In this pivotal moment, Ai was wielding two knives in her hands—one pristine and new, the other stained with the telltale sign of blood. This blood, however, does not belong to her enemies; it is her own, trickling from her hands onto the blade as she attempts to cleanse it. Uncertainty grips her heart as an unfamiliar pain begins to swell within her chest. Devoid of experience in matters of mortality, she interprets this burgeoning agony as a forewarning of her imminent demise or as a consequence of the blood she has shed.
Even before her confrontation with the man commenced, Ai was already acquainted with this discomfort. Anticipating relief, she ingested an herbal remedy, only to find the pain persisting and escalating, defying her expectations. Despite the mounting distress, she recognizes the necessity of maintaining focus on the battle at hand, lest she succumb without comprehending the chain of events that led to her downfall. With resolve, she grits her teeth, propels herself forward, and engages her opponent with a determined strike of her knives.
Her adversary, a seasoned cultivator in the last stage of ki condensation level, effortlessly raises his sword—a colossal weapon that dwarfs Ai's blades in size—and delivers a forceful blow through the air. The clash of their attacks propels Ai backward and falls, causing her hands to tremble under the strain. Concurrently, the ache in her chest, once a mere discomfort, intensifies exponentially, multiplying not merely threefold as before, but now tenfold.
As Ai struggles to regain her footing, a sense of resignation creeps over her, signaling the encroachment of her mortality. The herbal tonics that once bolstered her faltering strength now offer little solace. Faced with a grim decision, she weighs the option of persisting in battle, risking humiliation and defeat at the hands of her adversaries, against the alternative of choosing her fate to evade dishonor.
The latter choice, while seemingly straightforward, proves to be a daunting task. It is often in the face of death that one discovers an innate will to survive. Ai grapples with the grim reality of whether she possesses the fortitude to plunge the blade into her own heart or sever the vein that sustains her. Aware that this act may be her sole means of escaping disgrace, she hesitates, despite the pain in her chest now surging fifteenfold from its inception.
In this critical moment when Ai grappled with the harrowing decision to end her own life, her adversary began his approach with measured strides. His face bore a grin that spoke of a chilling satisfaction.
Watching him draw nearer, Ai's emotions surged into a fiery tempest, and with a trembling hand, she raised the knife to the delicate vein in her neck — the lifeline pumping vitality to her brain.
Her opponent, discerning her intent, ceased his advance just three paces away. He understood the fatal calculus: should Ai resolve to die, she would complete the act before he could thwart her. The thought of losing such exquisite beauty to the ravages of war weighed on him. To him, the true spoils of battle weren't merely the exhilaration of conquest but the women and wealth that fell into his hands. And so, he stood frozen, contemplating how he might dissuade her from self-slaughter. The idea of maiming her flashed through his mind — could he sever her hand to prevent her demise? Yet, he quickly dismissed it, knowing that a one-handed captive would be devalued in the slave markets. He sought to possess her whole.
"What folly is this?" he called out to her, a mix of frustration and feigned concern lacing his voice. "Do you believe death will bring you solace? Consider the possibilities that life holds — escape, victory, freedom from this battlefield!" He edged closer, his words laced with a persuasive urgency.
But Ai, whose resolve was as sharp as the blade she wielded, perceived the deceit in his steps. She pressed the knife against her skin, a trickle of blood emerging as a crimson testament to her determination. The man's facade of composure shattered as he realized the precipice upon which they stood: any further action on Ai's part would render him a powerless spectator to her end. His breathing grew heavy, his eyes never leaving Ai's figure, while his companions, too, assessed the grim tableau before them. They began to encircle her, but upon seeing her unwavering readiness to embrace death, they paused, their advance halted by the gravity of her conviction.
Ai had surrendered her fate, entrusting Prince Armad with the duty of vengeance. She would choose death over the ignominy of defeat or captivity. With a serene acceptance, she closed her eyes, steeling herself to plunge the knife deeper. However, in that moment of anticipated agony, the pain that had gripped her chest dissipated, vanishing as though it had been an illusion.
Caught off guard, Ai halted her self-inflicted advance and gazed downward. The world around her seemed suspended in time — her adversaries motionless as if caught in an invisible snare. Only Ai remained unfettered by this temporal anomaly.
Beneath her gaze, nestled between her lungs, she found an anomaly — a small, seemingly inconsequential space that defied logic with its vastness. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the interior of a magical bag, a gift from Prince Armad that could contain far more than its outward appearance suggested. In awe, Ai watched as this newly discovered space within her expanded, burgeoning beyond the confines of the magical bag's capacity.
Inside the space, Ai’s gaze was drawn to various intriguing objects scattered around. Among them, a collection on one side of the space particularly seized her interest. These objects, eerily reminiscent of fingers, resonated with something deep within her, triggering an instinctive recognition. She knew in that instant that the things were her cultivation that had been lying dormant within her core.
