Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

"They're basically just like us—human in thought, if not in blood. Some are bound by tradition… but others walk closer to nature without clinging to it."

The voice echoed softly, cutting clean through the hum of conversation like a bell over still water.

Everyone froze.

Footsteps followed, light yet deliberate, and a tall figure emerged from the shaded passageway leading below deck.

He was handsome in a refined, ageless way—his long black hair tied back in a single looped braid, his green Taoist robe embroidered with swirling cloud patterns and winding vines.

Leifu. Master of the Spiritual Hall.

Devor's back straightened immediately. He stepped forward and pressed his hands together in a formal bow, his voice respectful but edged with nerves.

"Greetings, Hall Master."

The others followed in suit—Yulin, Xiuji, Ronin, and even Qiun, who rarely bowed to anyone outside her master's lineage.

Leifu offered a gentle nod, his eyes half-lidded and serene. "I happened to overhear your conversation. You spoke of the Elf Race… and I thought it best to correct a few assumptions before they root themselves too deeply."

His tone wasn't scolding, nor dismissive—just quietly direct. Like someone pruning a bonsai tree of unnecessary growth.

Devor hesitated, then met the master's gaze. "So… the Elves aren't what we thought they were?"

Leifu studied him for a moment—then smiled faintly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "Not entirely, no. But then again… are we what they think we are?"

That made Devor pause.

Leifu turned to the others, his voice deepening.

"Even among your own kind, there are cultivators who disagree with your path, Devor. There are farmers who think your methods are too aggressive, too unnatural. Some believe you've gone too far to still call yourself a Spiritual Farmer."

Devor stiffened, the words landing heavier than he expected.

Instinctively, he turned to Yulin, eyes searching for reassurance.

She gave a wry smile and shrugged. "That's cultivation for you. Whether you're a sword cultivator, a pill master, or a rune master—there will always be others who think their way is purer."

Ronin crossed his arms, his low voice adding weight to the moment. "We've really forgotten the basics. Cultivation was never about consensus. It's about resonance—and resilience."

Devor exhaled slowly, realizing how naïve his worry had been.

He had let the idea of the Elves—romantic, reclusive, righteous—cloud his judgment. But bias wasn't limited to race or sect. It was part of the world itself.

Leifu continued, his tone mellow but firm. "The Elf Race once isolated themselves to protect the purity of their ancestral traditions. But that era ended when they suffered a great defeat, nearly losing the last of their Eldertrees."

"They've changed since then. Some among them remain proud… even wary. But others are curious. Open-minded. Willing to learn from outside paths—even if they don't always agree."

Devor felt the tension in his chest begin to ease. "So I don't need to be on edge when I meet them?"

Leifu's gaze locked with his—suddenly sharper than before, as if peering into his spirit root itself. "No. But don't grovel, either."

A beat.

"My advice? Don't try to hide who you are. Don't dilute your Dao to fit theirs. If anything, let them see what you've built. Let them judge it for what it is. Nature doesn't apologize for growing wild."

That struck Devor harder than expected.

Let them see what you've built.

The gardens. The harmony fields. The venom-wrought synthesis. All of it.

Maybe he had forced some of it into being.

But it was still growth.

Still cultivation.

With his point made, Leifu turned and began walking toward the inner sanctum of the ship, where the Sect Elders had gathered for discussions.

The air grew quieter in his wake.

His words hadn't just corrected them—they had recentered them.

What had started as anxiety over Elven judgment now became something more:

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A quiet call to self-reflection.

A challenge to walk proudly without explanation.

As Leifu disappeared into the depths of the Immortal Boat, Devor let out a quiet sigh.

He hadn't expected the Hall Master to speak, let alone offer such personal wisdom. And yet, somehow, it felt like the kind of moment that had been waiting to happen for a long time.

Back in the early days of his arrival at the sect, when his cultivation was weak and his identity little more than "that kid in the gardens", Devor hadn't understood the undercurrents running beneath sect life. All he'd focused on was soil, seed, and survival.

But everything had changed since he became a Divine Disciple.

Not only had his cultivation deepened, but the veil surrounding the sect's inner workings had lifted.

He now saw what had once been hidden—who had watched him, who had waited, and who had quietly chosen to do nothing.

Leifu had been one of them.

Back when Devor spent his days tending to herb fields and experimenting with harmony formations, Leifu, along with a handful of others, had been observing silently. Not judging. Just… watching.

Some had even considered inviting him into their lineages as a Core Disciple.

But no one made a move.

Because Leifu had shown interest—and when a Hall Master places quiet claim, the other Elders know better than to contest it.

Yet Leifu never took him in.

Why?

Because he wanted to see if Devor could walk his path unaided.

"If we interfere, we may limit him," Leifu had once said, according to whispered rumors. "Let him cultivate like a tree in the wild—shaped by wind and drought, not by gardeners."

And Devor, looking back, understood now how critical that choice had been.

If he had been taken in too early—given structure, formality, and technique—he would've been forced into a traditional model of cultivation.

His gift didn't lie in refinement. It was rooted in observation, intuition, and resonance. A path born from deep communion with Spiritual Plants, not strict instruction.

