and the faint scent of livestock and burning wood. The villagers move through their daily routines, yet a subtle wariness lingers in their gazes when they notice him. Strangers, it seems, are not a common sight.
The clothing catches his attention—roughspun tunics and cloaks, simple yet practical. Some carry small weapons—short swords or daggers—tucked at their belts, while a few older men lean on walking sticks that seem too refined to be mere canes. Cultivators, perhaps, though likely at a minor level.
One figure stands out—a broad-shouldered man near the village square, arms crossed as he observes De-Reece's approach. His aura weighs heavier than the others, a faint ripple of Qi hinting at his strength. A local warrior, possibly a minor cultivator, tasked with maintaining order.
Murmurs float around him—hushed discussions about trade routes to a distant city, complaints about the scarcity of certain herbs, and casual mentions of currency. Copper shards, silver marks—terms De-Reece tucks away for later. A few villagers speak of caravans passing through once every few months, while others gossip about nearby towns guarded by stronger cultivators. The village head's name surfaces repeatedly—Eldrin, a man known for firm yet fair leadership. This village is but a small thread in the tapestry of a much larger world, and the weight of unseen forces beyond these humble walls presses at the edges of De-Reece's thoughts.
His steps remain steady, his expression calm, blending observation with quiet confidence. Whatever lies ahead, he will face it step by step—just as he always has.
Moving through the village square, his gaze drifts toward a small gathering near an inn—a modest, weathered building with a sign depicting a tankard and a bundle of herbs. The quiet hum of conversation tugs at his curiosity. Stepping inside, he finds a handful of villagers nursing drinks and exchanging stories.
Taking a quiet corner, he listens intently. Snatches of conversation weave through the air—discussions of strength and cultivation, tales of distant cities harboring powerful sects, and the role of lineage in determining one's future. Words like core formation and spiritual roots surface, unfamiliar yet laced with meaning.
Behind the counter, the barkeep—a grizzled man with a scar running from temple to chin—leans in to exchange hushed words with a traveler. The topic shifts to a looming sect selection, a grand event held once every decade where the strongest youths of the region gather to prove their worth.
De-Reece's jaw tightens. Strength, cultivation, lineage—this world values them above all. The path ahead isn't just about survival anymore. It is about rising above.
As the day nears its end, De-Reece secures a modest room at the inn, sliding a single bronze coin into the innkeeper's calloused hand. After a brief exchange, he extends his stay for a full week, watching as seven bronze coins clink softly onto the wooden counter. Through subtle questions and careful listening, he pieces together the basic currency conversions—one silver mark equals a hundred bronze coins, while a single gold piece holds the weight of a thousand. A quiet relief settles within him, knowing the small pile of gold taken from the Heavenly Demon's stash will last, yet it also puts into perspective the villagers' humble wealth—bronze dominates their transactions, with only the occasional flash of silver.
The room itself is small and simple—a rough wooden bed and a single table—but it offers shelter and a place to gather his thoughts. Solar curls up at the foot of the bed, violet eyes gleaming softly in the dim light.
Once the door is shut and the room falls into quiet stillness, De-Reece settles cross-legged on the floor, his mind already slipping into a meditative state. The energy from his spleen node ripples faintly within, raw and unrefined—like a wild current needing direction. Focusing inward, he guides the energy through his meridians, feeling the pulse of his bloodline flicker ever so slightly, as though a sleeping beast stirs within him.
After steadying his cultivation, he retrieves one of the low-level body-tempering pills refined earlier. Holding it out to Solar, he speaks softly. "Here. I bet you're hungry."
Solar's violet gaze flicks from the pill to De-Reece before, with a swift dart of its tongue, it swallows the pill whole. A faint, crackling energy ripples around the small creature. Its fur bristles momentarily, a low growl escaping its throat before the energy settles, leaving Solar to curl back into a ball. The subtle but sharp rise in its Qi does not go unnoticed—like a candle flame flaring brighter before calming.
De-Reece exhales slowly, the bond between them growing stronger with each shared moment of growth. Tomorrow, they will venture further—but tonight is for strengthening what lies within.
