My Portable Spirit Farm: Rise of the Humble Servant

These twenty figures…

They were wearing Qingyun Sect outer disciple robes identical to Chen Ping’s. Their height, build, and even the bloodstains and exhaustion on their faces were perfect mirrors of his own.

In their hands, they held phantom images of the “Water Divider” and “Metal Splitter” flying swords. Their eyes were vacant, yet they radiated spiritual power fluctuations completely identical to Chen Ping’s current state…

Qi Condensation ninth layer, Great Perfection!

Twenty “Chen Pings”!

Or rather, twenty replicas possessing Chen Ping’s current cultivation realm and combat instincts!?

Chen Ping’s pupils contracted sharply.

The twenty “selves” simultaneously raised their phantom swords, their cold, empty gazes locking onto the original body at the center.

There was no emotion in their eyes, only pure killing intent.

Chen Ping took a deep breath and slowly stood up. There was no fear in his gaze; instead, there was a strange, icy calmness.

He understood better than anyone that without his wealth of talismans, his raw combat strength among peers of the same level was merely average.

“Come on.”

He muttered to himself, tightening his grip on the “Metal Splitter” sword.

This is going to be another massive bloodletting.

The battle erupted instantly!

Twenty figures pounced from all directions!

Sword light flashed, footwork interwove. Every movement carried Chen Ping’s distinctive, cautious style—evasive, probing, defensive.

The offensive was like a violent storm, yet it felt… weak. Lacking decisive killing power.

Chen Ping sighed internally as he dodged a strike. This is my current flaw. Caution without power.

His spirit focused, his Divine Sense pushed to the limit. He abandoned head-on clashes, pushing his movement technique to the extreme, weaving through the net of twenty sword lights like a ghost.

His footwork wasn’t flashy—it was even clumsy at times—but each dodge was calculated to the millimeter, precisely exploiting the fleeting gaps between his opponents’ attacks.

This was his ability: the survival instinct honed from escaping countless demonic beasts!

Clang!

He parried a thrust from the left, using the impact to spin his body, narrowly avoiding a cold gleam slashing at his neck from behind.

His right leg shot out like lightning, kicking a “self” pouncing from the side, sending it staggering back.

He utilized his absolute understanding of “his own” combat habits to predict and disrupt them. He knew the angle of every thrust, the trajectory of every dodge, the rhythm of every breath of Qi circulation!

This was his greatest advantage.

When a “self” habitually retracted its sword to block after a failed thrust, Chen Ping’s true body had already predicted the move, closing in a step earlier.

An elbow strike condensed with his entire body’s power slammed fiercely into its chest!

Thud!

The replica’s chest caved in, and it instantly dispersed into light!

When two “selves” attempted a pincer attack, Chen Ping abruptly crouched low, executing a clumsy yet effective roll through the gap between their legs. As he moved, he flung a talisman backward, striking from a tricky, unavoidable angle!

Instant kill.

The battle wasn’t as earth-shattering as the previous two rounds, but it was more perilous. Chen Ping was dancing on the edge of a blade. Every dodge, every parry, every counterattack demanded his full concentration and a profound understanding of his own weaknesses.

He was reflecting on himself.

He was… surpassing himself!

His movements became increasingly simple, efficient. He discarded all flashy impracticalities, leaving only the purest means of attack.

Phantom swords left several bloody gashes on his body, but he remained oblivious. His eyes held only the targets, only those familiar yet deadly “selves.”

When the last replica was pierced through the brow by his sword, dissolving into points of light, Chen Ping leaned on his weapon, trembling with exhaustion.

Sweat, blood, and dust coated him, making him look utterly disheveled. Seven or eight new sword wounds crisscrossed his body.

But he was still standing.

He glanced at the burnt-out talisman ash on the ground.

This time, he had only consumed forty Tier 1 Top-grade talismans, mostly used for delaying and disrupting to create openings. Compared to the previous two trials, this was a massive “saving.”

Hum!

At the center of the stone chamber, soft white light lit up again. The traces of battle vanished.

A complex light formation composed of blue lines appeared, slowly rotating and emitting stable spatial fluctuations.

A teleportation array!

It seemed the test had been passed.

Chen Ping let out a long sigh of relief, his heart harboring no hesitation. From the moment he killed all his selves, his Dao Heart was unprecedentedly firm.

Cultivation itself was a process of constantly surpassing oneself. Combat was just another form of cultivation.

Dragging his weary body, he stepped into the blue light.

…

Intense weightlessness and spatial distortion assaulted him, more violent than any previous teleportation.

When his feet touched solid ground, Chen Ping staggered, nearly falling. Suppressing the dizziness and nausea, he immediately raised his head, vigilantly scanning his surroundings.

He was on a massive stone platform at the foot of a mountain.

The ground was flat bluish-gray rock. Before him stood a towering black peak reaching into the clouds, its top unseen.

He was not alone.

Scattered across the platform were over twenty figures, sitting or standing. All were in tattered clothes, their auras feeble, bearing injuries of varying degrees. Some were missing limbs, silently regulating their breath to heal.

Their attire varied—survivors from different sects who had luckily passed the terrifying stone chamber trial.

Chen Ping’s appearance drew only brief, weary glances before he was ignored.

Time passed slowly.

Teleportation lights occasionally flashed at the platform’s edge, depositing more survivors. After a day and a night, the number stabilized at twenty-six.

When the final light flashed, a familiar figure appeared.

It was the Qingyun Sect True Disciple—Bai Yue.

Her moon-white Dharma robe was torn in multiple places, stained with dust and dried blood. She looked quite disheveled.

Most noticeable was a foot-long tear from her left shoulder to her armpit, vaguely revealing a patch of skin fairer than snow and a breathtaking curve. Her right sleeve was also torn, exposing half of a lotus-root-like forearm that glowed like white jade under the sun.

Bai Yue noticed her predicament immediately, her brows furrowing beneath her silver mask. She instinctively tried to cover herself with her tattered sleeve, but the movement only drew more attention.

The deathly silent atmosphere on the platform shifted. The gazes of several male cultivators filled with lewdness, wantonly lingering on the exposed skin and curves of the “Cold Moon.”

Some even let out undisguised chuckles, heavy with greed and profanity.

Bai Yue’s body stiffened.

Her clear, cold eyes ignited with towering fury and shame. When had she ever suffered such humiliation?

“Seeking death!”

Her icy rebuke exploded like shattering ice!

The azure longsword in her hand unsheathed instantly, transforming into a desolate, cold moonlight beam. Carrying piercing killing intent, she thrust directly at the face of the nearest Taiyi Sect disciple, whose gaze had been the most brazen!

The Taiyi Sect disciple still wore a lewd smile, never expecting the injured woman to attack so suddenly.

The sword light was fast as lightning!

However, just as the tip was less than three inches from his throat…