Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

To most bystanders, Devor's bold claim—that he was nature's will—might have sounded like sheer arrogance.

To Fariel, however, it struck deeper. This was the person the Sage had foreseen.

Back then, Fariel hadn't understood why the Sage had been so insistent—why she had spoken of a soul whose energy would not merely follow nature, but transform it. A presence whose very existence would compel the Elven race to re-examine its own foundation.

She could still remember the Sage's words:

"If all proceeds according to the plan we forged-one born of alliance between sects and powers-the world will tremble. And when that upheaval comes, we must be ready to restore it -not just the order of nations, but nature itself, the first covenant of life."

"We, the Elves, are not merely guardians of nature. We are bound to it. Rooted in it. And when nature shifts… we shift with it."

"I sense something ancient in that his power. The spirits do not draw near because he seeks them—they gather because they remember him. Because his power awakens something older than memory."

At the time, Fariel had thought it symbolic. Perhaps even exaggerated.

But now, seated across from Devor Li in the exchange hall, watching as the Plant of Nature's Will obeyed him… she realized that the Sage had spoken literally.

This was not control through affinity.

It was transformation through sovereignty.

Devor's essence had not simply aligned with the plant. It had redefined the parameters through which the plant responded. Like a law being rewritten mid-trial.

In the world of cultivation, there was no universal good or evil—only truths. Even an Immortal could be a butcher, and a wandering sword cultivator could bring peace without ever lifting their blade. Morality bent to will. And will bent to Dao.

That was the harsh truth their race had learned from the records of the Immortal World.

Nature's laws, too, were different across realms.

And now… this human had begun forging a law of nature that existed only within himself.

Fariel hadn't forgotten the Sage's final instruction.

"If he can sever nature's inherited will and weave it into his own, then he is no longer just a cultivator".

"He becomes an axis around which new laws can form. He becomes... The world itself."

She hadn't understood what that meant.

Until now.

She reached out once more—pressing her own will against the plant.

Her technique was perfect. Her resonance, honed over centuries. Her intent was gentle, her essence in tune with the plant's native rhythm.

And yet… it did not respond.

Her eyes narrowed.

The plant looked the same—same bark, same pulse of spiritual life. But something within it had changed. Something intangible.

There was no rejection. But also… no acceptance.

It was like a child who had once obeyed a parent's voice, but had since chosen to follow a new path—and now, no matter how lovingly the parent spoke, their words could no longer command action.

Devor had not just borrowed the plant.

He had claimed it.

Fariel pulled her hand back slowly, masking her unease behind a veil of serenity. But within, questions swirled.

How did he do it?

What is this cultivation path of his?

No other spiritual farmer—or cultivator of nature she had ever encountered—had ever done such a thing. Not even the Sage itself.

Beside her, the two Elven disciples were still watching in silence, but Fariel could feel their tension. They, too, had seen what happened.

This wasn't manipulation.

It was conversion.

Even without drawing blood or forcing submission, Devor had made the plant his—not just in body, but in soul.

He had rewritten its place in the natural order.

And what disturbed Fariel most… was that the plant hadn't resisted.

It had welcomed it.

"Is that proof enough?" Devor asked, his voice steady as he looked Fariel in the eye—completely unaware of the storm swirling behind hers.

Fariel didn't answer right away. She could feel the roots of the Plant of Nature's Will trembling—not in fear, but in recognition. It had already chosen. The plant had accepted a new rhythm, one Devor had imposed without violence or suppression, but through presence.

Internally, she sighed.

"Eighty percent," she thought. "No—closer to ninety."

Devor wasn't just some eccentric spiritual farmer with unconventional ideas. He was changing the rules. And her people, the Elves—those born of nature—were about to face the kind of paradigm shift that made history... or broke it.

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Still, she couldn't act on instinct alone. Only the Sage could deliver final judgment. All she could do now was verify one last thing.