The next morning, De-Reece steps into the village market—a modest collection of stalls offering dried meats, simple herbs, and other essentials. Carefully, he trades a few of the more common herbs gathered from the wilderness, keeping the Bloodshade Fruit well hidden.
A hunched figure catches his eye—an older man bent over a small cauldron, muttering to himself. An alchemist, though clearly past his prime.
Curious, De-Reece strikes up a conversation, subtly revealing his own knowledge of alchemy. At first, the old man's gaze holds a flicker of skepticism, but as De-Reece speaks of pill refinement, the delicate balance of spiritual herbs, and the intricate art of merging energies within a cauldron, skepticism gives way to something resembling respect. The old alchemist's grizzled hand hovers over a vial of crushed duskroot, and De-Reece calmly points out the faint shimmer within the powder—a sign of improper drying techniques that could diminish its potency.
A brief silence follows before the old man gives a slow nod. "Not bad for a young one," he mutters, passing De-Reece a few extra supplies—parchment, a tiny measuring scale, and a vial of purified water.
As De-Reece accepts the items, realization settles in—this is more than just a trade. It is the first thread of a connection in this world. Knowledge, it seems, can be just as valuable as currency.
His gaze shifts past the market stalls to a modest forge at the square's edge, smoke billowing softly from its chimney. Something about the rhythmic clang of metal on metal pulls at him—a distant echo of a life left behind.
Steeling himself, he approaches the forge where a burly man, the foreman, wipes sweat from his brow and eyes him with mild curiosity. "Looking for something, boy?" the man asks, voice gruff but not unkind.
De-Reece's fingers twitch at his side, recalling the countless times he had dreamt of smithing back on Earth—a fantasy never realized. "I was wondering if you'd let me watch… maybe even try," he replies evenly. "I've always been curious about the craft."
The foreman grunts, then chuckles. "Curious, eh? Curiosity's good, so long as it doesn't get you burned. Fine—show me you can hold a hammer first."
The forge's heat washes over De-Reece as he steps forward. The foreman hands him a hammer—its weight should be solid, heavy—but in De-Reece's grasp, it feels almost weightless. His strengthened body, bolstered by the awakening of his bloodline and cultivation, responds instinctively.
With a steady breath, he raises the hammer and brings it down in a smooth arc, striking the glowing metal with a resonant clang. The foreman's bushy eyebrows lift slightly—not quite surprise, but a flicker of interest.
Stepping forward, the blacksmith demonstrates a series of firm, precise strikes. "It's not just strength," he mutters. "It's about control. Every swing shapes the metal, every beat adds to its core."
De-Reece watches intently, slipping into the same focused state as when practicing his Demon Sword style—unyielding rhythm, body and spirit aligning with something deeper. When the hammer returns to his grasp, he does not hesitate. Blow after blow, the strikes echo through the forge in steady cadence, metal singing beneath his touch.
The foreman smirks. "Not bad, boy. Not bad at all. Come back tomorrow if you're serious about this."
De-Reece meets his gaze and nods. "I will."
The foreman pauses, wiping his hands on a soot-stained rag. "What's your name, then?"
A flicker of silence stretches between them as De-Reece considers his answer. His true name feels too weighted, too tied to a past that no longer fits this world. Finally, his lips part, and the name comes with quiet certainty.
"De," he says. "Cheon Ma De."
As the sun crests higher in the sky, casting long rays over the quiet village, De-Reece wanders the narrow paths once more, this time with purpose. His steps are slow, his gaze sharp, absorbing every detail around him. Solar pads silently at his heels, fur shimmering like liquid shadow.
The village stirs to life. Merchants haggle over prices at their humble stalls, children dart between homes playing simple games, and farmers haul baskets of freshly gathered produce. But it is the conversations—the murmurs floating past his ears—that truly catch De-Reece's attention.
At the corner of a small alley, two middle-aged men lean against a wall, their voices low yet urgent.
"Heard the sect selection's coming again," one says, his tone a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "Another chance for the young ones to break free from this place."
