Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

After a year of grueling experimentation, Devor had finally done it.

He stood alone at the center of his private training field, bathed in the violet glow of dusk—and power.

Venom God Hand Mode—complete synchronization.

Both of his hands shimmered with controlled malice, sheathed in the deep violet energy of his Venom Spiritual Tree, yet completely still. No more tremors. No more instability. He had full command over the transformation. The energy flowed like water, sharp as glass, and utterly loyal to his will.

And it had taken him years to reach this point.

Years spent in gardens and graveyards of failed.

Years training his core to balance opposing elements—Spiritual Plant, that most cultivators wouldn't dare hold together for more than a breath.

Now, those same chaotic forces moved in him as naturally as blood.

This wasn't the result of talent. It was the reward of stubborn, spiritual refinement.

The dark-purple energy coating his hands dissolved at his mental command, revealing the subtly transformed flesh beneath—dense, calloused, faintly pulsing with muted violet veins.

"My hands feel stronger than ever," he murmured.

"Of course they do," came Venom's voice from within his core. "I'm way more powerful than you are."

Devor rolled his eyes, half amused. "Says the bird who chirps in his sleep."

"Hey! I chirp with style."

Despite himself, Devor smirked.

"Alright," he said, refocusing. "Pull energy from the Venom Domain. Route it through the tree and send it to me—slowly."

"Got it, Boss!"

Across the garden, the Venom Spiritual Tree pulsed with life.

It stood like a living monument—gathering spiritual energy from the zone it had infected and reshaped. Its roots fed on corrupted energy, breaking it down, recycling it, weaponizing it.

At its base, Venom's tree-form shimmered with power, its violet flowers opening like mouths drawing in the breath of the world.

In two planes at once—spiritual and physical—Venom acted.

One half of his soul remained inside Devor, linked through the Boundless Seal buried deep in their connection.

The other half awakened within the tree, manipulating the roots, guiding the absorption process with focused precision.

When the power surged—dense, potent, and more virulent than anything Devor had cultivated before—Venom transmitted it directly into Devor's body.

Devor inhaled sharply as the toxic flood entered his meridians.

His body shuddered for half a second—then stabilized.

This energy wasn't like the spiritual essence in typical cultivation fields. It was raw, corrupted, sharpened with venomous will.

Even now, his Core Formation cultivation level barely let him process it without backlash. His internal technique immediately kicked in, refining the energy into something usable—but it would never be safe to keep it inside for long.

This isn't fuel—it's ammunition.

And it was time to fire it.

With a flick of his wrist, Devor summoned a small jade container hidden within his sleeve—a sealed pod filled with nine spiritual seeds, pretreated with his personal signature.

"Experimental Type-4 Venom Bloom Seeds," he thought. "Stage One: Rapid Root Deployment."

The moment one touched his palm, the energy from the Venom Venom surged into it like a flame into dry oil.

The seed pulsed—its green shell darkening into a toxic violet-black.

Devor didn't hesitate. With a sharp flick of both hands, he scattered the nine seeds around him like throwing knives.

They arced through the air and embedded themselves into the ground with pinpoint precision.

For a breath, nothing happened.

Then, all at once, the battlefield bloomed.

Thick roots exploded from the soil, twisting upward into skeletal, bark-armored structures.

Each stood a meter tall, covered in thorned leaves and violet petals that exhaled poisonous fog.

More than just plants—these were combat nodes.

Toxic qi filled the air in a matter of seconds.

The zone was his now.

A hostile cultivator entering the area would be subjected to a constant barrage of poison affinity suppression, qi misdirection, and spiritual corrosion. And that was before the roots struck back.

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"This is it," Devor muttered. "My battlefield."

A place where terrain, qi flow, and plant resonance fused into one overwhelming advantage.

Devor no longer fought with fists or swords.

He fought with gardens.

But that wasn't the end of it.

As the field around him pulsed with noxious qi, Devor slowly drew his sword.

A sleek, bone-hilted weapon forged from spiritual steel vine—a rare alloy infused with the essence of ten-year spiritwood. The blade pulsed faintly with residual plant resonance, humming in sync with Devor's own heartbeat.

He exhaled—long and slow—allowing his breath to match the rhythm of his spiritual core.

Then he shifted his grip slightly.

That single movement triggered a reaction: the poisonous energy lingering in the field began to ripple, as if answering a silent command.

Like leaves caught in wind, the toxic mist and aura began to flow toward him in wisps—drawn by an unseen current.

He guided it with practiced precision, feeding it into the sword.

Violet tendrils coiled around the steel, wrapping the weapon in a dense, pulsing sheath of corruption and life.

Then he moved.

Devor's body flowed through the air in seamless, graceful arcs—each slash of his sword a cultivated gesture, not just of offense, but of resonance.

Swordplay through synergy.

Sword movement as botanical harmony.

From each motion, a wave of violet spiritual energy burst forth, slicing the air with soundless violence.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Twelve strikes—each more devastating than the last—ripped into the reinforced earth ahead of him, gouging deep scars into the stone and soil. Despite the strength of the hill's formation array, the terrain trembled under the force.

But Devor wasn't finished.

With a sudden burst of speed, his form surged upward—then twisted, compacted, and transformed.

In a heartbeat, his entire body condensed into a massive arrow of dark violet light.

Venom God Mode – Comet Descent.

Like a war-spirit summoned from the heavens, he crashed downward with cataclysmic force.

BOOM!

