The System’s ID registration went smooth; in the time it takes half a stick of incense to burn, all the messy forms were stamped and tossed like fallen leaves in a stream. It glided back to Majestic Peak, eager to report its progress to Nana Toki, only to spot its host from afar, arms full of a hefty stack of scrolls, stepping out of the house like a crane lifting reeds.
“What are you doing, host?” The System climbed to the peak and sidled over, curiosity flickering like a moth to a lantern. These scrolls weren’t from her hidden space, which pricked its interest like thorns under a sleeve.
“Ah… I pulled these manuals from the original master’s library,” Nana said, stacking the scrolls on a stone table like bricks laid before a kiln. “I want to sharpen myself before the duel begins.”
She set the scrolls down and sorted them, every motion neat as rain combing bamboo. No secrets, no hedging—she laid out her thoughts like cards on a mat.
“You came back early today,” she added, voice casual as morning tea steam. “Did you finish the identity registration I sent you to do at noon?”
“Of course I did. Come on, look at who I am.” The System kept rifling through the pile, voice lazy as a summer breeze. “Aside from a few idiots who judged me by looks the moment I walked in, it was smooth sailing.”
Then its tone snagged like a fishhook. “But… emmm, host, why borrow so many body-tempering manuals?”
It dug through the stack and frowned. Everything here was either inner arts to harden flesh or grim methods that use a medium to force the body stronger—iron hammers on bone, not cloud-summoning verse.
“I remember your current body cultivates well enough,” the System said, words crisp as frost on tiles. “No illnesses, no flaws. Why ignore Spirit Energy and pivot to pure physique?”
In the Immortal Realm, unless talent is truly dull as a winter blade, most cultivators don’t hesitate between body refinement and qi training. Body work grows slow like moss on stone, and its gains are modest; unless forced, no one chases raw flesh over flowing spirit.
“I’m worried the male lead has a cheat toggled on,” Nana replied, eyes on a manual about strengthening the outer body, her voice steady as night water. “If Spirit Energy clashes don’t favor me, I’ll start with flesh.”
She lifted a scroll, gaze cool as a lake before dawn. “And honestly? I don’t mesh with Spirit Energy arts. I prefer close quarters—strip the opponent’s body apart with my own hands, clean as dismantling an old cart.”
The last sentence came sharp, each syllable a cold blade; discomfort crawled like ants under the System’s skin.
“...Right.” It sighed, a wind through hollow bamboo. “That’s exactly the tone I expect from my host.”
“Since that’s decided,” it asked, practical as a carpenter’s rule, “have you picked which manual to train?”
There were only five days till the sect duel. Even if Nana trained day and night like a lamp burning down to the wick, she’d learn only the outer skin. Mastery needs time like mountains need ages to grow.
“Of course,” Nana said, fingers precise as a sparrow pecking grain. She plucked one from the pile. “Look—this one’s called the ‘Immaculate Immortal Body Art.’”
“Immaculate Immortal Body Art?” The System stared at the scroll. Its expression twisted like smoke. “If my memory banks aren’t scrambled, that manual is basically martial calisthenics for park-dance aunties. Its use is preserving youth and beauty, right?”
“Yep. The very same ‘beauty-preserving plaza-secret.’” Nana opened the book and flipped a few pages, her smile sweet as candied haw with a bitter seed beneath. “But that’s just the public verdict. There’s another, nastier edge. Want to guess?”
“W–what is it?” Her deepening smile felt like a wolf’s shadow on snow; the System’s heart pricked with unease.
“I skimmed it.” Her tone went quiet as falling ash. “It needs a long fusion of time—hundreds, thousands of years, no big deal. But once it’s perfected, the gains are proportional.”
Nana snapped the scroll closed, the sound like a fan shutting, and continued in a slow, even rhythm. “On the surface, it’s a beauty-stretch routine. In truth, it uses time as the mortar and the body as the stone. It purges inner impurities until you’re clear and spotless—untouched by ten thousand things, unshaken by ten thousand arts. The ceiling of resistance, both to the physical and the arcane.”
“Uh… but isn’t this Immaculate Immortal Body Art common as dirt?” The System’s skepticism ticked like a cicada at noon. “If it’s that good, why hasn’t the Immortal Realm produced a success story?”
“I just said it,” Nana replied, calm as a monk by a stream. “It needs time. Without reaching ‘perfection,’ it’s just a plaza routine anyone can pick up.”