"A chance?" The other scoffs. "It's a gamble, at best. Only two from this village have ever had the potential to be chosen—Joran and Kalia—and even they still have to prove themselves when the time comes."
De-Reece lingers just long enough to catch the names exchanged between them—Joran and Kalia. The only two spoken of with a certain weight, as though their strength or talent sets them apart. He tucks the names away in his mind, along with the word sect.
Further along, near the village well, a group of younger villagers—boys and girls barely older than teenagers—gather in a loose circle. Wooden training swords clash clumsily against one another, their moves rough and unrefined, but driven by determination.
"Joran's definitely getting chosen this time," one boy mutters between strikes. "He's been training every day with the village head's guidance."
"And Kalia's spirit root is stronger than anyone else's," a girl adds. "She might even get into the inner sect."
The words swirl in De-Reece's head, painting a rough picture of the world's hierarchy. Sects are more than just training grounds—they are a path to power, status, and freedom from the limits of small village life. To be chosen means salvation for some… and a cruel reminder of mediocrity for others.
His steps carry him toward the training ground—a patch of hard-packed dirt, its edges marked by simple wooden posts. The sparring youths take notice, their strikes faltering as their eyes flick toward the stranger with the dark-furred creature at his side.
A tall figure steps forward from the crowd. Muscled and confident, Joran's sharp gaze measures De-Reece. "You new here?" he asks, wooden sword resting casually on his shoulder.
De-Reece meets his gaze, voice calm. "Just passing through."
Kalia, a lean girl with quiet intensity, studies Solar with a flicker of curiosity. "That beast… it's not from around here."
De-Reece offers only the faintest of smiles, saying nothing. Let them wonder. Let them think.
Joran's gaze lingers for a long moment, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The gathered youths whisper among themselves, curiosity and anticipation building like a low rumble of thunder.
Kalia steps closer, sharp eyes flicking between De-Reece and Solar. "Spiritual beasts like that aren't common in villages like ours," she says softly, the unspoken question hanging in the air. "They're usually bound to… well, those with stronger lineages."
De-Reece's expression remains neutral, though his mind spins. Stronger lineages? Strength in this world isn't just about cultivation—it's tied to blood, family, and status. He offers a slight shrug. "Solar's just a companion," he replies.
Joran chuckles, voice carrying a hint of challenge. "A companion that rare? You must be someone special." His wooden sword thumps against his shoulder again, a steady rhythm. "Why don't we see how special you are?"
It is less of an invitation and more of a test. The crowd hushes, waiting for De-Reece's response.
For a moment, he considers refusing—but something in Joran's stance, in the quiet weight of Kalia's gaze, makes him reconsider. He needs to understand their strength, their techniques, and the true measure of what this world considers talent. This is a chance to observe, to learn.
"Fine," De-Reece says simply, stepping onto the hard-packed dirt of the training ground. Solar pads back a few steps, watching with unblinking violet eyes.
Joran tosses him a spare wooden sword. It is lighter than expected, almost toy-like compared to the blade found in the Heavenly Demon's cave. Still, it will do.
They circle each other slowly. Joran's confidence radiates like heat, and the way he shifts his weight speaks of practiced footwork—basic but solid. The crowd edges closer.
Joran strikes first, a probing swing aimed at De-Reece's side. De-Reece sidesteps, movement fluid, the wooden blade humming through empty air. Another strike, this time a thrust—De-Reece parries with minimal effort, the impact jarring Joran's arm slightly.
"You're quick," Joran mutters, smirk slipping.
De-Reece doesn't respond. He lets the rhythm of the fight take him, slipping into a pattern not unlike his Domineering Demon Swordplay, though keeping its ferocity in check. He mirrors Joran's strikes, testing, feeling out his limits.
The spar escalates. Joran's attacks grow sharper, and then—faint but undeniable—a ripple of Qi flickers through his next swing. Clumsy, unrefined, yet it sharpens the speed and force of his strike. De-Reece's eyes narrow, a spark of irritation flaring within. Even in a simple spar, Joran is already drawing on Qi.
