Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

As the first class began, Devor sat cross-legged on the soft soil beneath the morning sky, surrounded by a circle of students who mirrored his posture in silence.

They ranged in age, cultivation stage, and background, yet all bore the same expression—curiosity tinged with anticipation.

Off to the side, seated beneath the shade of a willow tree, Yulin quietly readied a brush and a long sheet of spirit-infused paper.

"I'll record your lectures," she had said earlier, her voice light but serious. "That way others who can't attend can still learn."

Devor had never thought to preserve his words this way. His instinct had always been hands-on, his knowledge passed through action and correction.

But Yulin had smiled and added, "It helps me remember too."

"So this is how it begins," Devor thought, glancing toward her. "Not just teaching. Legacy."

He closed his eyes briefly, taking a breath as deep and calm as the earth beneath him. Then he spoke.

"Thank you for being here today." His voice was even, not loud, but it carried—amplified gently by the rune Yulin had placed nearby. The spectator ward shimmered faintly in response.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to sit here—to listen, to learn." Some students nodded. Others kept their eyes fixed forward. But all of them listened.

"Let me be clear," Devor said. "No one is forcing you to be here. Spiritual Gardening isn't a requirement. It's not a shortcut to cultivation. It won't make you a genius overnight."

He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before continuing. "But if you came with the intent to understand the world better—to touch the rhythm that connects nature and spirit—then you're already on the right path."

The spectators shifted slightly. Murmurs passed between cultivators who'd expected a technical class. This... felt more like a philosophy seminar.

"Gardening," Devor said slowly, "isn't about finding yourself. It's about understanding everything else."

"The world. Its flow. Its memory." He gestured to the rows of untouched soil before them.

"A single patch of land contains more variables than most cultivators carry within their own bodies. Spiritual soil responds to intent. To elemental alignment. To emotional fluctuations. If you can stabilize the chaos of a garden, then managing the chaos in your meridians… becomes a much simpler task."

The students leaned forward, now deeply attentive.

"Spiritual Farmers aren't defined by how many books they've read. Not by how many seeds they've memorized, or how many field charts they can recite." He smiled faintly. "I know that better than anyone. I've read hundreds of books. Let's just say I have my own way of turning what I read into something more—something deeper."

That admission startled a few in the crowd. He spoke about his mysterious refinement ability as if it were casual.

"But early on, I realized something. Ninety out of a hundred books on Spiritual Plants say the same thing." He paused. "Water your plants."

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd—students and spectators alike. But there was no mockery in it—only amusement, and a glimmer of understanding.

"The truth is... knowing when not to water is often more important."

"Understanding that a plant's growth may stagnate because your own spiritual presence is unstable, not because the soil is poor."

He stood slowly, walking between the students.

"When I was younger, I failed. A lot. Plants died. Roots withered. Cultivation stagnated."

"But through those failures, I didn't just learn about plants. I learned about myself. My flaws. My restlessness. My limits."

He knelt beside a garden plot and placed his hand on the soil.

"What I teach you won't be memorization. It won't be step-by-step techniques from a scroll."

"It will be cultivation in its rawest form—told through the language of soil and seed."

Devor spoke for nearly four straight hours, his voice calm but unwavering, filled with layered insights.

The students surrounding him remained still, captivated. Even the audience in the spectator ward—Core Disciples, Inner Elders, and casual onlookers alike—had fallen into a collective silence.

He shared the theory behind Spiritual Plants, not from books or scrolls, but from thousands of hours spent with his hands in the dirt, his Qi intertwined with living essence.

"Even where energy flows become chaotic," Devor said, "there's always a stabilizing rhythm beneath the surface. But finding it… means understanding the system, not forcing it."

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He spoke next of what he called complementary harmonics—the ability to stabilize a chaotic energy field by pairing opposing elements together.

It was a technique he developed himself, drawn from repeated failures in trying to raise incompatible plants side by side.

"Two water plants might wither when planted too close. But a water plant and a fire plant?"

"They balance each other—like opposites in a conversation. Their differences allow them to breathe."

The spectators murmured at this insight, many of them writing furiously.

But Devor's tone darkened slightly as he transitioned into the cost.

"Single-element plants," he explained, "are far more delicate. Each carries its own energy circulation—distinct, stubborn, sometimes even volatile."

"To nurture them… you have to adapt to their flow, not the other way around. It's like speaking a different dialect for each seed you plant."

As his lecture neared its end, Devor sat in silence for a long moment.

Then he asked softly, "Spiritual Farmers are said to be bringers of life. But… is that really true?"

The question struck the audience like a silent bell. Even Yulin's brush paused over her scroll.

"It's comforting to believe we stand with nature," he said, "that we're helping the world bloom. But… every failure means death."

"If I plant ten seeds and only one survives, what am I?"

No one answered.

"Without us, wild Spiritual Plants would still grow. Unchecked. Free. So when we interfere… when we tame… are we creating life? Or simply bending it for our own benefit?"

A quiet chill passed through the crowd. Some frowned. Others glanced around uneasily. It was not a question cultivators asked often—not in a world where control defined power.

Devor continued, his voice steady but philosophical.