An explosion of earth and qi ruptured the ground, a crater nearly ten meters wide yawning beneath him. A halo of corrupted mist followed, pushed outward in all directions.

And then—silence.

Dust coiled in the air. Fractured roots shimmered with energy. His form reappeared at the center of the blast, calm but glowing—surrounded by a golden radiance that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The radiant glow swept outward from Devor's body, brushing the mutated root plants he'd summoned. At first, they pulsed in response—then they bloomed. Their petals deepened in hue, their stems thickened, their poisonous qi intensified.

Not just destruction—cultivation through impact.

A single motion from Devor's finger redirected the newly amplified toxic energy straight back into the sword in his hand.

He prepared to strike again—

And then came a voice.

"That's enough. Planning to destroy your own hill?"

The voice rang through his mind, casual and composed, but edged with authority.

Devor froze mid-motion, hand still extended toward the sky. He recognized the speaker instantly.

Sect Master Zinqi.

Frustration prickled at the edge of his mind. That had been the cleanest, most harmonious fusion of field resonance, sword intent, and spiritual amplification he'd ever managed. He was on the brink of a breakthrough—he knew it.

But he didn't dare ignore a warning from the Sect Master.

Slowly, he let the energy fade. The golden glow dimmed. The corrupted qi dispersed into vapor. And the spiritual pressure he radiated returned to stillness.

Sliding his blade back into its sheath, he bowed toward the sky.

"Greetings, Sect Master," Devor said respectfully.

There was no response—no visible form descending from the clouds.

Only the voice returned, still light, but firm.

"The formation protecting your hill is strong, yes. But it's not unbreakable. If you keep using high-impact techniques like that, the array will eventually destabilize. It wasn't built for this level of output."

Devor exhaled a quiet sigh, one that never left his lips but echoed in his heart.

He bowed respectfully toward the sky above. "I understand, Sect Master. Please forgive my recklessness."

Zinqi's voice, cool and measured, responded within his mind.

"It's fine. Your last strike wasn't strong enough to damage the hill's core formation. That said…"

There was a short pause, but it carried weight.

"You've grown far more proficient at channeling and concentrating energy from your poison-root plants. The attack you released was potent, yes—but more impressive was your control. You used the plants not just as terrain, but as fuel. That's a breakthrough."

Devor's eyes narrowed slightly as he digested the words.

He had refined this technique slowly, testing every permutation of soil-root-sword timing, looking for ways to integrate terrain cultivation into a fluid combat style.

Zinqi continued.

"Even if I hadn't stopped you, you likely would've had seventy percent of your energy reserves remaining. That speaks to your growing endurance... and your growing danger."

The praise was welcome—but Devor knew Zinqi too well. Compliments from him always came laced with caution.

"You've made excellent progress," Zinqi said, his tone hardening. "But don't let simulated control fool you. Until your methods are tested under life-and-death conditions, they remain theoretical. Raw potential isn't strength. Not until it's refined by combat."

Devor nodded silently.

He knew that better than anyone.

Despite the sophisticated elegance of his techniques—the flowing resonance, the powerful field integration—fighting had never been his natural strength.

His Dao had always leaned toward creation, not confrontation.

"Even now," he admitted to himself, "I'm not sure I could survive against a seasoned fighter at my level."

His skills were sharp, yes. His ideas were innovative. But confidence? That came only from blood and pressure.

And in that regard, he was still a step behind the world's true martial monsters.

"Alright then," Zinqi said finally. "I won't interrupt you further. But remember—next time, train at the proper grounds. Not atop your residence."

Devor bowed again, deeper this time. "Understood. And… thank you, sect Master."

Zinqi's presence faded—whether he was truly gone or simply observing from afar, Devor couldn't tell.

But the pressure lifted, and the world grew quiet once more.

He turned back to his training grounds, surveying the landscape he had shaped—poisonous roots curled like sentinels, emitting traces of energy even as they began to wither.

He raised a hand and summoned a soft orb of spiritual light.

Within moments, Venom's bird-form reformed, hovering beside him with a sleepy yawn.

"Clean up the mess," Devor said, gesturing at the scattered battlefield of root blooms. "Might as well absorb what's left while the qi is still active."

Venom groaned, his feathers fluffing up in theatrical protest.

"Why me?" he grumbled. "You're the one who wanted to turn your garden into a warzone."

Devor smirked and crouched down, gently patting the top of Venom's head.

"Because you've been lazing around, watching me do all the heavy lifting. Consider it... character building."

Venom gave a dramatic squawk and waddled toward the roots, muttering complaints the whole way.

Devor stood silently for a while, arms crossed, watching his field unwind itself.

The poisoned mist began to thin. The flowers dimmed. The once-living battlefield gradually returned to soil and silence.

He murmured to himself, almost wistfully—

"This fighting style… it really does suit me."

But then he added, with a grimace:

"It's also insanely expensive."

The seeds he had used weren't ordinary. Each had been painstakingly synthesized using a fusion method—merging toxic variant seeds with high-yield growth catalysts and rare stabilizing compounds. The result? Roots that grew fast, resisted collapse, and released maximum spiritual toxicity per bloom.

But each one was worth more than twenty Earth-Grade Spiritual Plant.

And he'd just scattered nine without hesitation.

"A single battle could cost me an entire season of resource gathering," Devor thought bitterly.

He wasn't just a cultivator anymore—he was a combat farmer with a burn rate that would make even alchemists nervous.