Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

While waiting, Devor found himself drawn into conversation with two cultivators seated nearby—one draped in deep indigo robes with the sigil of the Ninefold Lotus Sect, the other clad in radiant white with golden trim from the Radiant Sanctum Sect.

They recognized him immediately.

"You're Devor Li," one of them said, brows lifting in interest. "The Divine Disciple of the Azure Sky Sect. You really came in person?"

Devor nodded politely. "Just here to learn and trade ideas."

That was enough to ignite their curiosity. Within moments, the three of them were deep in discussion about the Spiritual Farmer path. Despite their respectful tone, Devor could sense the subtle probing behind their questions—they wanted to see if the rumors were true. Could he really coax mutated growth out of otherwise incompatible species? Was it true that even spiritual plants bowed their will beneath his?

The two men were both at the Golden Core level, and it showed in their confident auras. But Devor sensed something else as well—Spiritual Farming was not their main path. Their spirit energy lacked the particular resonance and rooted stability of someone truly immersed in nature's rhythm. For them, it was a supplement. A side avenue for resources. A support class.

Venom didn't say a word. He lounged silently on Devor's shoulder, head tucked into a wing, but his bright eyes remained watchful, quietly reading the two strangers with an intelligence far sharper than his bird form suggested.

Within five minutes, Devor understood their approach perfectly. They focused on scale—mass propagation of medicinal plants, methods for rapid harvest, and ecosystem simulations designed for high output. It was admirable in its own way, but to Devor, it was... shallow.

They were cultivators trying to automate the forest.

Devor, by contrast, didn't treat his plants like crops. He treated them like individuals.

Their conversation felt like a meeting between two teachers: the other two were professors standing before an auditorium of students, teaching standardized lessons and hoping the brightest minds would absorb the material.

But Devor?

He sat with each student. He adjusted his teaching to their temperament, aptitude, and potential. He asked questions, listened to answers, and adapted accordingly.

They chased breadth. Devor chased depth.

And that was why, despite being younger and technically less experienced, he surpassed them in every category that mattered.

He didn't flaunt that, though. He shared insight where he could—suggested methods to encourage non-harmonic root systems to adapt, discussed layered soil memory imprinting, and even offered an observation about modifying spiritual humidity using hybrid elemental stones.

But his words always leaned toward the precise rather than the general. Where they saw fields, Devor saw leaves.

That subtle difference was what made him dangerous—and exceptional.

Then the air changed.

Conversations slowed. A hush swept through the hall like the passing of wind before a coming storm.

Fariel had arrived.

She moved like a breeze through a grove, not loud or forceful—but impossible to ignore. Her presence was dignified, timeless, and serene, as if she'd stepped directly from the pages of a myth. Two younger Elves followed behind her—slender, striking, and alert, their features as sharp as moonlight on still water.

The disciples seated around the room quieted. Most had only seen Elves in paintings or scrolls. They weren't entirely reclusive, but they rarely mingled. Elves did not visit. They arrived. Always with purpose.

The same woman who had welcomed Devor earlier led Fariel directly to him.

Devor rose as she approached. At once, he could feel the resonance of natural energy radiating from her—it wasn't cultivated, refined, or even concentrated. It was pure. An extension of herself. It was in her every breath.

But as Fariel stepped closer, she felt something even more startling.

Devor's essence was jagged. Not like stone—more like chiseled wood. Alive, but reshaped.

His spiritual field wasn't passive like that of most Spiritual Farmers. It was... willful. Tense. Not in conflict with nature—but not at peace with it, either.

He shapes nature—and resists it.

"No... not resists," Fariel thought as her perception deepened. "He refuses to bow to it when it refuses to bow to him."

Her eyes flicked to the bird on his shoulder. At first glance, it was adorable. But then she caught the essence beneath the feathers. Ancient. Deep. Rooted.

The guide came to a graceful stop and bowed lightly as she delivered Fariel to Devor. Without a word, she turned and left, disappearing back into the Exchange Hall's interior.

Devor and Fariel held each other's gaze across the polished stone table, silent yet not strained. There was weight in the stillness—like a forest holding its breath.

After a moment, Devor rose and greeted her with a calm, respectful nod. "Fellow Daoist Fariel."

"Fellow Daoist Devor Li," Fariel replied with an equally poised inclination of her head.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The two Golden Core cultivators who had been speaking with Devor earlier were visibly stunned. One of them subtly leaned toward the other and whispered, "She's from the Elven delegation…"

The other nodded, wide-eyed. "And she came straight to him."

The meaning was clear. This meeting wasn't by chance.

Fariel moved with measured elegance, taking the seat across from Devor. The two younger Elves accompanying her remained standing behind, their posture relaxed but alert—like twin sentinels carved from living wood.

Devor studied Fariel with quiet curiosity.

She wasn't just beautiful—though her beauty was undeniably ethereal. It was the way she seemed to belong wherever she stood. Like nature itself had shaped her body and soul. The flow of her spiritual energy was steady, unforced, perfectly attuned to her breath and heartbeat. She radiated balance.

Elves really were just as captivating as the legends from Earth—and as mysterious as the ancient texts of this world had claimed.

A quiet shift moved through the Exchange Hall as more eyes turned toward them. Area D, once calm, now felt like the eye of a gathering storm.

Even Liara, seated several rows away at an alchemy-focused table, glanced up. Her gaze landed on Devor and held there for several seconds.

A soft smile tugged at her lips—tinged with bittersweet memory.

She had betrayed his trust. That truth remained.

But seeing him now, being sought out by Elves of this caliber… part of her still felt proud. The once-awkward boy from their remote sect village had grown into someone the world itself was starting to notice.

Maybe they could never go back to how things were. But she was happy to know he'd made it.

Across from Devor, Fariel broke the silence.

