Art of Creation [Eco-Cultivation Prototype]

"That would mean a two-pronged attack against them," Winzi said softly, his gaze distant. "But... what if we're wrong?"

The moment the words were spoken, a heavy silence settled over the room.

No one answered right away—not because they hadn't considered the possibility, but because they had. Many times. And the question still haunted them.

Their entire strategy had been born from suspicion. The kind that grew with every passing century, each time the envoys of the Immortal World descended like gods cloaked in grace and grandeur.

Yes, they offered guidance—techniques, resources, pills, and rare manuals. Yes, they encouraged talent, uplifted the young, and praised the potential of this world.

But it always came with a caveat: they never took anyone with them.

Not a single peak-stage Cultivator, not even those who'd long surpassed mortal limits, had ever been granted passage to the Immortal World.

Instead, they were given the same polite lie:

"This world remains sealed. A chosen one will break the chain when the time is right."

And yet—century after century—that "chosen one" never appeared.

But the truth was far more insidious. Cultivators in this world were gifted. Too gifted, perhaps. Their potential ran deep, as if their blood carried some hidden inheritance. But no matter how hard they trained, no matter how many tribulations they endured, they all hit the same invisible wall—the same unscalable peak.

Theories turned into conviction. Speculation became strategy.

The Immortals weren't waiting to help someone ascend—they were harvesting. And whatever it was they sought, it was bound to the land, the laws, or the souls of those who called this world home.

So the factions of this realm united—not out of trust, but desperation.

A single, perilous plan took form: to send chosen cultivators beyond this world's edge before the Immortals could take what they needed. To beat them at their own game.

Thus, the Reincarnation Technique was born.

It was a forbidden method, developed in secret by the greatest minds and oldest souls. One that took lifetimes to perfect.

Its principle was cruel but ingenious:

—Strip the user of their current cultivation.

—Condense their life's power into a soul-core.

—Layer those cores across multiple lifetimes, building momentum with each rebirth.

All those cores could be detonated at once—an explosive return of power strong enough to shatter the chains binding this world.

Yulin was one of them.

One of the few who had reincarnated successfully. Her current power was only a fraction of her true potential—buried deep, waiting for the final awakening.

"This was never a simple gamble," Zinqi said, his voice low and steady. "It was a necessary rebellion."

"But if we're wrong," Winzi pressed, "then all we've done is violate the natural laws of life—for nothing."

Yulin exhaled, slow and calm. "If we're wrong... then good. That means we won't have to fight. That means we were just paranoid idealists trying to protect a world that was never in danger."

"And in the meantime," Winzi muttered, "you get your one-way ticket to the Immortal World. While the rest of us are left cleaning up the wreckage."

Yulin shrugged, the corners of her mouth twitching in a faint, tired smile. "I can't speak for the others."

She paused, then added quietly, "My little brother. I still have to pick him up and bring him with me. The Immortal World is said to have forests vast enough to span nations... plants that drink starlight and bloom once every thousand years. He might actually like it there."

Zinqi gave a slow shake of his head, a subtle gesture laced with understanding.

The "younger brother" Yulin had referred to—there was no need to guess. It was Devor.

Even her own kin had never received such personal care or attention from her. But Devor... was different.

Serin exhaled, long and quiet, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as if it extended past the stone and into the stars beyond.

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"Even if we're wrong," she said finally, "I'm at least eighty percent certain we're not."

Her voice was steady, yet tinged with something faintly wistful.

"I've lived longer than anyone here," she continued. "And yet… I still find myself wondering why I never took a leap. Why I never gambled everything to escape this place."

Everyone fell silent as she spoke. When someone like Serin—a ten-thousand-year-old sage and the last spiritual remnant of a sacred tree—spoke from the heart, even the wind dared not interrupt.

"There was an old book I once read," Serin said after a pause. "Forgotten now. It came from a sect so minor I don't remember its name. The text was humble, just a beginner's introduction to cultivation."

She smiled faintly at the memory.

"But inside, it held something that struck me deeply. One sentence that stayed with me through the ages: Cultivation is not the pursuit of strength—it is the pursuit of recognition."

She let the words settle before continuing.

"Not recognition from others. But from truth itself. That book claimed there exists a place—not a physical realm, but a point of convergence—where all paths become clear. Where truth is no longer hidden, and power is no longer stolen, but earned without interference."

Serin's voice grew firmer, imbued with conviction now.

"It said stepping into that place wouldn't end your journey—but it would refine everything you are. It would smooth the rough edges of your Dao, purify your purpose, and strengthen your soul. You'd become someone the world couldn't deny—because you'd be walking in rhythm with its truth."

A chill moved through the room.

They had never heard Serin speak like this before. Not even Zinqi or Winzi, both of whom had known her for over a thousand years.

