Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

The first week of classes had flown by, and under Devor's steady guidance, every student who attended his sessions had worked through at least the surface of their struggles.

The garden plots—once neat squares of sprouting green—were now alive with towering plants, many already reaching half a meter in height.

And with their growth came problems.

As the Spiritual Plants grew, the flow of resonance between them intensified naturally.

Tiny imbalances that had once gone unnoticed now rippled through the miniature gardens like fault lines ready to split the earth.

Devor's sharp gaze swept across the field.

In a larger garden—say, one spanning fifty square meters—these disturbances would've caused immediate chaos.

But even here, within the confines of a three-meter plot, it was enough to push the students to their limits.

He turned his attention toward Venom's small, bird-like form.

Despite his earlier frustrations, Venom had refused to give up.

He scurried from one plant to the next, his stubby wings trembling as he delicately nudged energy flows back into alignment.

Occasionally, one of his plants would falter and wilt—but Venom didn't despair. He immediately set to work, investigating, adjusting.

Sometimes, the disturbance appeared at Point C, but the true cause lay hidden at Points A or B.

Sometimes, the best solution wasn't to fix what looked broken—but to strengthen the surrounding network and let it correct itself.

Devor's mouth curled into a faint, approving smile.

Venom still made mistakes—many of them—but he had started to grasp the invisible truths hidden in Spiritual Gardening.

The truth that plants, like cultivators themselves, could sometimes heal better from indirect support than from direct intervention.

That was true growth.

His gaze shifted, falling on another figure: Fuyin.

She had been a star student in the early days, her glowing insects gliding gracefully between the plants, maintaining balance with stunning precision.

But now, panic was writ large across her face.

As the Spiritual Plants grew, their needs changed—and Fuyin's insects struggled to keep up.

No longer able to simply command from above, Fuyin found herself desperately deploying more insects, issuing rapid orders, scattering powders and vibrations into the soil.

But something was missing.

Insects were an extension of her will. Useful, flexible—but now, they acted as a barrier between her and her plants.

She had forgotten to touch them.

Devor folded his arms across his chest and let out a soft sigh.

"The insects were never the problem," he thought. "The problem is the distance. She stopped trusting herself."

The sun dipped below the horizon, and darkness blanketed the training grounds.

Throughout the garden field, faint lights flickered—spiritual lamps brought out by the sect for night sessions—and soft murmurs of frustration filled the air.

None of the students had achieved true balance yet.

At best, they had delayed collapse. At worst, they were simply holding everything together with raw effort, fearing the inevitable failure they could sense creeping closer with every breath.

Standing alone at the edge of the field, Devor observed quietly.

He saw it in their eyes: hesitation. fear. paralysis.

They clung to their fragile gardens, terrified of making a single wrong move that might unravel everything they had built.

Devor frowned slightly, his voice low, murmuring under his breath: "They're afraid to fail. They're afraid to lose everything they worked for. But they don't understand—Failure isn't death. Failure is fertilizer."

It wasn't collapse they should fear. It was stagnation. The refusal to act out of fear would strangle their growth far faster than any mistake.

Devor tightened his hand into a fist, then released it with a slow breath.

If they were to truly become cultivators who could forge their own paths—whether as Spiritual Farmers or otherwise—they would have to experience collapse.

And then, they would have to rebuild.

Only then could they plant a true garden—not of flowers and trees, but of Dao itself.

Taking risks and gambling with fate—that was foolish.

Devor agreed with that wholeheartedly.

But if the only thing at stake was failure—if the worst outcome was starting over from the beginning—was that really such a heavy burden to carry?

Risking your life recklessly was suicide.

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Risking failure was how you learned to live.

In this world, everything came at a price. As long as the price wasn't the loss of your life, your Dao, or your soul—why be afraid to pay it?

Maybe that belief sounded cruel to some.

Maybe it sounded selfish.

But Devor understood one truth clearer than anyone:

No path in life was ever completely clean—no cultivation ever free of stains, scars, or struggle.

And that was fine.

That was what made it real.

Closing his eyes, Devor decided to leave the matter for tomorrow.

Morning came, painting the mountains in soft gold.

By the time Devor made his way down from his cultivation atop the hill, the gardens were already bustling with quiet activity.

The students were hard at work.

Some stood with tight, anxious postures.

Some knelt low, hands trembling as they tried to coax balance back into the chaotic resonance between their overgrown plants.

A few had already failed.

The delicate threads of energy connecting their plants had collapsed entirely, and now they scrambled desperately to salvage what little they could—replanting seeds, rearranging layouts, rebuilding.

From the edge of the field, Devor watched them all in silence.

And he sighed.

Nothing had changed.

Even after a week of theory, practice, and warnings, they were still hesitant.

Still afraid.

Still clinging to what they had, unwilling to risk destroying it.

He stepped forward—and finally spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly across the training field like the rising wind before a storm.

"You're all hesitating. You're all trembling. Why?"

The students froze.

The entire training ground fell into silence.

Even Yulin, who had just arrived, chose not to interrupt.

She lingered near the boundary of the gardens, arms folded, quietly watching with an intrigued smile.

One by one, the students turned their eyes to Devor.

Waiting.

Dreading.

Hoping.

Devor's gaze swept over them—calm, steady, unflinching.

"Even if you fail," he said, "and ruin the resonance between your plants—what then?"

"Will you be crippled?"

"Will you be banished from cultivation?"

"Will the heavens strike you down?"