De-Reece sidesteps, parrying the enhanced strike with a twist of his wrist, the impact resonating deeper than before. A bead of sweat rolls down Joran's temple, his jaw tightening.
Then De-Reece presses forward—just slightly. A flick of his wrist sends Joran's blade wide, and with a subtle shift of weight, he invokes the lowest degree of Shadow Phantom Steps. His form blurs, a whisper of movement, and in an instant, he is behind Joran.
The crowd gasps, unable to follow.
Joran spins, stance faltering.
Before the match tips further, a sharp voice cuts through the tension.
"Enough."
Kalia steps between them, gaze firm. "We're not here to break bones."
Joran's jaw tightens, but he relents, lowering his blade. De-Reece does the same, grip loose but ready.
The crowd slowly disperses, murmuring about the stranger who had matched Joran's speed so effortlessly. Whispers ripple—some questioning if De-Reece might actually be stronger, others wondering just how much he is holding back.
Kalia studies him for a moment longer. "You fight like someone trained—not just some wanderer."
De-Reece simply smiles. "I pick things up quickly."
And with that, he turns, Solar falling into step beside him, the faint echo of the spar lingering in the air.
Later that evening, De-Reece and Solar sit outside the inn, a simple meal of roasted ware rabbit laid before them. The night air is cool, the distant murmur of villagers drifting from the nearby tavern.
"You keep surprising people," a voice says.
Without looking, De-Reece knows it's Kalia.
She steps into view, arms crossed, eyes flicking to Solar once more. "I've never seen a spiritual beast like that."
De-Reece tenses slightly. "It's a massive world out there. Always more to see."
Kalia raises an eyebrow. "A good instinct."
Kalia settles onto the wooden step beside him, silent for a moment. "You didn't come from around here," she finally says. "And you didn't learn to fight like that in some backwater village."
De-Reece tears a piece of meat for Solar, choosing his words carefully. "I've travelled."
Kalia smiles faintly. "You don't trust easily. Smart."
Silence settles between them again, but it isn't uncomfortable.
"Joran wasn't using his full strength either," Kalia adds after a moment. "But you knew that already."
De-Reece glances at her, gaze steady. "I did."
Her smile deepens. "Maybe next time, we'll both stop holding back."
The night hangs heavy, the air thick with the scent of charred meat and damp earth. The faint crackle of flames from the kitchen inside the inn plays like a distant rhythm as De-Reece feeds the last bit of roasted ware rabbit to Solar, who snaps it up with a satisfied chuff.
The quiet between them is easy, a rare moment of stillness.
"You didn't come here just to fight Joran," Kalia's voice breaks the silence again, softer this time.
De-Reece doesn't flinch, though his hand hovers over Solar's sleek black fur. "No," he admits. "I'm looking for something."
Kalia tilts her head, the firelight catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her neck from the earlier spar. "What?"
He considers lying but thinks better of it. "A way forward. Somewhere with answers."
A smile tugs at the corner of Kalia's mouth, though her eyes remain serious. "Then you're not the only one."
De-Reece's gaze sharpens. "What do you mean?"
She leans back on her hands, staring up at the dark sky. "The sect selection."
De-Reece's mind whirls. He has already heard whispers of sects in the village—places of power and cultivation—but this is the first time someone has mentioned a selection.
Kalia doesn't seem to notice his silence. "It happens every few years. Representatives from one of the lower sects come through the nearby towns and villages, testing anyone who thinks they have the talent to become a disciple. Those deemed worthy are given a token—a chance to be tested again at the sect-wide selection, where all the sects gather and choose from the best."
De-Reece's expression remains unreadable, but his chest tightens. A path forward—a way into this world's deeper layers.
"Joran and I… we've been training for it since we were children," Kalia continues, her voice steady but distant. "For people like us, it's the only real chance to leave this place. To be more than farmers or hunters."
De-Reece's jaw shifts. "And if you don't get chosen?"
Her smile fades. "Then you stay."
The weight of her words presses down heavier than the night air.
De-Reece studies her for a moment before speaking again. "And how many get chosen?"
