Cultivation starts with picking up attributes

The moon hung low over the Feilun mountains, casting long shadows across the jagged scars left by battle. Where once the plateau had stood unbroken, now craters yawned like empty eyes, and streams of blood and runoff carved erratic channels through the stone.

Yet among the ruins, discipline remained. Fires burned steadily, not wildly. Disciples cleaned their weapons, healed their wounds, and recited protective mantras under the watchful eyes of their elders.

At the heart of it stood Tian Shen.

His spear gleamed beneath the pale light, its shaft still streaked with blackened qi remnants from the enemy's assault. His robes, torn and scorched, had been hastily repaired, but the fabric could not mask the strength and composure radiating from his form. He stood like a pillar carved from the mountains themselves, unmoved by exhaustion, unshaken by fear.

Around him, the Root Division drilled with relentless purpose. Under his command, their movements had become precise, their responses instinctual. They no longer flinched at the sight of blood or the smell of burning qi. Each thrust of a spear, each chant of a formation spell, each breath drawn during meditation, was a deliberate act of preparation.

Feng Yin watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She had seen him fight, had seen the edge of fury and steel within him, and now saw him temper it into something far more dangerous—unyielding resolve.

Tian Shen's eyes followed the training ground without emotion, though within, the storm raged on.

They will come again.

The scouts had confirmed it. Beyond the western ridges, foreign forces gathered like an advancing tide. Their banners multiplied; their obelisks carved into the earth, twisting qi with forbidden inscriptions. Warlocks from distant sects whispered in corners of ruined encampments, forging alliances sealed with blood and oath. Every day, new refugees arrived with tales of slaughter and despair, feeding the fire of vengeance.

But Tian Shen knew that vengeance was not their greatest danger.

Their greatest danger lay in their resolve, in their discipline, in their willingness to reshape the world with force and corruption. They had lost clans but gained power. They fought not as scattered brigands but as an empire forged in the broken laws of cultivation.

If Feilun stood proud but divided, it would fall.

If it stood united but unprepared, it would shatter.

And if it stood prepared but afraid, it would wither.

The Root Division commander clenched his fist, feeling the core of his cultivation pulse like a war drum within his chest.

No.

We will not fall. Not here. Not to them.

Later that evening, he summoned a circle of trusted elders—Elder Su, Elder Mu, Lian Hua, and a handful of seasoned instructors. They gathered in a secluded chamber deep within the sect's inner sanctum, where the walls were carved with protective seals and the air was thick with refined qi.

A stone map of the borderlands lay before them, marked with colored powders and etched runes denoting known enemy positions, weak points, supply lines, and infiltration routes.

Sect Master Feilun sat at the head of the table, silent and contemplative, but it was Tian Shen's eyes that drew every gaze.

He spoke without flourish.

"The enemy's strength lies not only in numbers but in how they weave forbidden qi with their bodies. Their obelisks fracture cultivation techniques, twisting even the most refined arts into weapons against us. We cannot meet them with tradition alone."

Elder Mu frowned. "You speak of methods even the Eastern Sects fear to touch."

"I speak of survival," Tian Shen replied, his tone calm but steely. "We will create counter-forms. Defensive formations layered with rotating seals. Spirit beasts bred not for brute force alone but for resonance with our own arts. Training methods that sharpen the mind to resist corruption."

Lian Hua, ever pragmatic, nodded slowly. "The Phoenix Sect has experimented with defensive harmonics… they may assist."

Elder Su stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And discipline?"

Tian Shen's silver eyes flashed briefly. "Discipline begins with leadership. We cannot afford hesitation. Every disciple must train as if the world's edge waits beyond the next ridge."

The elders exchanged glances. Some hesitated—such harsh discipline could break weaker minds—but Sect Master Feilun finally inclined his head. "Let it be so. Root Division drills will intensify. Instruction will spread to outer divisions. No prayer or lamentation will replace preparation."

A silence settled over the room as each elder absorbed the weight of Tian Shen's words.

Later, when the chamber emptied, Feng Yin approached him quietly.

"You could have chosen to lead from behind," she murmured, sitting beside him beneath the glow of a medicinal lamp. "You could have hidden in the sanctum, preserving strength until the final hour."

