Among the countless Spirit Root ranks that have existed since the dawn of the cultivation world, one stands among the absolute pinnacle: the Primordial Spirit Root.
It is a name buried beneath the dust of endless eras, spoken only in fragmented legends and forgotten scriptures. Modern cultivators dismiss it as a fairy tale passed down through generations, and even the oldest records within the Upper Realm treat it as a myth rather than reality. No living being has ever proven its existence, and no complete record of its true capabilities has survived the passage of time.
Yet, hidden within the deepest, most forbidden archives of the realm lies a single, damaged inscription:
"If the Primordial Spirit Root ever awakens again, the heavens themselves shall lose their meaning. Do not seek it. Do not provoke it."
Because of the sheer absurdity of this warning, countless scholars declared the inscription a fabrication, while others systematically erased every mention of it to prevent widespread panic. Even among the supreme rulers of the Upper World, the name is rarely whispered; the oldest immortals merely lower their heads in silence, refusing to discuss it.
Its potential is completely unknown. Its limits are unmeasurable. Its origins are a total mystery. Because its true depth could never be determined by mortal tools, ancient civilizations ranked it alongside another enigmatic phenomenon known only as the "Unknown" Spirit Root. The two occupied the highest echelons of cultivation history, though the mysterious "Unknown" root was recorded as being only the slightest fraction superior. Beyond that single comparative statement, every related record has vanished into history.
For countless eras, the Primordial Spirit Root remained a bedtime story told to children, dismissed by scholars, doubted by immortals, and feared only by the few ancient beings who remembered the truth.
"So how can they possibly claim that a mere child was born with the Primordial Spirit Root?!"
Inside a dimly lit sanctuary, a imposing figure slammed his hands onto the armrests of his throne and stood up, his voice echoing with profound irritation. "I don't know when the Leader of the Crimson Clan started resorting to such desperate lies. Even if it were true, there is absolutely no way to verify its identity. We in the Lower Realm don't possess the means for such validation."
He turned his head slightly toward his left shoulder, casting a dark look at his subordinate. "Elder Hei Zun, do not let Wang Yun trick you. Based on what you witnessed, I am certain his child is actually a useless dud. Wang Yun is simply throwing up a smoke screen. Therefore, we proceed with the plan. We must scout and capture that child."
An evil, low chuckle rumbled from his chest, slowly escalating into a twisted laugh. "Haha... hahaha... HAHAHAHA! It is only by refining that child's pure, ancestral blood essence that we will finally forge a path to ascend! I cannot let this opportunity slip away."
Suddenly, the manic laughter cut short, leaving the room in a heavy, suffocating silence.
"You may go," the figure commanded coldly.
"Yes, Sect Master Wei Jun," Hei Zun replied, bowing deeply before stepping backward and walk out of the chamber.
Hei Zun walked through a long, subterranean stone corridor. The passage was initially dead silent, the flickering torches casting elongated shadows against the damp walls. As he walked, he muttered into the quiet air, "In ten years' time, the Crimson Clan will undoubtedly take the child to their Qualifying Ground—the ancestral trial where they test the children's willpower and aptitude for cultivation. That is when they will decide which major sect to scout him into. When that day comes, it will be the perfect window for the trap we are preparing. Ah... today feels like a good day."
The moment he stopped whispering to himself, he stepped out of the silent corridor and into a massive, cavernous chamber. Immediately, a wave of horrific noise erupted from both sides.
To his right, waves of captured mortals who possessed no talent for cultivation were being systematically slaughtered by cackling disciples. Swords flashed, and fresh, crimson blood splashed across the stone floor like a raging red ocean.
To his left, ferocious Level Two spirit beasts paced violently behind heavy iron bars. Guarding the cages were massive, bulking iron puppets—each as wide and intimidating as a demonic bull. Under the cold direction of the sect guards, the puppets tossed the freshly severed mortal flesh into the cages, feeding the beasts a gruesome diet designed to forcibly stimulate their evolution into Level Three monsters.
