The Rising Cloud Sect was still asleep when Ling Xian opened his eyes.
He lay motionless on the thin straw mat of his outer disciple hut, the wooden walls barely holding back the chill of dawn. His body ached — not from wounds, but from how fragile it truly was. Meridians clogged. Muscles torn. Dantian unstable. Spirit sea empty.
In his past life, his body had been a fortress of divine essence. Now… it was a cracked vessel, barely fit to hold breath, let alone power.
And yet, his eyes remained calm. Unshaken.
"Even a god must start with breath."
He sat upright, cross-legged, and inhaled slowly.
Not like a mortal.
Not like a cultivator.
But like someone who understood the origin of qi itself.
The first stage wasn't about force or talent — it was about connection. Ling Xian had once comprehended the Dao of Destruction, but now he needed to reconnect with the foundation of existence.
And so, he began.
Inside his mind, a vast void opened.
Within it, an ancient diagram unfolded — The Nine Revolutions Breathing Scripture, a primordial cultivation art long lost even to the celestial realms. It was not flashy. It did not grant explosive power. But it was the perfect beginning — a technique that rebuilt the body from its very essence.
With each breath, he guided strands of qi into his lungs.
And with each exhale, he expelled rot.
His veins quivered.
His bones screamed.
But he persisted.
Hours passed.
The sun rose. Disciples came and went. Birds chirped. Sect bells rang.
But inside the hut, time had frozen.
Sweat soaked Ling Xian's robe. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His skin turned pale, then flushed. Every inch of his body fought the process.
This Body… it truly is damaged beyond repair.
No.
It is imperfect… and therefore perfect to rebuild.
And so he pushed deeper.
He called upon knowledge of body tempering techniques from three different realms. He visualized the Forbidden Meridian Refinement Method passed to him by a demon queen. He activated his Innate Bone Scripture, stimulating marrow regeneration with qi pulses known only to divine warriors.
Pain danced through him.
His muscles tore.
His qi pathways shattered.
And then — they began to reform.
By nightfall, the first breath cycle was complete.
Ling Xian exhaled long and slow.
The hut's wooden floor, cracked from his unconscious pulses of spiritual pressure, was now scorched. The air inside shimmered faintly.
He opened his eyes.
Still weak.
Still mortal.
But something had shifted.
His dantian now held a thread of refined qi, purer than anything produced by the sect's outer disciple techniques. His blood felt lighter, his bones denser, and his soul more aligned with the heavens than before.
This was only the beginning.
"I will not rise quickly," he whispered to the night."But when I rise… the sky will kneel."
He stood slowly, body trembling, and stepped outside.
The moon hung above, silent witness to his vow.