The disciples’ expressions were solemn as they activated their Light Body Techniques, flying in an orderly stream into the spacious hold of the Spirit Boat.

Chen Ping drifted with the current, a nondescript speck in the crowd.

He counted silently. Including himself, the Qingyun Sect had committed sixty-three disciples to this venture.

The hatch sealed with a pressurized hiss. A low hum vibrated through the hull.

Then, gravity shifted. A tremendous force pressed them into the floorboards as the Spirit Boat transformed into a streak of azure light, tearing through the cloud layer and shooting toward the northern horizon.

The cabin was cavernous. Disciples scattered, finding corners to sit cross-legged and meditate.

No one looked at Chen Ping.

Outside the reinforced portholes, the world blurred into a smear of green and brown. The violent winds of the upper atmosphere were kept at bay by the ship’s shielding, leaving the interior silent save for the rhythmic breathing of cultivators and the faint, hydraulic pulse of spiritual power.

Chen Ping closed his eyes, his mind a razor’s edge.

He cycled his Qi, fine-tuning his condition, preparing for the violence to come.

An hour passed in suffocating silence.

The Spirit Boat shuddered violently, deceleration slamming them forward. Elder Qin’s voice, amplified by arrays, filled the cabin.

“Arrival. Prepare to disembark.”

The hatch hissed open. A wave of Qi—wilder, denser, and far more primal than anything at the Qingyun Sect—crashed into the cabin.

The disciples rose and filed out.

They stood on the lip of a massive basin.

In the center of the valley, a colossal screen of light, dozens of meters high, rippled like a vertical lake. It swirled with hypnotic, multicolored light, radiating intense spatial fluctuations.

The Gate to the Distant Spirit Realm.

The basin was already crowded. A dark sea of cultivators had gathered around the gate, a patchwork of different allegiances and uniforms.

There were the disciples of the Heavenly Sword Sect in stark white robes, their auras sharp and metallic. The disciples of the Hundred Herb Valley, draped in green, smelling of crushed leaves and soil. The imperial attendants, glittering in gold and silk, eyes arrogant behind their masks.

The factions stood apart, islands in a sea of tension. Gazes met and clashed like steel, filled with vigilance and naked hostility.

The air smelled of ozone and impending violence.

Every eye was fixed greedily on the swirling light screen.

Elder Qin marched the Qingyun disciples to a designated staging area near the gate.

“The spatial stability of the entrance is fluctuating,” he barked. “It can only support three to five entrants at a time. Remember my orders: in two months, regroup at the summit of Lingyun Peak! Now, enter!”

The strongest Qingyun disciples—those at the peak of Qi Condensation—exchanged grim nods. Without hesitation, they stepped forward in tight formations, vanishing into the multicolored ripples.

The rest followed, squad by squad.

Chen Ping hung back, the last leaf on the branch.

He took a deep breath, staring into the chaotic light. His eyes were still, ancient pools devoid of fear.

He stepped forward.

Just as he crossed the threshold, Elder Qin, meditating on a high platform, snapped his eyes open. His gaze locked onto Chen Ping’s back.

“What? Qi Condensation Level 3?!”

For the first time, the elder’s stoic mask cracked, revealing pure shock.

He checked his Divine Sense again. No mistake.

A Level 3 cultivator? Signing up for the Distant Spirit Realm? It wasn’t bravery; it was suicide. Even late-stage cultivators died here like flies.

He opened his mouth to shout a command to halt.

But Chen Ping was already gone, swallowed by the light like a stone in a pond.

Elder Qin’s hand froze in mid-air. Slowly, he lowered it, a deep frown carving lines into his forehead.

“Level 3… is he looking for death? or…” The elder muttered, a flicker of doubt in his voice. “Or does the kid have a card I can’t see?”

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

The path is chosen by the walker. Life and death are their own burden.

Crossing the threshold was not painful. There was no tearing, no nausea. Just a sudden, absolute weightlessness.

Chen Ping felt his body stretch to infinity and then compress into a singularity. The world became a kaleidoscope of spinning neon light. Sound vanished. Time dissolved.

One breath. Perhaps less.

Gravity returned with a vengeance.

Chen Ping’s eyes snapped open. His body coiled, muscles tight as steel cables. His Divine Sense exploded outward, invisible tentacles sweeping the environment for threats.

In his hands: three Tier 1 Top-grade Golden Armor Talismans and the hilt of his Water Divider flying sword.

The world resolved.

He stood on a gentle slope carpeted in pale green velvet grass. Morning dew soaked his trousers, a cold, wet kiss.

The air was sweet, thick with the scent of pine and rich earth. The Qi density was staggering. Every breath felt like drinking a potion; the ambient energy flowed into his meridians with an eagerness that rivaled his own cave on Qingyun Peak.

And this was just a random meadow.

If he found a true Blessed Land here… his cultivation speed would double.

He scanned the horizon.

Below the slope lay a primeval ocean of trees.

Ancient giants pierced the sky, their trunks thick enough to hide a house. Their canopies interlocked like a dark green ceiling, plunging the forest floor into perpetual twilight. Vines thick as pythons strangled the boughs. The ground was a spongy mat of decaying leaves, smelling of wet rot and life.

In the distance, the roar of a beast echoed, followed by the shriek of a bird.

“Dense Qi…” Chen Ping noted, his pulse steady. “Perfect for rare herbs. And monsters.”

He checked his mental map. The terrain matched the descriptions of the Shadow Forest—a peripheral zone. Not the deadliest, but far from safe.

He didn’t move. Instead, he pushed his Divine Sense to its absolute limit, sweeping a hundred-meter radius.

Grass. Rock. Tree. Shadow.

Nothing escaped him.

Only after confirming the absence of high-threat signatures—just insects and small rodents—did he relax his grip on the sword.

He pulled out his entry token and the Sect’s jade map.

A faint light pulsed on the map, placing him on the ragged edge of the Shadow Forest.

“Random teleportation… truly random,” he muttered. “I’m in the middle of nowhere.”

He pocketed the token and looked toward the forest’s heart.

Lingyun Peak, the extraction point, was half a month’s march away.

He would have to hunt and travel simultaneously.

He recalled his pharmacological texts. The Amethyst Flower, a core ingredient for the Foundation Establishment Pill, thrived in yin-heavy, wet environments. Swamps. Riverbanks.

The Shadow Forest was full of them.

He picked a vector and vanished into the trees, silent as a ghost.

Inside, the gloom deepened. The canopy choked out the sun. The air was heavy, wet, and smelled of mold.

Here, the density of the environment pressed against his Divine Sense, shrinking his range to barely two hundred meters.

Chen Ping slowed down. He moved gingerly, testing every foothold.

Half a day passed in tense silence.

The terrain sloped downward. The humidity spiked. The sound of trickling water reached his ears.

His Divine Sense pinged.

A hundred meters ahead: a bog.

The water was turbid and smelled faintly of copper. Dark green moss carpeted the banks.

And there, nestled against black rocks half-submerged in the muck, stood three plants.

They were a foot tall, colored a deep, bruising purple-black. Their leaves were serrated swords.

Atop each stalk bloomed a flower the size of a fist.

The petals were not organic. They looked carved from amethyst crystal, sharp-edged and geometric, glowing with a cold, inner light in the forest gloom.

Amethyst Flower.

One of the Holy Trinity of ingredients.

Chen Ping’s eyes narrowed.

Jackpot.