Two months had passed.

  Two long, blistering months crossing the Endless Desert. The golden dunes that once shimmered with mystery now offered only heat, hunger, and danger. What had begun as a cautious expedition had turned into a harsh, grinding test of endurance.

  They had faced beasts born of sand and silence—desert wolves with sun-bleached fur and eyes that glowed at dusk, massive burrowing insects that emerged from beneath their feet without warning, and creatures that defied instinct. One such beast looked like a tiny, harmless cat—but it moved with a speed that left afterimages and struck faster than the youths could react. Only a timely intervention from a senior disciple prevented its fangs from ciming another life.

  Not all dangers came on four legs.

  Traveling merchants had appeared from time to time, bearing dried fruits, old maps, and leathery water skins. Some were genuine, others little more than spies. And then came the bandits.

  Their ragged appearances hid something far more dangerous.

  Zhang Tian remembered the first time he had felt it.

  After a short skirmish that left several attackers lifeless in the sand, Xiao Fang had ordered their bodies searched. As some of the seniors checked their pouches, Zhang Tian allowed his spiritual sense to brush against one of the corpses—curious, cautious.

  What he felt made his skin crawl.

  The qi around the bandit's body wasn’t just chaotic—it was foul. It clung to the corpse like a rotten mist. Where spiritual energy was normally flowing and neutral, this was heavy, sticky, almost greasy. It made his sense recoil as if he’d touched something diseased.

  He immediately cut the connection, pulling back in silence.

  Even after breaking the link, the memory of it lingered in his chest like an aftertaste of something wrong. His heartbeat had quickened—not from fear, but from sheer revulsion.

  He didn’t speak of it. No one did. But it was clear—these bandits had been demonic cultivators. Or worse, tools of a sect that trafficked in such methods.

  From that point on, they traveled with more vigince—but also more weariness.

  They lost four disciples over the course of their journey. One—a frail girl with weak spiritual roots—simply colpsed during a sandstorm. She never recovered.

  The others fell in battles, each one brief, each one real.

  Among them were two with middle-grade aptitude, and one who had been recognized as particurly talented. Talent had not saved them.

  Two senior disciples were also lost. One had stepped in to shield a youth from a beast’s surprise lunge. The other died in direct combat with a bandit leader—too many wounds, too little time.

  Of the original eighteen immortal seedlings, only thirteen remained.

  At camp, Zhang Tian sat with his back to a stone outcrop, watching the sun slowly dip toward the horizon. The heat never truly left the air, but the winds grew cooler after dusk.

  During moments like this—when the world was still and survival wasn’t pressing—he would attempt again to interact with the monolith he had discovered within his spiritual consciousness. Stoneheart, he had called it. Though he rarely used the name aloud.

  He tried speaking to it. Probing it with his spiritual sense. Focusing his intent, his emotions, his qi.

  Nothing.

  No response. No shift. No rejection. No welcome. Just silence. As if it weren’t ready—or perhaps, didn’t care.

  A few feet away, Ming Li sat quietly, tending to the edge of her bde. Her sleeves were worn from travel, her posture straight. Her eyes flickered toward the sky, watching the stars rise. She hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. Yet she hadn’t distanced herself entirely either. She simply… endured. As he did.

  There were fewer words these days. Fewer smiles. The group was thinner, quieter, harder.

  But they were still moving.

  And in two weeks, Xiao Fang had promised, they would reach sect territory.

  If nothing else went wrong.

  Waking from a brief and restless sleep, Zhang Tian rubbed his bloodshot eyes, blinking away the fine grains of sand still clinging to his shes. The desert air was dry and unforgiving, and the sandstorm from the night before had left a scratchy sting in his vision.

  His once-formal robes had long been traded for a rugged set of desert garments. Somewhere along their arduous journey, Xiao Fang had taken the time to teach the youths a few basic magical techniques—suitable for those in the lower stages of Qi Condensation. Though simple and widely known, these techniques had proven invaluable in the harsh conditions they traveled through.

  In total, Zhang Tian had learned three and a half techniques.

