Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

Time passed swiftly—three months swept by like petals on wind.

Two months prior, the veil of protective formation around Devor's hilltop residence had been lifted. The long-hidden estate was once again visible to the sect.

Naturally, many curious disciples had rushed to see what secrets might lie atop the secluded hill. Whispers rippled across the Azure Sky Sect like wildfire.

But when they arrived, they found… nothing out of the ordinary.

Just a garden, unusually lush, and at its center—what seemed to be a newly planted Spiritual Tree, barely two feet tall. Not even fully awakened.

No mysterious aura. No ancient legacy. No grand spectacle.

Just a humble tree rooted in quiet soil.

That very lack of drama only made Devor's peers more curious. What, then, had he been doing all this time in seclusion? Surely, there had to be more than met the eye.

But Devor offered no explanations.

He was too deep in research, carefully documenting every known toxic trait, mutation vector, and environmental dependency for the poisonous plants under his care.

His study filled dozens of scrolls, neatly stacked within his quarters.

By his own estimation, he was within two years of developing a stable, rules-based model to govern the Venom Domain.

But his experiments hadn't dulled his edge.

With the Venom Mode fully purged from his body and his natural strength restored, Devor resumed his routine in full—training, studying, and cultivating openly within the sect grounds.

Now, beneath the vast ceiling of the Azure Sky Sect's Martial Hall, Devor stood at the center of the marble dueling court, drenched in sweat.

A longsword hung from his hand, gleaming in the sun, its edge soaked with golden flame.

His posture was perfectly still—yet coiled like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

The air trembled around him.

Across the court, his opponent stood shrouded by swirling dust.

Moments earlier, the impact of their clash had split the flagstones beneath them. Slowly, the dust began to settle.

Devor's eyes sharpened. "There."

His body vanished from its stance, shooting forward like a bolt of golden lightning.

His blade sang, carving a searing arc straight through the smoke.

Clang!

The strike was parried, but Devor didn't stop there.

He flowed through sword forms like a tempest—each attack laced with elemental force, his footwork sharp as razors, his precision near surgical.

A hundred strikes passed in moments.

His opponent gave no ground—each slash was met with an iron defense, even as Devor pressed harder, forcing him back step by step.

Then, as an opening revealed itself, Devor struck with all his force.

A brilliant silhouette flared behind him—a Golden Flame Dragon, coiled and majestic, bursting into motion as he unleashed his finishing blow.

Boom!

The impact split the ground once more, sending a shockwave tearing across the court.

When the smoke finally cleared, a blazing red ox stood where Devor's opponent had once been—its skin steaming, its hooves gouged into the cracked stone.

Sugu—known throughout the sect as a prodigy in martial prowess—lowered his stance slowly, his expression unreadable.

Devor exhaled, brow furrowed. "Your defense is absurd. Not even a scratch."

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He flicked the sweat from his brow and sheathed his sword. The match was done.

"No," Sugu replied, his voice calm, "your swordsmanship is exceptional. Your technique... it's clean, elegant, and relentless. But your core strength doesn't lie in offense. That's the only reason you couldn't break through."

Devor's gaze darkened, but only for a moment. He knew Sugu was right. Power alone wasn't enough—not with a foundation like his.

And yet, he didn't feel defeated.

"You've refined your technique beautifully," Sugu continued. "Honestly... it's not a cultivator's sword—it's the blade of a craftsman. Measured. Controlled. Designed for shaping, not killing."

"Maybe that's all I need it to be," Devor replied thoughtfully.

Just then, a light voice echoed across the courtyard.

"Hmm. That was quite a performance," said Monny, her presence like a spark in still air.

Sugu and Devor both turned as she approached—her long, jet-black hair flowing behind her like a waterfall of ink.

Her robes were elegant yet practical, the signature colors of her alchemy division stitched into her sash.

Devor blinked in surprise. "Monny? You've been gone a while."

Monny smiled, her gaze sweeping between them. "I came to restock some of my rare materials. Thought I'd drop by and see if you were still holding up in the garden like some buried root."

Then her smile turned mischievous. "Looks like you've grown a spine—and learned to swing that sword properly."

Devor raised an eyebrow. "Want to test that theory?"

She crossed her arms. "Glad you offered. Let's go."

"Can I rest first?" Devor groaned.