“...Then what’s the point?” The System sagged like a banner in dead wind.
“How long to reach perfection, host?” it asked, tone thin as candle smoke.
“Maybe ten thousand years.” Nana said it sincerely, like she was measuring rainfall.
Ten thousand years… Even a Great Vehicle Stage infant, training from birth, would die with their hands empty.
“Are you trying to torture yourself,” the System muttered, “or just bored out of your skull?” The art smelled like a cult trick—snake-oil under temple bells—yet someone was actually going to train it. Absurd, like a fish climbing a pine.
“Nope. I’m not training it.” Nana’s smile turned sugar-sweet and sickly, with a feral edge, like a peony hiding thorns. “It’s for Nesting Phoenix. Her Spirit Energy cycles on its own anyway. If she’s going to train something, why not test this? We’ll see if it’s real steel or painted tin.”
“...” So she was really going to pitch Nesting Phoenix into the pit and watch if wings sprout.
“So, you’ve been rummaging here to pick a manual for Nesting Phoenix?” The System was speechless, its mood a puddle muddied by boots. “Don’t forget: Boundless Peak has a half-step Golden Core. If you don’t train hard now, how will you beat him?”
“Hm? Half-step Golden Core?” Nana’s voice was breezy as willow shade. “You mean Boundless Peak’s Peak Lord, Zhao Zhan. Don’t worry. He’s yours. You said yourself—below Nascent Soul, killing’s like slaughtering dogs, right? I trust you.”
“Uh… but this—”
“No buts. You promised me you were a good tool, didn’t you? What, regrets now? Too late.” Her grin had the sour bite of old-school capitalist exploitation, squeezing labor until the pips squeaked.
“...”
As for the rest, Nana already held decent intel on the three disciples Boundless Peak would field: Peak Lord Zhao Zhan, half-step into Golden Core; Tianqi Yu, Foundation Establishment, eighth stage; and another inner disciple also at Foundation Establishment, eighth stage.
On her side, besides the System, their battle strength was short like a ladder missing rungs. Blue Magpie had just formed her Foundation, but it was only first stage—worlds away from eighth, a gulf as wide as heaven and earth.
Still, Nana didn’t plan to sit and wait like frost on a roof. She had a pack of tricks yet she hadn’t let out of their cage. How could she fall without giving the sky a shake?
Five days of breathing room remained. She had to prepare—herself and her little sister—like sharpening blades before the storm.
...
Five days flashed by like swallows skimming a river. The duel touched a grudge between two spirit peaks, and the wager dangled a peak-transfer like a bright kite string. On the morning of the match, the sect’s mood boiled hotter than a standard internal tournament—drums in the chest, sparks in the eyes.
Even outer sect disciples slipped in under the pretext of cleaning, sweeping their way into the crowd like ants to sugar.
By the time Nana Toki arrived with the System and Blue Magpie, Boundless Peak’s people were already there. Zhao Zhan stood at the fore; Tianqi Yu and the others wore smirks cold as winter iron. Their gazes slid over Nana’s meager lineup, lips curling—wolves seeing lambs.
“Peak Lord Blue, I trust you’ve been well,” said Li Qian of Boundless Peak, voice pitched loud to stir the air like a gong. “I’m here on behalf of our Peak Lord to confirm your participants. Are Majestic Peak’s duelists ready?”
He raised his volume on purpose, tossing bait into the crowd like grain. Nearby disciples, poised to watch the fun, turned their heads like reeds in wind.
“A whole spirit peak,” he continued, tone oily as lamp smoke, “and the only ones fit to fight are Peak Lord Blue and her slow-witted little sister?”
Snickers rose behind him, sharp as pebbles thrown at a tin roof.
“I hear Peak Lord Blue recruited a new disciple,” another chimed in, smarm bright as lacquer. “Could you bring them out? Let us Boundless Peak folk see which fool boarded your pirate ship.”
Nana’s expression didn’t ripple, a still pond under night. She ignored the jeers as if they were mosquitoes, and as she passed them, she even offered a pleasant smile, springtime light on plum blossom. “Majestic Peak truly lacks talent,” she said mildly. “We’ll be fielding some rookies—please don’t mock them.”
Her eyes curved, a crescent moon with a hidden blade. “Otherwise, if your Boundless Peak boys can’t beat a few women from Majestic Peak, that would be hard to explain to the crowd, wouldn’t it?”