Kalia laughs softly, though there is no humour in it. "Not many. Out of all the villages, maybe two or three every time."
Solar's ears flick at the sound, but the creature remains curled by De-Reece's side.
The silence stretches on again, but this time, it is heavier—laden with unspoken hopes and fears.
Finally, Kalia rises, brushing the dust from her simple training robes. "You should come by the training grounds again," she says. "I think Joran would like another round."
De-Reece smirks faintly. "I'll think about it."
Kalia lingers for a moment longer, then gives a small nod and disappears into the night, leaving De-Reece and Solar alone once more.
But now, De-Reece's thoughts aren't on the spar or even on Joran.
They are on the sect selection—and what it might mean for his path forward.
Morning comes slowly, pale light creeping through the wooden shutters of De-Reece's rented room. He rises without hesitation, mind still circling Kalia's words from the night before. Sects, tokens, selections—it all seems like a distant world, but one that now looms closer.
And if there is a chance his brothers are out there—if they, too, have sought a way forward—then he has to follow that thread.
After a simple meal shared with Solar, De-Reece makes his way back to the forge. The air is thick with the scent of burning coal and hot iron. The foreman grunts in acknowledgment as De-Reece approaches, already setting out tools.
"Back again, De?" the foreman asks, a hint of a smirk on his scarred face.
De-Reece nods. "I want to keep at it."
The foreman simply jerks his head toward the anvil, and De-Reece falls into step, the rhythm of hammer strikes coming as naturally as the flow of his sword forms. His movements are fluid yet forceful, each strike precise. By the time the morning sun hangs high, the foreman's subtle nod of approval says more than words ever could.
With soot still clinging to his hands, De-Reece leaves the forge, Solar padding silently beside him. The afternoon belongs to training.
In a quiet clearing outside the village, De-Reece drills relentlessly, blade carving the air in sharp arcs. Solar mirrors his movements, the bond between them growing stronger with each synchronized shift of their bodies. It is unspoken—an understanding forged through battle and survival.
De-Reece pushes harder, slipping into the fluid steps of Shadow Phantom Steps, his form vanishing and reappearing as his footwork blurs with speed. Solar moves with the same predatory grace, violet gaze locked onto De-Reece's every motion, mirroring each shift and turn.
As the sun dips lower, De-Reece finally sheathes his sword, breath steady despite the hours of exertion.
He isn't just training for himself anymore.
He is training for the path ahead—and for the brothers he has yet to find.
Night drapes the village in a cloak of silence, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves against the window. A single candle flickers on the small wooden table in De-Reece's room, casting long, wavering shadows over the series of carefully selected herbs laid out before him. Their fragrances mingle in the still air—a potent blend of earthy bitterness and sharp sweetness.
Solar lies curled in a corner, its sleek black form barely stirring as De-Reece crushes, grinds, and refines each ingredient. The Bloodshade Fruit remains hidden—tucked safely away—but the lesser herbs, still valuable yet not overtly rare, will serve his purpose tonight.
He works with quiet intensity, fingers moving with the same precision as when wielding his sword. The small furnace flickers softly, and before long, a faint medicinal aroma fills the room, trapped within the formations he laid. Hours slip by unnoticed until, finally, two small bottles rest before him—each holding ten neatly formed pills. The first bottle contains low-level spiritual-lined body-tempering pills, simple but effective for the common cultivator. The second holds low-level spiritual-lined healing pills, their faint, intricate patterns spiraling across their surfaces—a testament to his growing alchemical skill.
Drawing too much attention isn't the goal, but a foothold must be established. His thoughts linger on his brothers—if a sect selection is truly approaching, making himself known as a skilled alchemist might be the first thread he can pull to weave his path forward.
Gathering the pills into his robes, a subtle warmth pulses through him—faint, almost overlooked. It doesn't come from the pills themselves but from the act of creating them. Qi. For the first time, realization dawns—alchemy isn't just a craft. It is a form of cultivation in itself, each refined pill leaving an imprint of energy within him. The effect is slight, but it's there.
Fingers briefly brush against the pendant around his neck—a reminder of the greater power still lurking beneath the surface.