She straightened her back and met Devor's gaze, tone cool and measured. "With this path you've chosen… what is it that you truly seek? What is your ultimate goal in cultivation?"

Devor blinked, caught off guard. "What do I hope to achieve?" he echoed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

But before he could form an answer—

"Obviously, to bring my little brothers and sisters into the world someday!" Venom chirped brightly from his perch, puffing up like he'd said something profound.

Devor froze.

The atmosphere collapsed.

The tension shattered like a ceramic vase dropped from the sky.

Devor turned, his glare sharp enough to cut jade. "Don't say it like that again," he growled through clenched teeth. "People are going to misunderstand! Severely!"

Venom tilted his head innocently. "But… isn't that what you're doing?"

Devor sighed deeply, facepalming. Out of context, it sounded like he was planning to father children with a tree.

Across from them, Fariel—stoic, composed, ever the embodiment of Elven grace—couldn't suppress a soft laugh. Her expression barely changed, but her eyes shimmered with amusement.

"Their bond," she realized, "was genuine. Not contractual. Not utilitarian. Personal."

In the cultivation world, it was rare—almost unheard of—for a spiritual tree to develop such a symbiotic, sincere bond with its chosen partner. Most such relationships were strictly hierarchical. Venom, however, was more like a mischievous younger brother. Or perhaps… something even more integral.

"Sorry," Devor muttered, finally turning back to Fariel. "Venom's talking about the saplings I'm nurturing back home. His 'siblings.'"

"There's no need to explain in detail," Fariel replied gently, her smile laced with understanding—and something else. Recognition.

Devor exhaled, letting the tension fade. "As for your question… I guess right now, my biggest goal is to leave this world."

Fariel's expression shifted subtly. "You mean... ascend? The Immortal World?"

"Yes and no," Devor replied. "Maybe I'll figure out what I really want once I get there."

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And if you fail?"

Devor shrugged. "Then I fail. But I tried."

His answer came without hesitation—no drama, no grandiosity. Just quiet resolve.

That bothered her more than if he had answered arrogantly.

"No trace of ambition," she thought. "No hunger for power, no obsession with ascension."

But she had seen his face when he spoke of plants. His posture, his aura—it all changed. He became someone else entirely.

It wasn't apathy. It was singularity.

"To be honest," she said after a moment, her voice softer now, "I'm just curious about you. Especially after all the rumors."

She studied his face, her next words carefully chosen.

"There's something else I'd like to ask—privately, if you don't mind."

The hall went silent.

Heads turned. Conversations stalled. Every male disciple within earshot froze.

The tension crackled.

It was almost unthinkable. An Elf, asking a human male for a private audience? And not just any Elf—Green Lotus Fariel, hailed as a rising legend of her race?

Devor blinked, clearly flustered.

From behind a nearby pillar, someone whispered, "Is… is this what happens if you master the Dao of Plants?"

Another muttered, "Forget swordsmanship. I'm switching to gardening tomorrow."

Liara, who had been watching from across the room, chuckled to herself. The boy she once invited to the sect was no longer trailing behind anyone. He stood now in the center of attention, shaping the flow of conversation, bending even the Elves toward him.

As whispers rippled outward, Venom puffed up his feathers proudly.

"See?" he whispered. "You're finally cool."

Devor groaned inwardly, unsure if this counted as a victory—or the beginning of something far more chaotic.

At first, Devor was caught off guard by Fariel's request. But after a brief pause, he nodded and accepted.

There was nothing romantic or suggestive in his mind—only opportunity. The Elves were legendary for their understanding of natural essence, life-forged techniques, and nature-woven Dao. For someone like him, whose path was rooted in nature—but also at odds with its conventions—such a conversation was invaluable.

Devor also understood how rare this chance was. The Elven race didn't mingle lightly with humans, let alone extend personal invitations. Even if this meeting didn't bear fruit immediately, the potential for long-term exchange or insight was more than worth the risk.