He turned toward her. "If I hide, they will fall before I can fight."

She studied him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "And if they fall… what then?"

His gaze remained steady. "Then I will stand in the gap."

She exhaled slowly, as if releasing a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "Then we stand with you."

For the first time that night, Tian Shen allowed himself a faint smile—not one of ease, but of acknowledgment.

...

The days that followed stretched like steel rods hammered flat by relentless blows.

The Root Division's drills doubled. Disciples rose before dawn, their breaths steady in cold air as they practiced endurance exercises that tested the limits of their bodies and minds. Formation patterns rotated daily, forcing adaptation to shifting threats. Meditation halls brimmed with cultivators aligning their energies, seeking harmony between discipline and intuition.

Spirit beasts, once wild and unpredictable, were gradually woven into new regimens. Trainers experimented with resonance fields that stabilized their qi patterns, helping them resist the foreign corruption that seeped through the borderlands.

Every task was infused with purpose.

Even the youngest recruits, barely more than boys and girls, learned to stand for hours in rigid postures, focusing breath and intention until their limbs no longer trembled.

At the center of it all was Tian Shen.

He trained alongside them, never indulgent, never lenient. His spearwork was relentless. His teachings, sharp as the edge of his blade, drilled patience, precision, and adaptability into the hearts of his disciples.

When exhaustion took hold, his mere presence steadied their hands. When doubt crept in, his unwavering composure cut through it like a blade through fog.

Even Feng Yin, who rarely spoke of admiration, found herself silently marveling at the depth of his endurance. There was no pride in his eyes, no desire to be praised—only the cold clarity of purpose.

At night, Tian Shen would stand alone upon the plateau, watching distant lights flicker across the mountains where enemy camps gathered. His spear, now resting upright beside him, gleamed faintly as the moon slid past clouds.

He listened to the mountains' breath.

He listened to his own.

And in the silence, he carved his resolve deeper still.

The storm was coming.

Feilun would meet it.

And when it broke, Tian Shen's spear would not tremble.

It would strike.

...

The wind howled softly across the broken plateau, as if carrying whispers from distant enemies preparing for war. Tian Shen stood motionless, eyes half-closed, breathing in the cold night air as if drawing strength from the mountains themselves. His spear remained grounded beside him, but its silver veins shimmered faintly, pulsing with the rhythm of his core.

Behind him, the soft sound of footsteps approached. Without turning, he knew it was Feng Yin.

She stood silently for a moment, watching him, the pale glow of the lantern swaying in her hand. "You've trained beyond exhaustion," she finally said, her voice low but steady. "Even the veterans whisper about your endurance."

Tian Shen's eyes opened, calm as still water. "Strength is useless if it cannot be called upon when needed."

Feng Yin took a slow breath, stepping closer. "And when the storm comes, you will not be alone."

He looked at her, and for the first time that evening, a softness touched his gaze. "I know."

She smiled faintly, but her eyes remained watchful. "Then let the others see it too. Let them believe that the spear stands not for one man's strength, but for all of them."

Her words lingered in the air, as steady as the mountains. Tian Shen's jaw relaxed imperceptibly, and he nodded once.

"I will not fail them," he murmured.

A shared silence fell between them—one not awkward, but filled with understanding. Both knew that their bond was forged not in comfort, but in hardship, tempered by discipline and the looming threat that hung over them like a dark cloud.

Far below, disciples continued their training deep into the night, their chants rising and falling like waves. Somewhere, Elder Su was reinforcing a formation seal; Lian Hua's Phoenix adepts were refining resonance techniques; Sect Master Feilun oversaw the outer wards, ensuring they remained unbroken.

The entire sect stood on the edge of war.

But as the cold night deepened, as exhaustion wrapped the land in a blanket of silence, Tian Shen and Feng Yin stood together beneath the stars—silent sentinels who had made a vow. The spear beside him no longer seemed to glow with rage, but with purpose.

The storm would come. They would meet it.

And they would not falter.

The mountains held their breath. The valley waited. And in the stillness, the next battle's promise hung like a blade in the dark.