Morning came with a sluggish, pale light filtering through the grime-caked window of the inn room. Ramon stirred under the thin blanket, legs tangled, the coarse mattress creaking beneath him. The pillow was more lump than cushion, but honestly? It had been the best sleep he'd had in ages—maybe even counting his final months on Earth.
No blaring alarms, no flickering fluorescent lights, no creeping dread about overdue bills or dead-end jobs. Just… silence. And that strange, foreign feeling of not needing to keep one eye open.
Safe. Well, safe enough.
He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes, blinking as the dusty light painted the room in shades of beige and grey. It took a second to gather his thoughts. Not just because he'd just woken up—but because even now, some part of him struggled to believe all of this was real.
The black castle. That strange realm filled with whispers and smoke. The monstrous creature made of belief. The shadowy figure calling him worthy.
Then the city—Cloudpetal City.
He glanced at the cloth pouch sitting by the edge of the mattress where he'd left it last night. A quick check inside: three silver coins, eight copper. Not exactly a fortune, but enough for another night or two at the inn, and maybe a few meals if he kept things modest.
Ramon leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. Then, on impulse, he reached toward his chest, fingers brushing lightly over the spot where his dantian was supposed to be.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what's actually going on in there."
He crossed his legs on the mattress, hands resting gently on his knees, and drew a long, steady breath.
Then he reached inward.
And froze.
Something was different. He could feel it instantly.
The flow of spiritual energy inside his body wasn't choppy or sluggish anymore. It moved smoothly—almost effortlessly. There was strength in the current, a rhythm in the way it moved through his body. A steady pulse in his meridians, like the beat of a second heart.
He concentrated harder, focusing the way the old Ramon's fragmented memories had taught him. Sink inward. Trace the pathways. Feel the source.
There—nestled deep within the marrow of his bones, almost hidden from sight—was a faint crystalline glow. It wasn't just spiritual residue anymore. It had structure. Density.
Recognition hit him like a spark catching dry tinder.
"Wait… no way."
He blinked, and then said it aloud, slowly, as if the words themselves were too ridiculous to believe.
"I… advanced?"
He stared at nothing for a moment, lips slightly parted.
He had advanced. Somehow. From Muscle Refinement to Bone Refinement. One of the toughest early jumps in the body cultivation path—and he'd crossed it without even realizing.
"…Huh."
Back on Earth, this would've been a major moment. A turning point in a novel. Usually there'd be lightning crashing, a dramatic breakthrough scene, maybe even a scream into the heavens.
For Ramon?
It had happened quietly. Alone, in the dark. While fighting smoke monsters in a ruined soul palace or whatever the hell that black castle had been. No fanfare. Just… click. You're stronger now.
He laughed under his breath—more out of disbelief than amusement.
"Figures."
Still grinning faintly, he stood and stretched. His limbs moved with surprising ease—stronger, surer. There was a new solidity to his posture, like his bones were finally his, reinforced and stable. He rolled his shoulders, clenched his fists.
Yeah. This was real.
Back on Earth, he'd been just a guy. A nobody. Now? He was a cultivator. Bone Refinement stage. Sure, still barely above the bottom rung—but that was more than most people in this broken city could say.
After splashing water on his face from the chipped ceramic bowl near the door—left by the innkeeper, probably filled from a rooftop cistern—he stepped outside.
Cloudpetal City in the daylight was… rougher than he'd expected.
What had seemed mysterious and shadowy at night now just looked worn out and tired. The buildings leaned slightly to one side, roofs sagging. Cracks ran through the stone like spiderwebs. The streets were caked with dust, and the people—gods, the people—moved like their bodies were too heavy for their souls.
This wasn't some radiant world of sects and swords and glowing treasures. This was a place people clung to because they had nowhere else to go.
It was bleak.
But it was real.
And for Ramon? That was enough.
He walked slowly, absorbing everything—the sharp smell of dried lotus leaves, the acrid bite of boiled root broth, the metallic ring of forge hammers somewhere down a side street. He passed a few vendors shouting halfheartedly about their wares and children playing quietly with sticks in an alley.
Most of the sect disciples he saw wore light blue robes trimmed with silver. Cloud Lotus Sect colors. They moved with the casual arrogance of people used to being higher on the food chain, but even they looked a little dimmed. Faded robes, guarded expressions. No gleaming swords. No blazing auras.
Still, they had something he needed: connection. Power. Status.
He'd have to find a way in.
By late morning, he found himself wandering through what looked like a temple district—though most of the shrines were half-collapsed, overgrown, or outright abandoned. Broken spirit statues lined cracked stone paths. Bits of incense ash still clung to the air.
The black market, if rumors were right, was supposed to be somewhere under these ruins. Another thing for the to-do list.
But right now? He needed information.
He spent a few hours listening to gossip, watching how the outer disciples moved, keeping his ears open for anything about recruitment, training grounds, or sect politics. Old Ramon's memories weren't much help—they were scattered, faded. Just glimpses. But one phrase kept bubbling up.
Outer disciple trials.
Once a year, apparently. Some kind of second chance to rejoin the sect if you'd been kicked out or left behind. He didn't know the details yet, but it sounded promising.
Around midday, his stomach growled hard enough to demand attention, so he ducked into a little food stall tucked between two buildings. Three copper got him a bowl of steamed grain and some kind of bitter root soup. It wasn't good—but it was warm.
As he ate, his thoughts drifted again.
Back to the black castle.
To the monsters of smoke and belief. To the figure wrapped in darkness who'd called him chosen. To the weight of that place, like the very concept of memory had been carved into the walls.
What was faith cultivation, really? What had he stepped into?
And who the hell was Lord Wuxian?
He didn't have the answers yet.
But he would get them.
Eventually.
For now, he needed to survive. Stay low. Get stronger. Maybe find a way to climb back into the Cloud Lotus Sect—at least as a low-ranking disciple.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the city in dull amber, he made his way back to the inn. The room was just as he'd left it. No one had cleaned it. No surprise there—courtesy cost extra, and he barely had enough to eat.
He dropped onto the mattress with a quiet groan, the aches in his muscles finally catching up to him. His body was still adapting—bones knitting, muscles stretching. He could feel the change now, humming just beneath the surface like a forge warming up.
There was potential there.
Fire in the coals.
Tomorrow, he'd start working in earnest—ask around about the sect's outer gates, watch where the disciples trained, maybe even find a safe place to practice.
Step by step.
For now?
Sleep.
He let his eyes drift shut, the city's muffled sounds fading around him.
Outside, the world of Virelya slouched beneath a broken sky.
And far to the east, deep in the heart of the Redwood Forest, something ancient shifted.
Something watching.