Each question struck like a hammer.

Each word shattered another shard of fear trying to nest in their hearts.

A few students shifted uneasily, but most remained silent.

Until finally, one Inner Disciple—a young woman with a jade pendant around her neck—spoke up in a small voice:

"If we fail… it means we've failed to live up to your teachings, Senior."

Devor turned toward her, his expression unreadable.

Then, after a heartbeat of silence, he answered: "So what you're really afraid of... isn't failure itself."

"It's the shame."

"The pride you can't bear to lose."

"The illusion that you can somehow reach greatness without first falling flat on your face a hundred times."

He shook his head slowly. "You are not Spiritual Plant Masters. You are not Elders or Ancient Alchemists. You are students."

His voice was calm—but there was a weight behind it.

A presence that made their very souls tremble—not from fear, but from recognition.

"You're here to learn. To fail. To break things, and rebuild them better." He stepped forward, standing right at the edge of the gardens. "You want perfection? Then embrace failure."

"You want mastery? Then make a thousand mistakes—and keep going."

A breeze swept across the field, making the plants shiver as if they, too, were listening.

Devor let his words hang in the air for a moment longer before continuing: "I won't fault any of you for failing."

"But if you stand here, trembling in fear of a little collapse—too afraid to move—too afraid to try—then you've already failed."

He turned, walking away from the center of the field. "And no one—not me, not your Sect Masters, not the Heavens themselves—can help you fix that."

Devor's voice remained calm—but beneath that surface was a sharp edge, slicing straight through hesitation.

"If you can't handle failure, why are you even here to learn?" His gaze swept coldly across the assembled students. "Did you master cultivation techniques without failing? Did you master swordsmanship without tasting defeat?"

He let the silence stretch, his words sinking in like needles under their skin.

"And yet here you are," Devor continued, his tone growing firmer, "hesitating to shift a single plant's position, too frightened to adjust a formation by even a hair—because you're scared it might fail."

Some disciples lowered their heads. Others stiffened.

Devor's eyes flashed with something deeper—something both fierce and sorrowful. "Maybe some of you have barely tasted failure your whole lives. Maybe you were praised too easily, protected too much."

"But does that mean failure is weakness?" He paused, his voice dropping low, steady. "Failure is the whetstone. Failure is the forge."

"If you fear it… then you'll never master anything." He straightened slightly, letting the weight of his presence settle over the gardens. "Right now, forget your pride. Forget your fear."

"Move the plants. Shift the energy. Do whatever you believe they need."

"And if they wither—then let them wither."

"After you've failed ten times, maybe you'll finally realize: Failure isn't a chain around your throat. It's the first step toward freedom."

At first, the students stood frozen, the echoes of Devor's voice rippling through their spiritual cores.

Then—hesitantly, haltingly—they began to move.

Some reshuffled the arrangement of their plants.

Others knelt close, carefully adjusting energy flows between roots and leaves with trembling hands.

Within ten minutes, a miracle happened.

Ten students managed to stabilize the resonance in their gardens.

The pulse of life between their plants became smooth, gentle, and steady—real harmony beginning to take shape.

The rest… were not so lucky.

For them, the resonance collapsed completely.

Plants wilted. Soil cracked.

The fragile symphony of life they had built was torn apart by their own hands.

Devor moved calmly among them, crouching beside the failures without a hint of contempt.

He stopped beside one Inner Disciple—a proud young woman—who knelt silently in front of her broken garden.

"You aligned this plant correctly," Devor said, pointing it out with a patient tone. "But you neglected the others."

"When you strengthened this one," he continued, "the imbalance spread. The weaker ones couldn't keep up—and everything collapsed."

The girl bit her lip, shame burning on her face.

Devor offered no rebuke—only explanation.

Then he moved on, visiting each failed garden in turn, calmly pointing out individual mistakes.

Some had chosen bad plant combinations from the start.

Some had planted too close together.

Others had ignored small, growing weaknesses until they became fatal.

Devor explained all of it.

And even the ten students who had succeeded—he did not spare them.

"You propped up your gardens with your own energy," he said. "It looks stable now. But the moment you withdraw your support, it will collapse."

"True mastery," Devor said quietly, "is when the garden stands on its own."

Finally, he reached Fuyin's garden.

She knelt there, surrounded by a swarm of glittering insects—each one releasing motes of pollen and spirit dust into the air.

But even with all her help, her plants had faltered.

Fuyin's face was pale, her hands trembling slightly as she directed her insects with frantic gestures.

Devor crouched beside her, his voice turning softer—gentler.

"Your insects are amazing," he said, offering a small smile. "Their instincts, their harmony—it's clear you've raised them well."

Fuyin's breath caught in her throat.

"But," Devor continued, "you've become too dependent."

The insects buzzed around Devor's hand, drawn naturally to the energy he exuded—but he simply let them land harmlessly without interfering.

"You have your own hands," Devor said firmly, "your own heart."

"Instead of commanding from a distance—step forward. Touch the soil yourself. Guide the plants personally."

Fuyin opened her mouth—but no words came out.

Devor didn't mock her.

He didn't scold her.

Instead, he simply gave her a small, encouraging thumbs-up. "Your method has great promise. I fully support it."

"But never forget: Success still lies in your own hands."

"If your insects succeed—it's because of you. If they fail—that's also on you."

He stood up, dusting his knees.

"If you're unwilling to dirty your hands," he said with a quiet, almost wistful tone, "how can you ever hope to lead others?"