Hei Zun bypassed the carnage, thoroughly enjoying the coppery smell of blood and the desperate struggles of the mortals. Stepping out of the slaughterhouse and into the open night air, he looked up at the starless sky and whispered into the darkness, "Through this plan... the Netherworld Sect shall finally ascend to the Upper World."
Ten Years Later
High atop a jagged mountain peak, the sun blazed fiercely, pouring its heat down upon the earth like liquid fire. The air itself shimmered and rippled like ocean waves under the scorching light.
Wang Fang sat cross-legged on a smooth, flat stone. His eyes were closed, his breathing exceptionally slow and steady. Each deep inhale drew the scorching mountain air into his lungs; each exhale released a faint, shimmering heat from his skin. He had been meditating in this exact position for five straight hours.
What is this sensation? a sudden thought floated through his mind. I can feel something moving out here... it's incredibly pure, and burning hot. Let me try to draw it in.
He inhaled even deeper, bypassing the standard, basic methods of Qi gathering to pull the raw energy directly into his meridians. He raised both hands side by side, tracing a fluid, circular sequence through the air like a series of zeros, trying to lock the energy down. But as he prepared to exhale and stabilize the flow, his rhythm fractured. His internal energy violently clashed.
"Cough! Cough!"
A ragged, agonizing cough tore through his throat. A few dark drops of crimson blood splattered onto his lips and chin.
Ah... I messed up, Wang Fang thought, opening his eyes and spotting the stains on the grey stone beneath him. Huh? Did I just accidentally bite my lip or something? he whispered to himself.
"Young Master!" a booming voice called out from the mountain path.
A sturdy man in his mid-forties stepped onto the plateau. It was the clan's Martial Instructor. "The Patriarch has called for you."
Uh oh, the Instructor! Wang Fang quickly used a clean fold of his long sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth, immediately shutting his eyes and assuming a perfect, rigid meditation posture to pretend nothing had happened.
"Ah, there you are, Young Master," the instructor said, walking closer until he stood right over the boy. He stared at the painfully obvious attempt at deflecting attention and sighed. "Alright, enough, Young Master. I know you're just pretending."
Wang Fang cracked his right eye open, letting out a defeated groan. "Haaa... how is it that you never get fooled?"
The middle-aged man laughed heartily, crossing his arms. "Like I always tell you, you can't fool the senses of a stronger cultivator."
Seeing the boy's dramatic roll of the eyes, the instructor chuckled and waved his hand. "Jokes aside, wrap it up. The Patriarch is waiting for your presence in the main hall."
"Okay," Wang Fang muttered.
But the moment he tried to stand up, a horrifying sensation struck him. It felt as though a massive, invisible mountain had suddenly been dropped onto his shoulders, crushing his internal organs.
"Pfft!"
A heavy spray of dark blood erupted from his mouth, painting the stone red.
Shit... an internal injury? was his final, panicked thought. His vision instantly blurred, the horizon spinning violently as his knees buckled and his body collapsed forward. How could a simple breathing mistake cause this much damage?!
"Young Master!" the instructor screamed.
In a fraction of a second, the man closed the gap, his hand shooting out to catch Wang Fang's limp body just before it hit the hard rock. He immediately pressed his fingers to the boy's wrist to check his pulse. To his absolute horror, the boy's internal pathways were in utter chaos, torn apart by a violent, unidentifiable force.
The instructor's expression turned deathly serious. Lifting the boy into his arms, he kicked off the stone peak with explosive force, leaving behind a trail of shattered rock and blurred afterimages as he tore down the mountain toward the clan's Medical Hall.
He moved like a streak of lightning, sending servants and guards scrambling out of his way as he crashed through the courtyard doors.
"Master Li!" the instructor roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the building. "The Young Master has suffered catastrophic internal injuries!"
The bustling Medical Hall fell into a dead, terrified silence. Doctor Li rushed out from the inner sanctuary, his face pale with shock. Without wasting a single heartbeat, the doctor pressed two fingers firmly against Wang Fang's wrist.
As he focused his spiritual sense to inspect the boy's inner body, the doctor's expression rapidly twisted from urgent concern to absolute, paralyzed disbelief. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead, his fingers trembling against the boy's pulse as he detected a phenomenon that was completely, fundamentally impossible.