"There's no need for small talk, is there?" Her tone was cool, neither dismissive nor warm.

"I don't mind getting straight to the point," Devor replied with a faint smile.

Fariel leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with intent. "Tell me, Devor Li—do you believe you're close to nature?"

A deceptively simple question.

Devor paused.

There was no immediate answer, not because he didn't know, but because he did. And because he understood just how much weight that question truly carried in the mouth of an Elf.

Before he could speak, Venom stirred on his shoulder.

"Maybe my presence answers that question for you?" the small, violet-feathered bird said, his tone somewhere between pride and sarcasm.

Fariel glanced at Venom, unmoved. "A bond with a Spiritual Tree doesn't necessarily make you one with nature. Even a Beast Master can form a contract with their spirit beast and remain emotionally hollow. Proximity isn't the same as harmony."

Devor tilted his head thoughtfully. That was fair—and pointed.

Fariel turned slightly toward the Elves behind her. "Bring it out."

One of them snapped her fingers. In a soft flash of light, a potted plant materialized between them—its base rooted in soil that shimmered with ambient life.

It wasn't large, barely the size of a melon. But its single, gnarled root coiled upward like the ancient trunk of a tree reduced to bonsai scale. The air around it shifted as though the plant breathed on a deeper plane of existence.

The moment Devor laid eyes on it, he felt a strange sensation. A memory, perhaps. A flicker of a scene from a film he once watched on Earth—a story of a colossal root that pierced the clouds, connecting worlds.

It felt like that.

A bridge.

A test.

"This," Fariel said quietly, her voice hushed as a whisper yet impossible to ignore, "is the Plant of Nature's Will."

She locked eyes with him, her gaze steady, unreadable. "If it responds to your intent, then you are aligned with the natural world. If it doesn't… then you're not."

Fariel raised her hand, her expression serene, and let her will drift outward. The Plant of Nature's Will responded instantly—its thick root swaying with fluid, serpentine grace. It moved not like a mindless organism, but like an extension of her body.

There was no force in her motion. Just connection.

"It recognizes her," someone whispered from the sidelines. "Like a child returning to its mother."

Fariel glanced at the two cultivators still seated beside Devor. "You two may try as well."

They hesitated at first, but the chance to interact with such a rare plant—especially in front of an Elf—was too great to pass up. They reached out with their will.

The plant did move… but clumsily. Its response was slow, mechanical—like a puppet following the tug of unfamiliar strings. There was no elegance, no true bond.

Fariel's eyes drifted back to Devor.

He didn't move right away. He studied the plant in silence for several seconds, then looked up to meet her gaze.

"I can't," he said, with no shame or pretense. "Not with will alone. But if I channel energy into it... I can control it—just as you did."

Fariel's expression remained calm, but her voice carried a subtle edge. "This plant is sacred to our people. It does not respond to power. Only to harmony. It opens itself only to those who walk alongside nature—not those who bend it to their will."

Devor frowned slightly.

He had tried earlier—softly, with his intent alone—but the plant had remained dormant. It wasn't rejection. It was indifference.

Even with all his mastery of Spiritual Plants, he had never commanded them with his mind. He shaped them. Modified them. Reforged them through cultivation and infusion. Even Venom's power required him to use tailored energy to awaken and wield the plants he seeded.

He glanced at his palm. Is he truly not attuned to nature?

"Then you've strayed," Fariel said softly, almost regretfully. "Even this plant sees it. It does not answer your call."

Devor lifted his head slowly. "Tell me, Fariel... what is nature's will?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question.

"If I obeyed nature completely, would I cultivate at all?" he continued. "Would I plant seeds in a formation I designed? Would I interfere when a strong vine overtakes a weaker flower? Should I let the weeds choke my fields because they too are part of nature?"

Fariel said nothing.

"To garden is to intervene. To cultivate is to interfere. We are all invaders the moment we claim a plot of land and say, this is mine to shape."

Fariel's golden eyes narrowed. "But some invaders walk lightly. They shape without breaking."

"And others rebuild from broken ground," Devor replied evenly. "Do you really think harmony is born from preservation? No. Harmony is born after conflict. After friction. After balance is earned, not inherited."

The weight of his words lingered.

Fariel gave a slow exhale, then gestured toward the plant. "Show me."

Devor nodded.

He reached out—not with will, but with power. A slow infusion of essence flowed into the Plant of Nature's Will, and for the first time, it responded with eagerness.

Color flooded its veins. The miniature root twisted and rose slightly, leaves unfolding with renewed life.

Fariel said nothing. She simply watched.

Then, without warning, Devor cut off the flow of energy. He closed his eyes and extended only his will.

"Move," he whispered silently.

The plant hesitated… then trembled. And then, it moved.

Not like before. Not stiffly, not awkwardly.

It flowed—as if the entire room had been transformed into a quiet grove where the wind whispered only to Devor.

The plant swayed, coiled, and shimmered. Its motions echoed the grace it had shown for Fariel—but with an added depth. A strange pulse beneath its movements, like it had found not harmony… but purpose.

A hushed gasp rippled through the room.

Fariel stared.

She could feel it clearly now. The plant did accept him. But not as it had accepted her. It wasn't following nature's rhythm—it was adapting to his.

"Maybe I'm not here to follow the will that already exists," Devor said, his voice calm but thunderous in its conviction.

He opened his eyes, gaze sharp as a blade.

"Maybe I am nature's will. I don't follow it. I forge it. And those who cannot adapt... will be buried beneath it."

His words crashed into the room like a tidal wave.

The cultivators nearby were stunned into silence.

Even Fariel—a being raised from birth to attune her spirit to the ancient will of the forests—couldn't look away from him.

To her, his statement was sacrilegious.

To the others, it was terrifying.

To Devor... it was simply the truth.