Armad grasped the pivotal role of cultivation in the grand scheme of his existence. His fervent desire to conquer the towns was driven by a need to prevent the townsfolk from looting the wealth and fleeing into the night. This ambition, he now realized, was the catalyst that led him to not solitude in his chamber for meditation, a sanctuary where he could focus on reclaiming his diminished Nagirinki. Initially, his heart was set on domination, and this burning aspiration compelled him to gather his battalion and set forth on his campaign.
Upon his successful conquest of the town ruled by King Konfot, Armad faced a strategic decision. He chose to entrust the continuation of his military endeavors to Nusi, along with her capable soldiers. They were to press on and bring the remaining towns under his control. Meanwhile, Armad resolved to remain in the conquered town, using the tranquil aftermath of victory as an opportunity to delve deep into meditation and increase his cultivation years.
From the depths of his magical bag, Armad withdrew several mystical pills and began to administer them to himself. As the pills dissolved, there was an instantaneous response; his cultivation levels began to climb at an astonishing rate. The stagnation he had previously experienced at the peak of the core formation level is no more. His cultivation, which had regressed to a mere 8,500 years – a figure well below the threshold of core formation level – was now accelerating with renewed vigor. The familiar sensation of warmth, akin to that felt by humans during increasing cultivation, began to flood his veins with its invigorating fire.
It did not take long for Armad’s cultivation to make a remarkable leap from 8,500 years to 9,000 years, and it did not stop there. The rapid increase persisted, yet Armad lost all sense of time as he meditated. When he eventually emerged from his deep contemplation, he was greeted by the realization that his cultivation had been restored to its previous peak of 10,000 years. Now, only a single year of cultivation stood between him and the esteemed pre-deva level – a significant milestone for any cultivator.
Despite the well-known difficulty in advancing from 10,000 years to 10,001 years, which represented the threshold to the pre-deva stage, Armad was undeterred. The challenge before him was daunting, but he recognized that it was this very challenge that he required to progress.
Determined, Armad grasped a handful of the pills and once again placed them into his mouth. Though the taste had long since ceased to elicit any pleasure, this did not concern him. His focus was not on the fleeting sensory experience of taste but on the crucial goal of increasing his cultivation. As he methodically chewed on the pills, his Nagirinki levels continued to swell. Yet, his overall cultivation level remained stubbornly unchanged.
With a discipline born of necessity, Armad periodically turned his inner gaze to the world of his Nagirinki, seeking signs of growth or change. Despite his efforts, the size of this inner world had yet to achieve the milestone of 1 km. No matter which direction he measured, the world of Nagirinki fell short, not exceeding 900 meters. It was only when this realm expanded to a full 1000 meters that it could truly be said to have attained the 1 km mark. Yet, these did not deter him; they propelled him forward. Before he started increasing his cultivation, his world was insufficient to house him, as he had already tapped into the very essence that sustained it during the creation of the pol strings. But as he progressed in increasing his cultivation, he could now traverse and wander within his world.
Much to his astonishment, Armad realized that the items he had previously stored within this world remained untouched, despite the world’s contraction. He had harbored concerns that shrinking the space might cause his belongings to disappear into some unfathomable abyss. This, fortunately, did not come to pass. It seemed the realm had only reduced to a size that excluded his presence while ensuring a sanctuary for his possessions. The exact mechanics of this phenomenon eluded him, yet the outcome brought him a sense of satisfaction.
Time held little meaning for Armad as he delved deep into the state of meditation, focused on the increasing of his cultivation. Such was the nature of meditation that a day and night could blur into what felt like mere moments. With unwavering dedication, he consumed the cultivation enhancement pills until his world burgeoned to a remarkable expanse of 1000 meters—a full kilometer.
Upon reaching this new breadth, Armad summoned his Nagirinki to evaluate its enhancements. His world now could bolster his offensive capabilities by 5%, while also offering a defensive edge, weakening his adversaries’ attacks by an impressive 3.25%. Though these improvements might seem modest in comparison to the support his world lent in previous battles, they were nonetheless crucial. They marked his self-reliance, as he had achieved this growth without external assistance, reaching this landmark in a mere two days.