Across the room stood a striking board, its surface a tapestry of black wood that seemed to pulse with an inner life. The board oscillated between states of eerie luminescence and dormancy as if it breathed a rhythm known only to itself. In another corner lay a creature that defied all natural laws as Ai knew them. It was an entity wholly alien, with no resemblance to humanity. The creature’s form was elongated, lacking a discernible head. It boasted ten arms and a single leg, with a solitary horn protruding from where its head should have been. Nestled within the horn was an eye, unblinking and omniscient. Despite what logic dictated, Ai felt a visceral denial that this being could be the demon she was destined to inherit through her core.
The thought that she might have inadvertently unleashed her cultivation powers during combat was both thrilling and terrifying. It was a possibility that seemed to contradict everything she had learned from the captain of the Armad Legion, her grizzled and wise mentor. He had told her, in no uncertain terms, that the awakening of cultivation powers was a process facilitated exclusively by the utilization of mystical seals crafted by the Wilberforce tribes and Other Tribes. These seals were not mere trinkets; they were the apex of value, the linchpins in the economy of the expansive Wilberforce Empire, and by extension, the world itself. The rarity of these seals was such that even the storied Armad Legion had only a hundred in their possession, a testament to their worth and potency.
These seals were reputed to be the keys to unlocking one’s inner cultivation abilities, but their use came with a stipulation: once a seal was employed, its magic expended, it became nothing more than an inert relic, regardless of whether it had successfully awakened any latent powers. Hence, the captains, including Ai’s own, had resolved to delay the use of these seals. Their strategy was to subject their trainees to rigorous physical conditioning, fortifying their bodies in preparation for the eventual use of the seals. It was believed that the fitter the body, the greater the likelihood of a successful awakening.
The statistics were sobering: even with rigorous training, the success rate was a mere 10 out of 100. Without physical conditioning, the chances of awakening one’s cultivation powers were dismal, potentially leaving not a single individual out of a hundred capable of accessing their latent abilities. With such odds, it was imperative not to squander the Armad Legion’s limited supply of seals. The plan was to wait, to build strength and endurance until Ai and her fellow trainees were deemed ready.
But the best-laid plans of the Legion had been thwarted by the relentless onslaught of battles that had besieged their town. These conflicts had left little room for the systematic training regimen initially envisioned. And now, Ai stood amidst the remnants of her interrupted training, grappling with the reality that her cultivation powers had awakened, inexplicably and without the aid of the precious seals.
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The phenomenon was unheard of. Ai knew that even Armad, whose noble bloodline traced back to King Ayrion, had used a seal to initiate his cultivation journey. This was the way of all-powerful cultivators—none had bypassed the need for the seals’ power... until now. Ai’s unique awakening posed a myriad of questions: Was she alone in this ability, or did her ancestry conceal formidable cultivators who had somehow orchestrated her destiny?
As she was still in the mystery of the situation that she found herself in, her gaze fell upon the five bottles now devoid of the potent herbs she had ingested, their glass bodies lying discarded on the earthen floor. The lineage of her family, a tapestry woven through time from her great-great-grandparents to her immediate kin, was etched in her mind. It was a humble lineage, absent of any cultivator—every member an ordinary soul ensconced within the modest town of Tiriba. The financial constraints they faced were as real as the earth beneath her feet; not one could afford the exorbitant seal, an artifact whose cost dwarfed the combined earnings of her ancestors. The notion that her grandparents might have bequeathed her such a mystical ability was, therefore, a vacuous one; never once had she witnessed a flicker of the extraordinary within herself, from the innocent days of her youth to this moment of introspection. The singular conclusion that resonated with a ring of truth was that the herbal concoction—her leader, Prince Armad’s gift—was the key to unlocking the dormant cultivation within her.
The scope of this revelation stretched far beyond her transformation, despite the relative naivety her young age implied. She couldn’t ignore the broader ramifications: if these herbs indeed held the power to awaken cultivational aptitudes, then Prince Armad wielded a weapon of such potency it could shift the balance of the entire world. The economics lessons from the grand schools of the vast kingdoms had been explicit in their assertion that a significant portion of their wealth, including the Empire of Wilberforce’s, hinged on the commerce of the seals. These seals, desired fervently by aspirants from every conceivable region, saw their numbers dwindle daily through brisk trade.
The intrinsic worth of the seals was evident and yet, here she was, in possession of over a hundred bottles of the herb that could potentially render those seals obsolete. The question that gnawed at her thoughts was multifaceted: what degree of influence and dominion could Prince Armad command if it became known that these herbs could alone awaken the slumbering powers of cultivation? The implications were staggering—not solely for the prince but for his followers, for her, and even for the unsuspecting town of Tiriba, which would see its stature elevated beyond imagination.
Amidst these reflections, a personal memory surfaced—the moment when she had teetered on the brink of self-destruction, only to have her cultivation abilities surge to life. There was a possibility that in her moment of deepest despair, she had unwittingly coaxed the herbs into releasing their latent power. While the details remained murky, her conviction in the herbs’ significance to her awakening was unshakeable. Yet the enigma persisted: did Prince Armad possess knowledge of this extraordinary use of the herbs when he dispensed them? If so, why had he not shared this revelation? Why continue the pursuit of the 100 seals intended to facilitate the awakening of their abilities? Had he been aware, his captains would surely have employed the herbs on Ai and her fellow soldiers, hastening their transformation.
