It was a towering peak, soaring thousands of zhang high and covering tens of thousands of square kilometers at its base. At the summit, a flat plateau of several thousand square meters supported an ancient stone temple, built entirely from massive, rough-hewn rocks. Even the gate alone rose over eighty zhang tall, with its columns formed from colossal stones. From the outside, the temple appeared to be one seamless whole. Above the entrance was a single ancient character: "Kufu" (Martial).
When Feng Yunwuji arrived at the temple, he found that the vast stone-paved plazas on either side were filled with people. Each person occupied a single slab of green stone, seated in orderly rows. They varied in age, young and old alike, all meditating with closed eyes. Had the old man not explained that these were martial artists who had encountered bottlenecks and come here to seek breakthroughs, Feng Yunwuji would have thought they were already dead.
The two walked toward the main gate along a path of crushed stone running through the center of the plaza. Their footsteps stirred several cultivators from their meditation. Some opened their eyes, casting a brief glance at the newcomers — an old man and a young man — before quickly shutting their eyes again, returning to their cultivation.
At the foot of the gate sat two imposing men, appearing to be in their thirties or forties, yet each with long white hair cascading to their waists. They sat cross-legged, motionless. As Feng Yunwuji and the old man approached, one of them opened his eyes. In that instant, Feng Yunwuji felt as if the entire world suddenly grew brighter, overwhelmed by a pair of eyes as brilliant as the stars.
"Sword Slave, is this the newly ascended clansman?" the man asked calmly, his tone utterly devoid of emotion.
The old man nodded. "Yes, Attendant. From this moment, his martial training will be entirely in your hands for the next three years."
The man gave a slight nod. "Understood. You may leave now."
The old man smiled faintly, patted Feng Yunwuji's shoulder, and said, "From here on, it's all up to you. If there's anything you don't understand, you can ask the Attendants. Three years from now, if you have achieved nothing, then even losing your life will be your own fault." His voice turned stern toward the end.
Feng Yunwuji responded with a calm nod, betraying no emotion. He watched as the old man rose into the air and quickly vanished from sight. Only then did he step forward and sit cross-legged beside the two Attendants.
"Name?" asked the Attendant to the left, his eyes still closed.
"Feng Yunwuji," he replied.
The Attendant extended a finger, writing the name in flowing, majestic script across the air: "Feng Yunwuji." Then he asked, "Age?"
"Thirty-three."
At that, the left Attendant finally opened his eyes—only to reveal an unsettling sight: his eyes were entirely white, without any trace of black pupils.
"Thirty-three. You're the twenty-third to ascend at such a young age," he said. He then closed his eyes again, wrote the number 33 in the air, and slapped his left palm. Instantly, the characters soared into the sky, embedding themselves into a translucent membrane that appeared about thirty zhang above the ground. Countless other inscriptions briefly surfaced on the membrane before both it and the writings disappeared without a trace.
"Registration complete," said the Attendant. "Whether you want to study spells or martial arts, you can ask him now." With that, his hands dropped limply onto his knees, and he became utterly still, as though he had turned into an empty shell. Feng Yunwuji could no longer sense any living aura from him. Had he not spoken moments ago, Feng Yunwuji would have thought the man was some ancient being who had passed away in meditation.
"Would you like to learn spells or martial arts?" asked the Attendant on the right — the one with starry eyes — smiling warmly at Feng Yunwuji.
"Martial arts," Feng Yunwuji replied.
"Do you know what spellcraft is?"
"No," he answered bluntly.
"Then why do you want to learn martial arts?" the man asked curiously.
"I ascended through the martial path. Why would I choose spellcraft now?" Feng Yunwuji responded with equal curiosity.
"I see. It seems you're unaware that learning spellcraft often leads to much faster progress, achieving results comparable to martial cultivation in far less time. Many ascendants here chose the shortcut of spellcraft. Knowing this, do you still insist on pursuing martial arts?"
"Yes," Feng Yunwuji said firmly.
"Very well. Follow me," said the star-eyed Attendant, his expression finally turning serious. He rose and led Feng Yunwuji into the temple.
Inside the enormous structure, a long corridor stretched into endless darkness, flanked by countless small chambers carved from stone walls.
The sheer number—tens of thousands—of these rooms left Feng Yunwuji reeling. Each chamber radiated a vast and unfathomable aura, like the forces of sun, moon, and heaven. The Attendant guided him into one pitch-black room, placed a palm against the wall, and with a rumbling sound, the floor split into two panels, sinking into the sides and revealing a hidden stairway descending into the darkness below.
Pointing at the stairs leading to the unknown, the Attendant said, "Go down. Countless martial manuals are stored there. Whether you can find a high-level manual depends entirely on your luck. One last piece of advice: to become a true master, you must create your own martial arts. Though the temple holds many techniques, most are merely foundational. Everything else depends on your fortune."
"Thank you," Feng Yunwuji said, stepping without hesitation into the darkness.
Night vision was a basic skill for a martial cultivator, so the pitch-black environment posed no obstacle for Feng Yunwuji.
Only after entering the underground passage did Feng Yunwuji truly grasp what the Attendant meant by "countless martial manuals."
The walls of the passage were densely covered with tiny, meticulous inscriptions of martial techniques and diagrams, so small they were hard to distinguish without careful focus. Moreover, the stairway did not descend straight down but coiled endlessly within the mountain, creating an immense space for carvings.
While silently keeping track of time in his mind, Feng Yunwuji browsed the martial scripts, using his left and right minds independently—a technique he had mastered before his ascension. After an entire day and night, he had only descended eight steps. It was clear how vast the collection was.
Three years were already a short span; even to browse this single passage thoroughly would take several months. And there were tens of thousands of such rooms within the temple. Since excellence mattered more than quantity in martial arts, choosing a truly suitable technique was no easy task.
For a whole month, Feng Yunwuji focused solely on browsing. He had descended only a thousand steps. Yet in this prolonged process, he discovered something: the inscriptions weren't all carved by the same hand. The styles of writing varied widely.
Realizing this, Feng Yunwuji closed his eyes and began using his fingers to "read" the walls instead.
Every martial artist who carved their techniques into the stone had left a trace of their aura within the writing. The stronger the cultivator, the stronger the lingering aura. By sensing these remnants, Feng Yunwuji quickly filtered through the vast array. In just one day, he advanced three hundred steps.
He wasn't alone in the tunnel. Upon reaching the thirtieth thousand step, he encountered a haggard martial artist clutching a rusty sword, frantically studying the walls. As Feng Yunwuji passed by without a glance, the man snorted disdainfully through his nose.
After three months, Feng Yunwuji finally reached the end of the passage. Before him was a barren stone wall — nothing more.
Throughout this journey, Feng Yunwuji had sensed hundreds of thousands of different auras. Some powerful, some faint, all unique. Having completed the entire passage, he closed his eyes and hurried back upward.
At the forty-thousandth step, he found what he had been seeking: a small inscription, only a few hundred characters, not on the wall like the others but carved discreetly onto the side of a stair.
The aura emanating from these characters was unlike any other he had encountered — mysterious and strange — finally catching his full attention.
The inscription's title, written in ancient script, was "Grand Method of Sword-Body Unity Through Willpower." Following the technique description, the creator had left a note:
"This method only contains the preliminary stages. The later stages must be created by the practitioner themselves. Whether you succeed or fail depends entirely on your own destiny. Even I, its creator, failed to fully master it. I had intended to destroy this method, but could not bear to erase the fruit of my efforts. To anyone who attempts it: be cautious — extremely cautious."