Fan Yiyao raised his hand to wipe the sheen of sweat on his face. It was a mild afternoon; for the most part, that was how the sect had set up its array constellations. The weather inside the sect grounds was maintained to a comforting sunny year round unless there were other circumstances at play, in which case, the outside clime would seep in. Not like that was a significant hurdle for cultivators. Unless the weather was thunderous or some spirit storm, cultivators could wade through any weather.

Even with the weather inside breezy, the constant sweeping under the sun got him sweating. It was not a torture, though. It was rather peaceful, with the cozy wind caressing his face as it playfully flew by.

And with the vast and lofty sprawling of hills as far as the eye could see complementing the view, he felt refreshed. The mountain tops would even peek at him every once in a while whilst hidden behind the clouds. It was a surreal sight to behold.

Streams of clear water gently weaved their way through the mountains into the vast forests below. The cacophony of nature beamed at their presence, dancing with them in rhythm. Yet, hidden under all the exquisite beauty and glamour of nature was a sense of ever-present tension and peril, invisible to the untrained eye, which only scraped the surface.

It was him. He was the untrained eye. Previously, he was a modern mind submerged in convenience. Presently, he was a fallen prince in a declining sect.

Fortunately, he was disowned and denounced by the royal family.

Fortunately, he did not have talent.

Fortunately, he could live peacefully to the end of his days as a handyperson in this sect. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.

Don’t get him wrong.

He was not a prince anymore, for which he could not be more grateful.

He also did not have an ounce of talent for cultivation, for which he was even more grateful.

It was the last fortunate point that was worrying him a little.

You see, he had something. He could see these words hanging in the air. They burned themselves out into existence the first time he saw his reflection in the water. And since then, they were always there, accompanying him.

Endless Ocean Of Yore

Tune in?

Y/ N.

And he did not completely understand what these meant or what would happen if he chose either yes or no. He was worried that it would upend his current peaceful lifestyle.

He was not fond of fighting. He was rather laid-back. Sure, he could watch fights, but being a part of them was a no-go. It was not his cup of tea. He felt grateful for this new life. It was pleasant, barring all the cultivator stuff happening around. It was a fresh chance, a new beginning. And since he wasn’t talented, he was not part of that world. The one thing that stood out in stark contrast from the memories he merged with was that the cultivation world was not a kind one. And that was saying something because even the previous one was not kind.

If he had to fight for resources, techniques, and more to reach a higher level, only to repeat the same to progress, he had rather not.

You fought for resources. You used said resources to gain power. You used gained power to gain resources. You used gained resources to gain power. You used...you get the point.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

It was a never-ending, vicious, pointless cycle he didn’t want any part of.

And in most cases, what one was served at the end was a painful death. Those few that managed to survive in some form or another were usually blistering in revenge.

Even if he had to die, he would die in peace and not writhing in pain.

He appreciated being a former prince. It allowed him access to a knowledge otherwise kept secret. The commons were not privy to many matters; they were a churning mill of rumours. And while he could try to separate the wheat from the chafe from within those rumours, it was not a worthwhile endeavour. Thus, his knowledge helped him make better, informed decisions. Being a prince meant being in extreme privilege. And privilege usually meant higher, more promising starts and futures. In the cultivation world, to be alive was to err; to be privileged, divine.

Even a talentless prince like him had eaten more resources in regular meals. Something the mundane could only dream of. Talent in the cultivation world could make one a valuable commodity. Privilege, on the other hand, was authority itself. Combine both, and one gets a legatee. Talent was seen as the entrance ticket to power. Not a determinant but a highly sought-after reality. Privilege was having a background of power. A more enormous fist meant a more immense weight awarded to one’s words.

Blessed be the heavens; he was away from all of that. Well, relatively away. He was in a sect, after all. But to be far away from the palace’s conspiring and scheming walls or the core disciples’ internal politics was a boon. The handyperson dwellings he was in might not be lavish, but they were far more sleep-facilitating. No one was going to poison or stab him here. The one spirit stone with some other bits and pieces of pills and the like he should get every month, he never got. The handyperson hall elder pocketed them. It was not special treatment for him; it was the case for most of them. Only a few comparatively talented, even in the handyperson hall, got their share. The hall elder was not stupid. The elder, more like a manager, knew whom to keep a good relationship with and whom to ignore. There was a competition held every year to keep disciples hopeful of promotion. Handyperson became outer sect disciples, and outer sect disciples became inner sect disciples. There was a more rigorous process to become a core disciple. Those the elder felt were likely to climb into the outer sect he appeared amiable with. Years of experience made him a professional. And unless a handyperson got some top opportunity, which was next to zero, they could not mount a comeback. Handypersons hardly went outside the sect, and if there was an opportunity in the sect, it was likely already taken. Thus, their chance of cultivating enough to thrash the elder was only lower than zero.

Because he didn’t make a fuss, he wasn’t troubled either. He expected to get bullied, but other than disdainful glances at first, what followed was an absolute lack of attention. To his much-welcome surprise, he was left to himself. No one had time for someone who was demoted and lacking in talent and resources. Some did come; however, after not getting a reaction from him, those people also got bored and left. He found it childish and did not even take it to heart. They could not get resources from him because he didn’t have any. And they wouldn’t get any entertainment from him either. The struggle in the handyperson hall was intense. Rarely would one find easygoing people like him. There were so many bigger fishes to fry; what would a meatless mosquito like him matter? The conclusion, he was ignored.

This was what he wanted. He would lead a fulfilling, slow and satisfying life in relative obscurity. What. A. Life!

Even if he did get the one spirit stone and no one snatched it, he didn’t think he could cultivate. It’s not that he didn’t know how. It’s that he lacked focus. His amount of focus was paltry compared to the hours, days, weeks, months and years that were needed. A modern mind bred on sensory stimulation, information overload and momentary distraction was not the best match for cultivation. Attention and focus became the core currencies. He could lie all day to dream and watch the clouds float by but to cultivate meant to focus on channelling techniques to absorb or refine spirit energy for extended periods, which was beyond his current capabilities. That kind of devotion to cultivation was something only someone raised in a cultivation world could emanate.

What he was going to do was cultivate in a consistent way for a minimum of five minutes a day. Yes, it sounded like a joke. What were five minutes a day? Yet, he didn’t care. It was a start. He would be gradual in his increase of time. He had to keep the process sustainable lest he toss it aside for a year after having cultivated at a stretch for an entire night only once.

The merging of memories had altered his disposition. Unique perspectives from two different worlds gave him a great vantage point. He had more clarity in what he should and should not do. He would go about it at a careful and deliberate pace.

The one thing that still stumped him was the words in the air. Luckily, they worked with his intent. Vanishing as he wished, appearing as he wanted. He felt he couldn’t delay a choice any longer. He was much too curious about it. Hopefully, curiosity would not kill the cat that was him.

Sighing, he decided he would make a choice when sweeping in a secluded spot in the early hours of the morning. He could try it out within a crowd, but he didn’t know if it would cause a commotion. He wanted to remain low-key. Some might argue attracting attention attracted more resources, but great danger and risk were also drawn. People watching your every move, plotting your downfall at every step. It was only a matter of time till one got caught in a trap and eliminated. While trying it out in a secluded place would garner more attention if the thing did cause a ruckus, he might get time to slip away. Yet, cultivators and their means could never be underestimated. He could only hope he was making the correct choice and then take things as they came. Options were debated in hindsight, but life didn’t work that way. One had to make a choice and move with it. Either it works out, or it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, you make a new choice. Delving into the unknown was a simple facet of life. So delve he shall; come morning, he would be ready with an answer.