Spirit Stones vanished from his Jade Pendant like water down a drain.

In exchange, a thick stack of Talismans materialized in his hands.

Chen Ping sorted the yellow paper with methodical precision.

Attack: Fire Snake, Ice Spike, Golden Needle, Wind Split.

Defense: Golden Armor, Thick Earth Shield, Water Curtain.

Evasion: Divine Movement, Wind Riding, Paper Crane.

Stealth: Breath Concealment, Minor Maze.

And the crown jewels—Tier 2 Low-grade Talismans, each worth over five hundred Spirit Stones. Golden Blade for peerless offense. Explosive Flame for area devastation. Palm Lightning for armor-piercing strikes.

Days bled into nights.

Chen Ping became a man possessed. Aside from brief meditations to maintain his Qi, every waking moment was dedicated to the liquidation of his wealth.

The mountain of thirty thousand Spirit Stones eroded, shrank, and finally vanished.

Five days before the Realm opened, late at night.

Chen Ping returned from the shadows of the Marketplace to his desolate cave for the last time.

He sat on the cold stone floor, arranging his arsenal.

On his left, a tower of Tier 1 Top-grade Talismans. Five hundred sheets exactly. Each one hand-picked, each one a life-saving tool for a Qi Condensation cultivator.

On his right, a much smaller pile. Thirty sheets. But the Qi radiating from them was heavy, oppressive. These were his trump cards. Thirty Tier 2 Low-grade Talismans.

He exhaled a long breath.

Thirty thousand Spirit Stones. Gone. Converted into paper and ink.

Five hundred Tier 1. Thirty Tier 2.

He closed his eyes. The wind outside howled through the rocky crevices, a mournful song for the dead.

Narrow escape? No. The Distant Spirit Realm was a graveyard for Qi Condensation cultivators.

But he had no choice.

The Foundation Establishment Pill was the starting line of the Immortal Path. To stop before the start was to accept mortality.

Chen Ping opened his eyes. The hesitation was gone, replaced by the cold resolve of stone.

Inside the cave, the air was heavy.

“Father, Mother.”

Chen Ping’s voice was steady. “I need to leave the Sect for a while. The return date is uncertain.”

Mother Chen’s hands clenched her hem. She wanted to ask where, to ask why. But looking at her son’s calm face, the questions died in her throat.

He was a cultivator now. His world was beyond her comprehension. All she could offer was silence and support.

“Ping’er,” Chen Dashan said, his voice rough with age and worry. “Remember one thing: life is paramount. If you can’t win, run. It’s not shameful. Only the living have a future.”

“Mother knows she can’t stop you.” Mother Chen’s voice trembled as she pressed a small cloth bundle into his hands. “Eat if you’re hungry. Be careful. Run if you see danger.”

Inside were dry Spirit Grain cakes, warm from her touch. Even on the Immortal Path, they hoarded food like refugees.

Chen Ping nodded, accepting the useless gift. “I remember.”

He turned to Yuan Jingtian.

The scarred man straightened, his eyes hard. “Rest assured, my Lord. As long as Yuan Jingtian breathes, no harm will come to the Master and Mistress. They will have to step over my corpse.”

“I leave them to you.”

With a Qi Condensation Level 7 bodyguard and a hidden cave, they would be safe.

Chen Ping said no more. The path of cultivation was lonely; lingering would only weaken his resolve.

Before dawn, he left.

He glanced one last time at the sleeping cave, then sealed the stone door.

He merged into the morning mist, speeding toward the core of the sect.

The Qingyun Peak Plaza was paved with white jade, vast and imposing.

Dozens of cultivators had already gathered.

As Chen Ping stepped onto the jade, Divine Senses swept over him. He kept his aura suppressed to Level 3, head lowered, drifting to the edge of the crowd like a shadow.

The disciples here were the elite. Inner Disciples, True Disciples. Their robes were exquisite, their auras heavy. Level 8, Level 9, even Great Perfection. They were the predators of this expedition.

Chen Ping, a Level 3 “trash,” stood out like a beggar at a banquet.

He felt the gazes—scrutiny, confusion, contempt.

But they moved on quickly.

In the upcoming slaughter, a Level 3 cultivator was cannon fodder. Not worth the mental energy to despise.

Chen Ping sat on a stone slab, closing his eyes. He preferred their indifference.

An hour later, a crushing spiritual pressure descended.

Silence fell instantly.

An old man in black robes descended on a flying sword, landing silently on the central platform. Elder Qin. Foundation Establishment Mid-Stage.

“Silence.”

His voice was soft but piercing. His gaze swept the crowd, pausing for a microsecond on Chen Ping before moving on.

“I am Elder Qin. I will escort you to the Distant Spirit Realm.”

He waved a sleeve, and a massive, cyan Spirit Boat materialized above the plaza, humming with power.

“The rules are known, but I will repeat them.”

“First: Survival is priority. Do not be greedy.”

“Second: Trust no one. Harbor no malice, but guard against it.”

“Third: Two months. That is the limit. When time is up, you must reach Lingyun Peak in the center for extraction. The array waits for no one.”

“Fourth: The Forbidden Areas marked on your maps are death zones. Do not enter.”

“Fifth: Entry is random teleportation. Regroup with sect members immediately.”

“Sixth: Ten portions of main ingredients exchange for one Foundation Establishment Pill. The Sect rewards the diligent.”

Elder Qin finished, his robe snapping in the wind.

“Board the boat!”