And yet—it didn't sound like sentimentality. It sounded like warning.

She looked at each of them in turn. "What if that place exists? What if it's been hidden from us?"

Another pause.

"I've spent millennia studying the flow of energy across this realm. And do you know what I've found?"

Her tone darkened, ever so slightly.

"The way this world flows... it's too uniform. Too structured. Like someone laid it out and locked it in place. It doesn't breathe. It moves like a machine—predictable and deliberate. That's not natural. It's a system."

A silence fell like a stone.

Serin's eyes narrowed.

"If they can control the flow of energy... then they might be controlling the very fabric of our reality. If they can control reality, what makes you think they haven't already rewritten history? Erased truths? Altered entire generations of knowledge to suit their agenda?"

The room chilled.

Because now... it all made sense.

The unnatural barriers to cultivation. The ceilings that couldn't be broken. The half-truths from the Immortal World. The forgotten gaps in historical records. The vague myths that ended in riddles. The vanishing of old bloodlines. The reason no peak cultivator ever ascended.

All of it.

Their world wasn't just neglected. It was designed that way. Controlled. Confined. Muzzled.

"But clearly," Serin said, her voice calm and composed, "they don't yet have full access to the power they seek—not enough to wield it freely, at least."

She tapped one slender finger against the stone armrest of her chair, thoughtful.

"The way they repeatedly recruit young talents from this world… the rituals, the trials, the so-called 'examinations'—it's all part of something bigger. They're not just looking for genius disciples to add to their sects. They're searching for something. Or… someone."

Yulin groaned, rubbing her temples like someone nursing the beginnings of a headache. "As if the cultivation world wasn't already exhausting enough, now we've got Immortal interlopers, secret conspiracies, and ancient plans layered in riddles."

"If we were preparing for war, I'd be on the front lines right now, sword in hand," she muttered. "But this? This endless scheming and chasing after hidden truths? I'm tired of it. It's like trying to punch a cloud."

Her frustration was real—and understandable. Yulin had never been one for politics or long games of shadows. She was the blade, not the whisper behind it.

"In twenty years, the gate above the sky will open," Zinqi reminded them, his voice as heavy as the storm gathering behind his words. "When it does, they'll descend again. But they're already here. They've scattered their seeds across our world. We've seen them."

He looked around at the others.

"What happened to Devor... and to others like him... wasn't just an unfortunate incident. It was a test. A provocation. Maybe even a warning."

Yulin's gaze sharpened. "And what about Yiru Fu? Is she part of it?"

Zinqi shook his head slightly. "We looked into it. Nothing obvious surfaced. She may not be working with them directly—perhaps she was just a tool they manipulated."

Yulin's jaw tightened. "Convenient," she muttered.

She remembered the day Yiru destroyed Devor's garden. It wasn't an act of petty rivalry—it was sabotage, pure and deliberate.

Back then, everyone assumed Yiru was just trying to delay Devor's rise, afraid he'd surpass her. But now, Yulin wasn't so sure.

"No… it was more than fear. She didn't want to delay him—she wanted to distort him. To bend his Dao into something violent, twisted, reactive. If she'd succeeded, Devor might not have remained Devor at all."

"His Dao isn't fragile," she thought. "It's like a seed that refuses to die—even when crushed underfoot. But if Yiru was acting under someone else's influence…"

She didn't finish the thought.

If Devor really was the one who might anchor a new world order—then the attempt to warp his path wasn't random. It was surgical.

A well-timed wound. A scar meant to change him.

"If Devor spreads his Dao throughout the world," Zinqi said, picking up on her silence, "he might not just change the natural order… he could rewrite it. Root it into every leyline. Shape the cycle of rebirth itself."

"Or worse," Serin added softly, "he could attract the attention of whatever's watching us. The true force hiding behind the Immortals. And if they recognize him as a threat…"

The implication hung in the air.

They'll come for him.

Yulin took a breath.

"If he's to survive what's coming, he'll need to know the truth," Serin said finally. "All of it. So who's going to tell him?"

The question lingered. Everyone's eyes drifted to Yulin.

She groaned audibly. "Really?"

"You're the one he trusts," Zinqi said. "You've always been the bridge between him and the sect."

"I know him better than anyone," Yulin admitted. "But if I tell him the truth—about everything, about myself... it's going to get awkward fast."

"Why?" Serin asked innocently, tilting her head. "Afraid he'll stop calling you 'Sister' and start calling you 'Granny'?"

Yulin's eye twitched. "Shut up."

But her tone lacked venom. Serin was smirking behind her sleeve, enjoying every second.

"You know age is a sore spot," Yulin muttered. "Anyway, in this life I'm not even thirty yet—by Cultivator standards, I'm still basically a teenager."