  The first was a movement technique called Gentle Step. It enhanced the user’s speed, allowing them to traverse up to 35 kilometers over ft ground and 20 to 30 kilometers through uneven terrain. While not fshy, it was consistent and stable. When combined with his martial art-based Qi technique, his movement speed increased by roughly 1.5 times compared to other cultivators at the same level.

  The second was a combat-oriented technique known as Four Element Projectile. It enabled the user to conjure pebbles infused with elemental essence—earth, fire, water, or wind—and fire them as projectiles. Though simple in concept, shaping the pebbles into sharp points and adding rotational force made them surprisingly lethal. It was a versatile skill; water essence could be gathered to produce clean droplets, fire essence could start a campfire, earth could be molded into a temporary bowl, and wind could be used to cool food. There was essence in the air, even in the desert, though faint—far less than what one might find in essence-rich regions with spiritual veins.

  The third technique was a sensory one called Inferior Vision. It allowed the cultivator to enhance their sight in low-light environments, blur their visual aura conceal their vision, or see spiritual fluctuations more clearly. It was more than a convenience—it was a defense. In the cultivation world, certain creations or entities were so spiritually twisted that merely looking at them for too long could unbance the dantian and corrupt the spiritual consciousness. One elder from the Water Serenity Sect had once stared too long at an amalgamated creature from a colpsed forbidden domain. He began to transform, losing his humanity. Before the change completed, he had begged the Sect Master to end his life. The tale had become cautionary legend, repeated across the Qi Kingdom. It was one of the reasons the ruling sects made Inferior Vision mandatory training for all young cultivators.

  The final technique—still incomplete—was an evasion skill called Inferior Essence Cloak. Once mastered, it would suppress a cultivator’s essence signature, rendering them undetectable to anyone below or at the middle stage of Qi Condensation. It did not hide the physical body, but in a pce like the desert—where visual concealment was sometimes enough—it could make a crucial difference. Against beasts, ambushes, or passing cultivators, it allowed the user to pass unnoticed, assuming they moved carefully and avoided direct confrontation.

  Zhang Tian wasn’t far from mastering it. But he knew… in this world, even half a technique could mean the difference between life and death.

  Six months had passed.

  Six long, grinding months since Zhang Tian first opened his eyes in this unfamiliar world—and he had hated nearly every moment of it.

  Not a single day had gone by that didn’t remind him of everything he’d left behind. Gone were the comforts of Earth—soft beds, hot meals, clean water, even proper shoes. In their pce was a life carved from exhaustion, struggle, and constant vigince.

  These past six months had been nothing short of grueling.

  The food was bnd and repetitive. The best meals they had were dried meat, hard bread, and occasionally thin stew when time allowed. Most days, he ate just enough to keep moving. The environment? Worse. The desert, in particur, had tested his patience like nothing else.

  The sand was relentless. It crept into everything—his robes, his sleeves, the space between his shoulder bdes. Worst of all, it found its way inside his leather boots, grinding against his heels and soles until every step felt like walking on grit and heat. His feet were raw, his skin chafed. And no matter how often he emptied his boots, the sand always returned.

  What irritated him even more was the unequal comfort within their traveling group.

  Those who rode with Xiao Fang—especially the two disciples always on her tiger—benefited from a minor spell formation stitched into the saddle. It reguted temperature, creating a bubble of cool air that made the unbearable desert heat feel almost tolerable. Some of the other senior outer sect members had simir enchantments attached to their own gear, enabling them to ride in retive comfort.

  But most of the entourage—including Zhang Tian—had nothing of the sort.

  They marched under the blistering sun with robes clinging to sweaty skin, faces wrapped in cloth just to breathe without inhaling sand. Cooling spells were avaible, but they had to be used sparingly. Every bit of essence mattered, and none of them wanted to waste energy on minor relief when an ambush could come at any moment.

  So instead, they endured. Burning heat during the day. Bitter cold at night. Dry wind that cracked lips and parched throats. And always, the sand—in every fold, every breath, every blink.

  And worst of all—the Stoneheart remained completely unresponsive.