With his quiet assent, Fariel turned, gesturing with a hand that shimmered faintly with green light.

"Then let's speak in private."

The pair departed the Disciples' Exchange Hall, followed by two young Elves, their figures gliding like wind through leaves. As they exited, the air inside the hall shifted—no longer tense, but buzzing with disbelief.

"…Was that an Elf?" one disciple whispered.

"Did he just get invited by that Elf?"

"I thought she was famous for rejecting two Void cultivators!"

Murmurs erupted across the chamber—not because of Devor's strength, but because he'd accomplished something many considered impossible:

He'd drawn the attention of an Elf woman.

And possibly, her interest.

❄️❄️❄️

Far below the floating capital, past layers of defensive arrays and natural stone walls, a hidden chamber thrummed with energy. Veins of spiritual ore pulsed faintly across the ceiling like a living map, and gentle incense drifted through the air like clouded breath.

The leaders of the gathering sat in quiet reprieve.

On a low-seated jade couch rested Sect Master Zinqi, dressed in simple yet imposing azure robes. His bearing remained as regal as ever.

Across from his reclined Serin, the Elven Sage. Today, she wore flowing robes woven from emerald silk and celestial vine-thread, her golden hair tied with a ring of living leaves that pulsed with soft, rhythmic light.

Beside them sat Winzi, the strikingly young and androgynous Sect Master of the Heavenly Cloud Sect. His snowy hair shimmered like moonlight against his high-collared black robes, which were etched with sacred cloud motifs in gold.

Suspended in the center of the room, a projection orb hovered—its surface casting a living image of Fariel walking alongside Devor through the outer corridor.

Winzi's gaze sharpened. "That's him?"

Serin nodded, her voice calm. "The one I've been tracking."

"Is he really the one we need?" Winzi asked, not out of doubt, but quiet skepticism.

"In theory, yes," Serin replied. She then looked toward Zinqi. "But it still depends on whether your Azure Sky Sect intends to allow us to test that theory."

Zinqi studied the orb in silence, then gave a small smirk. "If Fellow Taoist Serin can win him over on her own, then by all means—take him."

"Is that so?" Serin asked with a sly look. "If I succeed, does that mean I don't owe you any favors?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Zinqi said dryly. "Even if you win him, we made him. The agreement stands."

Winzi chuckled, sipping tea that had been steeped in immortal-grade lotus petals. "You two make for excellent theater."

Their playful jabs barely concealed a deeper, grimmer reality: cooperation between powers was more than politics—it was necessity. If the calamity they feared ever came, unity might be the only thing left to stand against it.

"Perhaps," Serin murmured, still watching the image. "But he and Fariel… they seem oddly compatible. Perhaps a union between them would do more than just strengthen ties between our peoples. It might be the anchor we need."

Zinqi waved dismissively. "That's not something I get to approve—or deny."

She turned her gaze to the side of the room, where a young woman sat cross-legged, her aura restrained but unmistakably powerful.

Yulin.

Calm. Collected. Listening to everything.

Serin turned her attention toward her and smiled. "What do you think, Fellow Taoist Flying Red Phoenix?"

Yulin's eyes opened.

Slowly.

Coldly.

"Don't call me that," she said flatly. "Hearing it makes me want to ignite your sacred tree with my flying sword."

Serin chuckled like a breeze through leaves. "Still as charming as ever."

Yulin stood, her expression unreadable. "If that Elf girl wants to win Devor's heart, she'd better be prepared to reincarnate as a Spirit Tree. Or a particularly toxic root system. Otherwise... she's got no chance."

Serin arched an eyebrow. "Wait... is that really what he's into?" she asked, half-laughing. "That bird on his shoulder did make it sound like he—"

Yulin's mouth twitched involuntarily.

Yep. It was definitely time to teach Venom how to choose his words more carefully—before the misunderstandings got even worse.