As Armand remained absorbed in his meditation, life in the town bustled with its rhythm. The town’s large training field served as a stage for unfolding events. Nusi stood there, flanked by three devas. Close by was Kalidu, the sage whose years were as numerous as his wisdom. Together, they took their place upon an elevated platform, complete with ascending steps, a silent testament to their status.
From afar, a diverse procession of individuals, predominantly young, advanced toward them. Their approach varied—some pressed on with urgency, while others took a more measured pace, pausing to gather themselves with each step they took. Regardless of their manner, the sheer number of them was enough to draw the gaze and curiosity of anyone who witnessed the scene.
From her vantage point, Nusi’s expression morphs into a frown, her head shaking involuntarily in disbelief and concern. The rigorous training and the grueling running tournament they’ve been subjected to are undeniably harsh. It was to be expected that such intense preparation would take its toll, but the extent of their weariness is starkly evident. In stark contrast to the vigor they displayed at the onset, with each stride fueled by raw power and determination, their current state paints a different picture. As they approach the end of their ordeal, exhaustion has set in; their once forceful steps have been reduced to feeble shuffles. Nusi is all too aware that without the supplemental aid of energy-boosting herbs, this battalion is virtually ineffective—akin to a phantom force.
Her realization is crystallizing: it would be a strategic folly to deploy these beleaguered souls onto the battlefield. They are devoid of the essential courage, strength, and any spark of hope that might ignite their latent cultivation abilities due to overwhelming weakness. These are people on the precipice of decline; give them a few years, and they will succumb to the ravages of age. A profound sigh escapes her as she casts one last look at the old man, whose figure now symbolizes the battalion’s desperate plight before she diverts her gaze.
The memory of the old man’s promise lingers in Nusi’s mind—the promise made to Armad that he could rally a battalion of 50,000 strong. She understood then, as she does now, that his pledge was less about selective recruitment and more about mass conscription from the town’s entire populace. The old man’s indiscriminate approach doesn’t differentiate between the hale and the frail, the robust and the feeble. From Nusi’s keen observations, she harbors a faint hope that perhaps 10,000 of those promised could be found fit for combat—a mere fraction of the initial figure, but still a force to be reckoned with.
Yet, it is the presence of the devas, those formidable beings assigned by Armad to assist her, that provides her with a semblance of comfort amidst the uncertainty. In her heart, she believes that their mission to conquer the eight towns will likely encounter no resistance from the devas. If any such beings were present, surely they would have fled upon hearing of their recent military successes—news that has rippled through the region like a shockwave. No deva, with a lifespan stretching over a millennium, would choose to linger and forfeit their extended existence in a futile stand. Flight would be the logical recourse. However, in the unlikely event that a deva does choose to make a stand, Nusi is not without support; Armad has equipped her with three devas of their own, a formidable reinforcement for the task at hand.
As for the battalion in question, their fate seems predetermined to that of mere foot soldiers. In them, Nusi sees no potential for greatness; her expectations are firmly grounded. They will serve as the most basic military unit, and she is resigned to this somber conclusion.
Several minutes had passed before the people Kalidu had been rallying for battle managed to reach their designated location. When they finally arrived, Nusi quickly realized that she had overestimated their prowess. She had initially thought that out of the 50,000 individuals Kalidu was attempting to assemble for the conflict, at least 20,000 would emerge victorious in a qualifying race, thereby earning a place in the battalion that would march to war. She had conservatively estimated that perhaps only 10,000 would be capable of achieving this. To her dismay, the actual number who crossed the finish line was a paltry 5,200. Moreover, those who did make it were lying on the ground, utterly exhausted and struggling to breathe.
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Nusi’s patience snapped at the sight. Her gaze upon Kalidu was filled with scorn and disappointment. Was this the mighty host of 50,000 he had pledged to deliver for the campaign? Did he believe that they could effortlessly elevate the untrained masses to the ranks of seasoned warriors through mere spells or enchantments? Although their energy-boosting herbs had the potential to raise the abilities of the ordinary to that of cultivators, it was imperative that such individuals be youthful and strong to begin with. The herbs’ efficacy was contingent upon the vitality of their recipients; administering them to those who were old and feeble was tantamount to sending them prematurely to their graves. It was evident that they were in dire need of vigorous youth.