Before the first light of dawn, De-Reece kneels beside Solar, holding out a low-level body-tempering pill. The small creature sniffs it cautiously before snapping it up in a single gulp. A faint shimmer pulses beneath its sleek black fur. Muscles tense and ripple briefly before Solar lets out a soft huff, curling back into its corner.
Satisfied, De-Reece settles himself onto the floor, crossing his legs as he slips into a meditative state. The lingering Qi from pill-crafting still swirls faintly within, and he guides the energy through his channels, circulating it with growing precision. An hour passes in stillness before his eyes finally open.
Pulling a deep hood over his head and wrapping a dark scarf around the lower half of his face, De-Reece secures the bottles inside his robes. Solar gives him a questioning look, tilting its head, but he offers a faint smile and whispers, "Just a little test. Stay here."
The creature huffs softly but obeys, curling back into a ball.
The village market bustles with activity, a lively mix of traders, farmers, and wandering cultivators bartering for goods. Stalls line the main street—selling everything from weapons to herbs—and the air buzzes with the clamor of deals being struck.
De-Reece moves carefully, choosing a less crowded corner where wandering cultivators occasionally pause to check for hidden gems. Setting the bottles down on the edge of a worn wooden stall, he carefully separates each pill into its own small vial—ten vials for the body-tempering pills, ten for the spiritual-lined healing pills. A subtle choice, making the sales feel more exclusive. Keeping his head low and voice steady, he speaks softly but clearly.
"Pills for sale—body tempering and healing."
At first, there is little reaction. Then, a young cultivator in plain robes, faint talismans stitched into the fabric, catches sight of the patterned pills. His eyes widen.
"These… these are spiritual pills? With patterning?"
De-Reece gives a slight nod, saying nothing more.
The commotion draws others—a middle-aged man with calloused hands, likely a local alchemist, a wiry hunter with a bow strapped across his back, and a girl clutching a small pouch of bronze coins.
The alchemist leans in, squinting at the pills. "Where did you get these?"
"Made them," De-Reece replies, voice lowered just enough to maintain an air of mystery.
The man's eyebrows shoot up. "You? A hooded stranger claiming to be an alchemist? Prove it."
De-Reece's jaw tightens slightly. Reaching into his pocket, he draws out a lesser spirit root and snaps it cleanly in half, placing one fragment in his palm. With a deft flick of his wrist, he activates a small array etched into a talisman hidden beneath his sleeve. The fragment dissolves slowly, its essence pooling into a faint, glowing droplet in his hand.
The alchemist's mouth opens, closes, then opens again. "That's… legitimate."
The hunter steps forward. "How much for a body-tempering pill?"
"Fifty bronze," De-Reece states calmly.
"Fifty? That's cheap for a pill of this quality," the girl murmurs, clutching her pouch tighter.
"And the spiritual one?" the young cultivator asks.
"One silver," De-Reece replies.
The prices are reasonable—enough to turn a profit, but not enough to cause a stir. Trust must be built first, curiosity planted without inviting danger.
Coins exchange hands, and De-Reece sells two body-tempering pills and one healing pill before packing up the rest. The alchemist watches him carefully the entire time but says nothing more.
As De-Reece melts back into the crowd, a ripple of hushed conversations follows in his wake. The village has never seen an unknown alchemist—certainly not one capable of crafting patterned pills.
Now, whispers of a mysterious hooded seller begin to spread.
Before anyone can follow, De-Reece quietly slips into a side alley, his movements a blur of practiced steps—Shadow Phantom Steps guiding him through the narrow paths, unseen and unnoticed.
Back in his room, De-Reece unravels the scarf and lowers his hood, setting the remaining pills back on the table. Solar pads over, sniffing at the bottles before looking up at him with an expectant gaze.
"It's a start," De-Reece mutters.
Leaning back against the wall, he allows himself a moment to think. The coins earned, the attention drawn, the subtle steps taken toward both blending in… and standing out.
The path to the sect selection may have begun with a simple sale, but De-Reece knows better than anyone.
The quietest ripples often grow into the deadliest storms.