Leifu preferred elegant, refined cultivation arts—ritualized methods passed down for generations. Whereas Devor's Dao was personal. Messy. Alive.

"I don't regret it," Devor thought, glancing at his hands. "Not being chosen. Not being guided. That freedom became the soil I needed."

And now, standing among the elite as a Divine Disciple—a title equal to the Core, though without a master—he carried no regrets.

The Sect Master, too, had played a vital role.

By offering Devor this independent rank, he had created space for something the sect rarely allowed:

A cultivator to forge his own branch of the Dao.

"Maybe it's time I speak with Elder Leifu properly. Or Elder Sorin…"

That name surfaced like a leaf rising through still water.

"I should visit him when we return," Devor resolved. "I owe him more than I realized."

As voices swelled around him—Yulin laughing softly with Xiuji, Qiun teasing Ronin in that cryptic way of hers—Devor's gaze drifted to the other Immortal Boat, floating not far from theirs.

It carried the Inner Disciples and the protective Elders tasked with guarding them. Smaller in size, less ornate, but still regal.

He hadn't paid it much attention before.

But now, something pulled at him.

A flicker of blue fabric. A familiar stillness in the air.

His eyes locked on a figure standing at the far end of the deck, mid-conversation with three others.

A woman. Draped in a deep blue Taoist robe. Long black hair falling like a river down her back. Pale skin kissed by moonlight. Her stance poised, mature—and unmistakably powerful.

Liara.

Time halted for a moment.

He blinked, unsure if it was truly her.

But it was.

Somehow, in the time they'd spent apart, she had become an Inner Disciple.

And not just any Inner Disciple—her presence alone, the way the others deferred to her slightly, made it clear: she was a rising force in the sect.

He hadn't even realized she would be attending the Inter-Sect Gathering.

"When did Senior Liara become an Inner Disciple?" Devor asked, voice tinged with quiet surprise.

He hadn't meant to say it aloud. But the question slipped out, pulled from his chest the moment his gaze found her.

Yulin, catching the shift in his expression, turned to follow his line of sight.

She didn't need long to find the woman he was staring at—Liara, standing tall in her dark blue Taoist robes across the second Immortal Boat. Her presence was poised and distant, like moonlight on still water.

"Six months ago," Yulin said, her voice soft but clear. "She started studying alchemy after reading your Art of Creation Book. That helped her break through and earn promotion."

Devor's eyes narrowed slightly.

He had written that Book for disciples who struggled to understand harmony—using synthesis and spiritual rhythm rather than strict formulas. He never thought Liara would be one of its readers.

He took a breath, his chest tight with mixed feelings.

"She seems well," he murmured. "Healthy. Composed."

He paused, voice dropping lower. "At least she's doing okay. That's… good."

He wasn't sure what he felt. Anger? No. Resentment? Maybe a little. But mostly, just… distance.

There had been a time when they'd shared silence and study, planting spiritual seeds and laughing over which would sprout first.

But then she'd been used against him. Manipulated by someone.

But he knew this: if that trap had never happened, they might've still been friends.

"You're too soft on people," Yulin said beside him, her voice lightly bitter.

Devor gave her a sidelong glance, then sighed again.

How does she do it?

How does she care so deeply about people one day, and sever them the next like trimming dead branches?

Yulin was emotionally precise. Able to connect, to cut, and to remain unchanged.

Devor couldn't do that. Not yet.

"I'm still young, Sister Yulin," he thought bitterly. "You're the one who seems like some kind of ancient monster."

He wisely didn't say that out loud.

The memory of her Flying Sword 2.0 still haunted him. He'd nearly coughed up a lung from motion sickness last time.

Just then, Xiuji wandered over, noticing the quiet energy around them.

"What are you two talking about?" he asked, his tone light but curious.

Yulin flashed a practiced smile. "Just the past. Nothing important."

Xiuji shrugged, accepting the answer.

Chirp. Chirp.

The gentle call of a bird broke the momentary lull in conversation.

And then, with a graceful swoop, Venom landed on Devor's shoulder.

Currently inhabiting the form of a violet-feathered bird—his preferred avatar during travel—he puffed up his chest proudly.

Devor groaned. "You're a tree, not a bird. Stop making bird sounds."

"Before I evolve," Venom declared, fluttering his wings dramatically, "I am Bird Venom!"

Devor slapped a hand to his face.

Beyond saving.

From nearby, Qiun perked up, her gaze sparkling as she leaned forward.

"Oh? Is that the spiritual awareness of the Venom Spiritual Tree you mentioned before?" she asked, eyes glowing with curiosity.

Venom posed like a celestial swan, wings half-open and head tilted at an arrogant angle.

"No," Devor muttered, resigned. "He's changed species. He's now officially the Venom Spiritual Bird."

Venom chirped with glee. "That's a great name!"

"..." Devor blinked.

"That was sarcasm. An insult. You're not supposed to like it!" Devor thought.

He opened his mouth to correct him… then gave up.

There was no stopping this tree-bird hybrid now.