What particularly drew Nusi’s attention amidst the 5,200 who had made it to the finish line was the surprising presence of women and elderly participants. The young men, whom she had assumed would be the most likely to succeed and arrive first, had fallen short of even reaching the finish line, let alone leading the pack.
Kalidu, under Nusi’s reproachful eye, remained silent. He knew better than to offer excuses in the face of her evident frustration. Instead, he approached with a respectful demeanor, bowed deeply, and spoke with a tinge of regret. “Your Highness, I beg your forgiveness. The strength of our people has not lived up to your expectations. Nonetheless, I can attest that each one of them exerted their utmost effort. They are prepared to face any retribution for their lack of strength without a murmur of dissent.”
Nusi responded by simply shaking her head in a gesture that conveyed her unwillingness to engage further. She turned her back on Kalidu without uttering a word. Her eyes then sought out the three devas standing by her side, who nodded back at her, sharing an unspoken understanding. Although these devas stood at a level of cultivation that normally would not submit to the command of someone at the core formation level, they showed no sign of dissent. The fact that they, as high-ranking devas, were deferential to Nusi’s leadership was a testament to the uncommon morale and discipline of the forces under Armad. Finding devas who would accept orders from a core formation cultivator was an extraordinary occurrence, one that was virtually unheard of in any corner of the world.
However, it may not be solely their high morale that drives their obedience; they may be acting on direct orders from Armad, who has designated Nusi as the leader of this mission. Regardless of the underlying reason, the followers did not dilly-dally after receiving Nusi's command. They immediately aligned themselves with the core formation cultivators, who were present as part of the mission team. These cultivators, understanding the gravity of the situation, gave a collective nod before fifty of them executed a coordinated teleportation maneuver. They reappeared at the location of the 5,200 exhausted participants who had just completed the grueling race, many of whom were sprawled on the ground, bordering on unconsciousness.
As these cultivators arrived at the scene, they conjured bottles filled with mysterious herbs out of thin air. Approaching the prostrate figures, they distributed the bottles. What seemed remarkable was that some of the participants were too depleted to even lift their hands to receive this aid; their strength had utterly deserted them. Recognizing this, the compassionate core formation cultivators took it upon themselves to open the mouths of the incapacitated runners and carefully administer the herbal concoction.
What transpired next was something the old man could scarcely fathom. These individuals, who a moment ago seemed so frail that a physician would predict a week's convalescence before they could even stand, began to exhibit miraculous signs of recovery. As the herbal essence entered their systems, their skin, previously ashen from the severe depletion of blood, flushed with a healthy ruddiness. Their eyes, which had carried the hollow look of impending doom, now sparkled with renewed life. It was as though they had been rejuvenated, their vitality restored. In a mere instance, they rose to their feet, their bodies pulsing with a potent energy that had been conspicuously absent just moments before.
Kalidu, witnessing this extraordinary revival, closed his eyes and pondered the implications. The information he had received about the herbs — rumors he had doubted until now — was proving to be accurate. The true potency of the medicine might have been even greater than what had been reported. As realization washed over him, a look of understanding began to manifest in the old man's eyes. Possession of such powerful medicinal herbs could render the young prince an unstoppable force in the conquest and governance of this region of the world. To pledge allegiance to such a prince would not be an act of submission borne out of shame, but a strategic decision — a necessity even. With a ruler capable of both protecting the realm and wielding such transformative power, aligning with him could very well transform a potentially perilous situation into a significant advantage.
Since the inception of his town, his ancestors have held the esteemed position of council leaders, a role bestowed upon them for their profound wisdom and the valuable collection of books passed down through generations. These books were not merely heirlooms; they contained the sagacity required to guide sovereigns. Even in the face of King Konfot’s downfall, he harbors no intention of being the one in whom his family’s storied legacy terminates. History is replete with instances of advisors shifting their loyalties when circumstances demanded. Should the prince be amenable to the idea, he would willingly embrace the role of his advisor. This would not only preserve the tradition but could also potentially elevate his standing, especially if Armad’s influence were to expand. Moreover, with his proximity and counsel to Armad, he would be in an advantageous position to safeguard his kin, King Konfot, and the innocent populace from any undue harm. Lost in his contemplations, he remains an observant witness to the ongoing events. His primary concern is to ensure that he positions himself within Armad’s inner circle, thus securing his protection, a strategy that seems to be unfolding as planned.