"Humans carry both life and death within us. That duality—Yin and Yang—is the foundation of all cultivation. Creation and destruction are not enemies… they are partners in balance."

He held up a seed, letting the wind catch it from his fingers.

"That's why I named my book Art of Creation. Not Spiritual Farmer's Manual. Not Botany for Cultivators."

"Creation isn't just birth. It's choice. Direction. Intention."

Devor exhaled deeply.

"I've run thousands of experiments. I've tested growth formations, elemental fusions, even evolutionary paths."

"And in doing so, I've killed thousands—tens of thousands—of plants."

His gaze swept across the garden plots and student rows, heavy with truth.

"My hands have never taken a human life. But I carry more deaths than some battlefield generals."

No one dared speak.

"Does that make me wrong?" he asked. "Maybe."

"But I don't garden to harvest life. I don't grow to gain wealth or power."

"I do it… to see what can exist."

And then, his eyes opened fully—and for a fleeting second, a soft golden radiance pulsed through his irises. A sign of inner awakening, of a Dao just shy of manifesting.

"I've shaped harmony between incompatible species. I've built Domains that shift like breathing ecosystems. I've given birth to new forms of life."

"So no—I'm no longer just a Spiritual Farmer."

He rose to his feet, his voice neither boastful nor arrogant, but resolute.

"I am a Creator."

"Not a sage. Not a prophet. Not a guardian of nature."

"A Creator. And to create… means to walk with life and death both in hand."

The air felt heavier than usual.

Not from spiritual pressure, but from silence—an oppressive stillness that followed Devor's declaration.

A Creator?

It echoed in every student's mind like a bell tolling across an empty plain.

Even seasoned cultivators in the spectator section sat stiffly in their seats, some frowning, others whispering behind their sleeves. That word—Creator—wasn't one tossed around lightly.

In the cultivation world, it carried immense weight. A title closer to divinity than doctrine. To declare oneself a "Creator" was to suggest that one's will had begun to bend the world itself.

Arrogant.

Blasphemous.

Or maybe... visionary.

Opinions split like cracks in ice.

Yet, in the domain of Spiritual Farming, Devor's claim wasn't entirely unfounded. After all, he wasn't just growing plants—he was mutating them, guiding evolution, shaping Domains, and cultivating a Dao few had ever walked before.

He wasn't mimicking nature. He was rewriting it.

And that, more than anything, was the mark of someone forging their own path.

Off to the side, Yulin smiled faintly.

The soft amber ring on her finger—crafted from a stone that responded only to unique Dao fluctuations—glowed with a radiant orange pulse.

"It's awakened," she thought, heart quickening. "So this is what his Dao truly is."

She gently wrapped her energy around the ring, dimming its light before anyone noticed. It wasn't meant to be seen yet—not until the time was right.

But internally, her thoughts were racing. "He said it aloud. Not as a metaphor. Not hidden between lines. He's claimed the title… openly."

With this, his Dao would be impossible to mistake or suppress. The news would ripple through the sect in hours.

Beyond the Azure Sky Sect in days. The wider cultivation world? Weeks, if not less.

And Yulin had ensured the moment was recorded, etched in voice, spirit, and script.

Let them hear it. Let them all witness the beginning of a new cultivation ideology.

By the time Devor opened the floor for questions, the weight of his words still lingered. Yet hands rose, timid at first, then more confidently.

Most questions revolved around Spiritual Plants—elemental compatibility, miniature formations, or seed nurturing techniques.

Devor answered each one with clarity, patience, and real examples.

But then, a voice pierced the stillness with something more personal.

"Senior Devor," the student asked. "After more than a decade of gardening—and becoming the best—what have you actually gained?"

The question wasn't hostile, just... sincere. But it struck a chord.

Everyone leaned in slightly. What had Devor—this so-called Creator—actually gained through his path?

Devor smiled faintly and rubbed his chin.

"You've already seen part of it," he said calmly. "I won't claim great combat strength. I'm not a sword immortal or flame-wielding prodigy."

"But I've found ways to overcome trials through understanding. I've found power not in domination, but in balance."

He raised a hand, and a faint ripple of dark-violet energy pulsed into existence.

It shimmered softly, forming a small orb of dense, rotational energy—a refined signature of the Venom Domain.

"What I've gained... is this."

The orb pulsed—and within moments, it reshaped itself, not with raw Qi, but with intent.

Wings emerged. Feathers formed from streaks of spiritual thread. Two stubby legs. Two flicking tail feathers.

A bird. Crude, simple... but alive.

Its tiny eyes blinked, and with a sharp intake of spiritual breath, the familiar voice rang out:

"What?! I have a body again? Since when!?" Venom squawked indignantly, ruffling his illusory feathers. "I was napping!"

He glared at Devor, puffed up like a ruffled chick.

Laughter rippled through the students, and even the crowd beyond the formation ward let out scattered chuckles.

But Devor remained composed.

"With my current cultivation and Domain integration," he explained, "I can temporarily manifest the body of the Venom Spiritual Tree. Not just summon it—but give it voice, form, and motion."

"This is the result of understanding—of thousands of experiments and failures."

"And it is only the beginning."