A new concern now took shape in her mind, casting a shadow over the future. Should their foes, such as the King’s Legion, uncover the dual nature of the herbs—not only as agents of healing but also as keys to unlocking cultivation abilities—the consequences could be catastrophic. It was conceivable that such knowledge in the hands of their enemies could lead to a swift and brutal campaign to obliterate Tiriba, erasing any semblance of resistance. With the gravity of this potential threat pressing upon her, she understood that the very survival of her people hinged on the safeguarding of this secret. Victory in battle would be meaningless if the truth about the herbs’ true power were to be exposed.
Ai grappled with the complex web of loyalties and strategies unfolding around her. Despite the lack of closeness between herself and Armad, his unexpected kindness had forged a bond she couldn’t ignore. He had given her a gift, a token of such rarity that it was unparalleled within her family’s history. This act of generosity had shifted something within her; she would not wish for another battle against him by other enemies in the future.
Her contemplation ran deeper still, as she knew the stakes of her involvement in the power struggles of the realm were life or death. Her life was inextricably linked to the fate of the prince—his demise would inevitably seal her own, either through death or a life bound to servitude. The magnitude of this reality was not lost on her; she understood the paramount importance of safeguarding the secret that tethered her to him.
Amidst this contemplation, a question loomed large in Ai’s mind: Was she the sole user of the mystical herb that awakened cultivation abilities by using the herbs, or did her companions also share in this hidden edge? If she alone knew of and utilized the herb’s power, it would be a secret easily kept. However, if her peers also harnessed its properties, the risk of their adversaries uncovering the truth increased. Their foes were shrewd and observant, not easily fooled or overlooked. They might not immediately link the herb to the sudden enhancement of cultivation abilities, but such a discovery remained a looming threat. It was only a matter of time before the opposition might start connecting the dots, keeping a watchful eye on the herb and those who could potentially wield its power.
Weighed down by these thoughts, Ai breathed out a heavy sigh. She steered her focus back to the more immediate concern: the impending battle. She knew that victory was essential, not only for the sake of her own life but for the broader ambitions of her faction. All her opponents had to be vanquished in the fray before she could afford to ponder the consequences of their secret being exposed.
Once her mind had circled through the strategic aspects of her situation, Ai let her thoughts drift to the mystical creature that had begun to occupy her attention. According to the teachings of the captains who had been entrusted with their cultivation education, upon the awakening of an individual’s cultivation abilities, the first to emerge was the power of cultivation itself. This intrinsic force, nestled within the core of each person, was the measure of their potential in the cultivation world and the benchmark of their innate talent.
The captains had told tales of the children of the Wilberforce tribe, who were said to inherit an astonishing 500 years of cultivation within their very cores. The crown prince, Ikenga had achieved the unthinkable, awakening to a staggering 1,500 years of cultivation, a feat not replicated for centuries and spoken of in hushed, reverent tones.
In stark contrast, the children from the lesser-known tribes seldom inherited more than a paltry 200 years of cultivation. And in the rural areas, from whence Ai herself had come, it was even less—the cultivation bestowed rarely exceeded a mere 50 years.
Ai’s thoughts then turned inward, to her core, where she saw her inherited cultivation. She began to count the strands of light within her, resembling fingers, which occasionally flickered with a soft luminescence. These strands, once dismissed as trivial, now seemed to hold the weight of her future. “10, 11, 12 ... 20, 22, 25,” she counted, a sense of elation growing with each number. She did not even count half of the cultivation, but she had already tallied more than she had dared to hope for. The count continued, and with each additional year of cultivation she identified, a sense of wonderment grew within her. Could it be that her lineage was more formidable than she had been led to believe?
Ai pressed on, counting past 50, realizing that she had only begun to unveil the full extent of her inheritance. Her concentration did not waver as she reached and surpassed 100 years of cultivation. Finally, she arrived at a total of 101 years.
Does this mean that she is not required to commence her cultivation journey at the ki condensation level? Consider Prince Ikenga as an example; unlike others, he was not obligated to initiate his cultivation journey at the lower levels such as ki condensation or formation establishment levels. Instead, he had the privilege of beginning at an advanced level, starting directly at the early stage of core formation.
In a similar vein, Ai experienced a significant awakening—a large core—freeing her from the usual starting point at the ki condensation level. The intrinsic cultivation within her core granted her an immediate elevation to the formation establishment level. This achievement is particularly noteworthy because her adversaries, who seek to demean her, have not yet managed to attain this stage. Ai has only attained a singular cultivation at this level, but it is an accomplishment that her opponents have failed to achieve.
Her expression is one of a silent, brutal smile, a testament to the inner vow she has made to exact retribution upon them. Nevertheless, with this newfound power comes a daunting realization: she is ill-equipped for the practical use of her cultivation abilities. Throughout her training, the captains provided her and her fellow students with a broad array of lessons. Yet, the application of cultivation was conspicuously absent from their curriculum. The oversight was understandable—none of them possessed such powers, and it had not crossed their minds that one might suddenly awaken to such potential, especially under the circumstances that Ai had faced.