Nusi checked the time on her wristwatch, noting that the sun had climbed to its peak in the sky. She was resolute in her decision to not defer the day’s mission to the morrow. With a sense of urgency, she issued a command to her battalion, instructing them to ready themselves for the imminent march to their next conquest. Any hesitation, any postponement, could afford their future adversaries precious time to bolster their defenses, which could present significant obstacles upon their arrival.
Kalidu, recognizing the gravity of the situation, gave a nod of assent. “Your Highness, it shall be accomplished with diligence,” he affirmed with resolve.
The devas, a formidable force in their own right, stood alert and prepared. For them, the bearing of arms was superfluous; such was their might that, unencumbered by the battalion, they could transit to the targeted town in a mere half hour.
In the meantime, Kalidu alongside the core formation cultivators who had accompanied Nusi, took charge of organizing the large contingent of 5,200 soldiers. Their task was to orchestrate a departure that would enable a sudden and decisive strike on the next town. Apart from this, Nusi and the devas moved to a secluded section of the field to meticulously plan their assault strategy. They were not merely planning an attack; they were choreographing a sequence of moves that would ensure victory in the town they had set their sights on.
While Armad and Nusi meticulously plotted their next move against a neighboring town, a curious scene unfolded at a distant location, 200 kilometers from the Town of King Konfot. Here, a person with a striking dichotomy of appearance took form. His hair was split down the middle, one half as white as snow, the other as dark as the raven’s wing. This characteristic was not indicative of natural aging, where hair grays uniformly. Rather, his hair seemed to represent a stark contrast between two halves of existence: one aged and one eternally youthful.
This division extended beyond his hair, bisecting his entire being. One side of his body bore the marks of time, while the other seemed untouched by it, radiating the vigor of youth.
A discerning eye would pierce the veil of agedness that clung to parts of his form to recognize the individual as none other than Commander Kisa, a high-ranking official of the King’s Legion. Despite the visual cues of weariness, the commander exhibited none of the typical signs of exhaustion. His pace was brisk, and he moved with a sense of urgency, airborne and determined, all the while rhythmically grinding his teeth in anticipation or anxiety.
The prowess of Devas in flight is legendary; they navigate the skies with such mastery that they can reach altitudes unattainable by the likes of kites. They have the power to ascend beyond the clouds, into the clear blue beyond. This is not so for core formation cultivators, who, despite their ability to take to the skies, remain bound beneath the cloud cover, unable to break through to the upper echelons of the heavens. This stark contrast in aerial ability is what sets Devas apart from their earth-bound counterparts.
Yet in a surprising turn, Commander Kisa, who possessed the capabilities of a Deva, chose not to ascend above the clouds, a decision that would undoubtedly slow his progress. It appeared that he lacked the requisite strength or perhaps the will to break through the cloud barrier, compelling him to adopt the lower flight path typical of core formation cultivators.
Amid his flight, the commander’s teeth continued to clench and unclench, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. A flood of thoughts besieged him, and for the first time in his extensive and storied career, he felt the icy grip of fear. The prospect of confronting Prince Armad again sent chills down his spine, a fear that was uncharacteristic of a man of his station and experience.
Tinged with fear was a profound sense of regret. If only Commander Kisa had known the full extent of the young prince’s heritage—the formidable Wilberforce bloodline that endowed Armad with the power to manifest extraordinary abilities, such as the pol string skill—he would have never considered opposition. No amount of promised wealth or promises of promotion within the ranks of the legion could justify such a strategically flawed move. Commander Kisa was no fool; his ascension to the rank of commander was a testament to his tactical acumen and shrewd judgment. He knows the gravity of standing against one with the potent bloodline of Wilberforce coursing through his veins. Therefore, he would not go against Armad if he knew his capabilities.