"You've still got more in the tank. I can feel it," Monny teased, summoning a pair of glimmering daggers from her storage ring. "Besides, when have I ever let you off easy?"

Sugu chuckled and stepped aside, already knowing how this would end.

With a resigned breath, Devor drew his sword again. "You win. Just don't expect me to go easy."

Monny's grin widened. "Good. I like it better when you're serious."

And just like that, the next duel ignited—fire against finesse, instinct against precision.

An hour later, the echoes of clashing blades had faded, replaced by the quiet murmurs of observation.

Devor sat on the edge of the sparring platform, resting with Sugu and Monny flanking him, the three of them watching other disciples duel across the wide marble arena.

Their bodies bore the signs of recent battle—sweat-slicked skin, scuffed robes, and the residual tension of exhausted muscles.

A light breeze blew through the Martial Hall, stirring the edge of Devor's sleeve.

"I don't think that sword technique really suits you," Monny said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was gentle, but honest.

Devor gave her a tired glance. He had lost to her earlier, and although it had been a close fight, the result was undeniable.

"You mean I should go find a sword style designed for a Spiritual Farmer?" he asked dryly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Monny opened her mouth to reply, then paused—her confident expression faltering.

She hadn't meant it as an insult. In fact, Devor's swordplay was impressive.

The technique he used was aggressive, precise, and brimming with potential.

But it just didn't fit him. The more she watched, the more it felt like Devor was forcing himself to wield someone else's blade.

It was like watching a gentle river try to mimic the fury of a waterfall—powerful, but not its true nature.

Sugu chimed in, his tone thoughtful. "Maybe you should try something more fluid—something that focuses on precision, flow, and timing. Not every blade needs to clash head-on. In the end, techniques are just vessels. What really matters is how well they resonate with the one who uses them."

"Thanks," Devor replied with a faint smile, though inwardly, he sighed.

He had already tried that path.

A month ago, under Yulin's guidance, he'd studied a refined sword form built on flow—meant to evolve and sharpen over time.

Its philosophy was rooted in patience and adaptation, not dominance. Each stroke was meant to build upon the last, growing deadlier the longer the battle dragged on.

It should've been the perfect technique for him.

But something… strange had happened.

Whenever Devor practiced the form, his energy didn't stay centered on his blade.

It leaked—subtly, invisibly—into the surroundings, dispersing like sunlight through leaves.

Rather than bolstering his strikes, his energy radiated into the environment.

And wherever it touched, it nurtured.

The sword, instead of slashing, began to bless. Each swing bathed the area in a faintly nourishing aura, and plants nearby even responded—trembling faintly, as though bowing to the energy.

If he continued using that sword style, he feared he'd end up a gardener mid-duel, accidentally fertilizing the battleground while his opponent carved him to pieces.

Ridiculous, he had thought at the time.

Yet something about it felt… right.

As the afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, Devor stood and gave his farewells to Sugu and Monny, his expression unreadable.

The moment he was gone from view, Monny's teasing smile faded, replaced by something more serious.

"I didn't believe it before," she murmured, folding her arms. "But what you said… it's real."

Sugu exhaled and nodded. "Yeah. I started noticing it a few matches ago. At first I thought it was just my body adapting faster—but it wasn't. Every time we clashed, something changed."

"I felt it too," Monny added, her voice soft with disbelief. "It wasn't just the warmth of spiritual energy. It was... healing. Like it seeped into my skin and muscles, reinforcing them. Every strike we exchanged made me stronger—not weaker."

Sugu chuckled, but it was hollow. "Devor might be the perfect sparring partner. Give it a year, and people will pay to fight him. Not for the challenge—but for the benefits."

"His energy isn't just spiritual force," Monny said, narrowing her eyes. "It's a cultivation catalyst. A living elixir. And somehow... it transfers through combat."

What neither of them realized was that Devor's energy wasn't simply energy.

His cultivation technique—Heavenly Creation—had begun to subtly shift the very essence of his body and spiritual signature. It was infused with the laws of growth, harmony, and elemental nourishment. Not only plants responded to it—but people did too.

In battle, the constant flow of his energy didn't just defend or strike—it improved.

Muscle tissue. Bone density. Meridian conductivity.

Microscopic enhancements, invisible to the eye, were being planted like seeds into those he fought.

And though insignificant now... those seeds would grow.