Li Feng stared down at his unconscious original body, then at the delicate hands that now belonged to him—slender fingers, pale as moonlight, trembling slightly in the dim crimson glow of the ruin's formations.
He could no longer return to his old body. Not immediately. Perhaps not ever.
The realization settled over him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. But he had survived worse. He had endured 170 years of being crippled, scorned, and forgotten. He would endure this too.
"Accept it," he whispered to himself, his new voice soft and melodious, utterly alien. "Accept it and move forward."
He closed his eyes and turned his attention inward, examining the state of his new body with the practiced precision of someone who had spent decades studying cultivation.
The first problem was immediately apparent: his soul remained unchanged. Despite inhabiting this peerless female form, his consciousness, his essence, his very identity was still that of Li Feng—male, scarred by centuries of struggle, shaped by yang cultivation. The mismatch between soul and body created a constant dissonance, like trying to play a guqin with broken strings.
Controlling this body was difficult. His movements felt slightly off, his balance subtly wrong. Worse, he knew what this meant for the future. If he ever managed to break through to a major cultivation realm, the Heavenly Tribulation would sense the discord. The heaven punishes those who defied natural order, and a male soul in a female body would be seen as exactly that—a defiance
"One problem at a time," he muttered, forcing himself to continue the examination.
The second discovery was more promising, though equally mysterious. He inspected his newly acquired spiritual roots and found something he had never encountered in all his years of study. They were yin in nature—that much was clear from the cool, flowing quality of the spiritual energy they attracted. But beyond that basic classification, he was lost.
"What are you?" he whispered, tracing the pathways of spiritual energy through his meridians. The roots felt ancient, profound, as if they contained secrets that predated the current cultivation era. "Some variant of yin roots? Or something else entirely?"
Whatever they were, they were his now. And they were infinitely better than the damaged, useless roots he'd carried for 170 years.
The third realization brought both relief and frustration: he would have to discard his former cultivation entirely. The remnants of yang spiritual energy still lingering in his consciousness would conflict catastrophically with the yin energy of his new body. Trying to cultivate both would be like mixing fire and water—the result would be explosive and fatal.
"Start over," he said quietly, a bitter smile touching his lips. "After two hundred years, I'm back at the beginning."
But he wasn't entirely unprepared. During his decades of searching for a cure, he had collected countless cultivation techniques, including several supreme-grade yin methods. At the time, he'd studied them academically, never imagining he would need them. Now, one of those techniques would become his foundation.
He settled into a meditation posture—or tried to. His new body's proportions made the familiar stance awkward. His breasts pressed against his thighs, his wider hips changed his center of gravity, and the absence of male anatomy created a strange, hollow sensation that kept distracting him.
"Focus," he commanded himself.
He began circulating the supreme yin cultivation technique, drawing spiritual energy from his surroundings. The moment the energy entered his meridians, his eyes snapped open in shock.
The absorption rate was incredible—far beyond anything he'd experienced even at the height of his former talent. Spiritual energy flooded into his body like a river breaking through a dam, pure and potent, filling his dantian with astonishing speed.
Within minutes—minutes—he felt the familiar sensation of breaking through to Qi Condensation stage.
"Impossible," he breathed. "It takes average cultivators five days to reach Qi Condensation. Even I took a full day when I first started, and that was considered a world record."
He examined his cultivation carefully, searching for flaws or instability, but found none. The breakthrough was solid, the foundation stable. Whatever these spiritual roots were, they were extraordinary.
A small amount of cultivation wouldn't solve his immediate problems, but it was a start. And it gave him enough spiritual energy to perform the technique he'd been dreading.
He looked at his unconscious original body again, and his expression hardened with resolve.
"I have no choice," he said aloud, as if speaking the words would make them easier to accept. "I can't return to the sect in this body. I have no identification, no way to prove who I am. And this appearance..."
He touched his face—smooth as porcelain, achingly beautiful even by cultivation-world standards. During his travels, he had encountered many groups with beautiful women. Without exception, those groups had met with misfortune. Demonic cultivators coveted their beauty. Righteous cultivators fought over their favor. Internal conflicts tore the groups apart.
If average beauty caused such trouble, what would a face that "eclipsed the heavens and earth" bring?
"I can't reveal myself," he concluded. "Not until I understand what I've become."
He approached his original body and began the Skin Transformation Art.
The technique required him to be completely unclothed. He removed the soiled dress with practiced efficiency, revealing his new body in its entirety. Even now, even in this desperate situation, he couldn't help but notice the perfection of the form—flawless skin, graceful curves, a figure that seemed sculpted by divine hands.
He pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the technique.
The formations took shape in the air, drawn with spiritual energy. His original body began to change, the skin loosening, the bones softening, the flesh compressing into something that was no longer quite human but not quite dead either.
When the transformation completed, what remained was a perfect replica of his former male body, but paper-thin, translucent, pulsing with faint spiritual light.
Li Feng stared at it for a long moment, grief and revulsion warring in his chest.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
Then he began to put it on.
He lifted one delicate, bare foot and carefully slipped it into the corresponding leg of the skin. The instant his foot sank in, an extremely strange sensation washed over him—nothing like the sensual experiences of the ritual, but rather a feeling of constraint and suffocation, as if an ill-fitting, rough garment were being forced over delicate silk.
The space between his legs, which had been empty and cool, suddenly felt filled and occupied by something foreign. The sensation was jarring, uncomfortable, deeply wrong.
"Disgusting," he muttered, but forced himself to continue.
He slipped his other foot in, then slowly pulled the skin upward. The material rubbed against his sensitive new flesh, bringing not pleasure but a persistent itch that made him want to tear it off. When the skin covered his waist and hips, wrapping around the area that had once been empty—
Li Feng let out a muffled groan.
A sense of fullness and weight reappeared between his legs. The presence of male anatomy was vivid and jarring, contrasting sharply with the emptiness he'd grown accustomed to over the past hour.
He looked down and saw a flat chest and a noticeable bulge below.
Complex emotions surged through him. Dislike for the rough, heavy feeling. Loss at abandoning the lightness of his new body. But also... a subtle, reluctant sense of familiarity. This had been his body for nearly two hundred years, after all.
He reached down with a trembling hand and touched the restored penis. A faint, masculine sensation rippled through him, but it felt distant, muted, as if filtered through layers of silk.
"Just finish it," he told himself.
He pulled the skin up over his torso, arms, and finally his head. The moment his face was covered, all his senses shifted dramatically.
His field of vision rose as his apparent height increased. His voice, when he tested it, emerged deep and rough—his old voice, the one he'd carried for two centuries. His movements felt heavier, more grounded, masculine.
But beneath the skin, the female body remained. He could feel it—the soft breasts compressed against his chest, the wide hips constrained by the masculine frame, the womanly parts hidden behind the illusion of male anatomy. Even the arousal he felt was strange and dual-natured; his abdomen twitched with feminine pleasure while his apparent erection responded with masculine sensation. Moisture seeped from his female parts, traveling through channels that shouldn't exist, emerging from his penis as if it were his own.
"This is madness," he whispered in his restored male voice. "But it works."
The skin had solved multiple problems at once. He looked like his former self, which meant he could return to the sect without suspicion. And he was no longer naked—the skin came with the clothes his original body had been wearing.
But the discomfort remained, a constant reminder that this was a disguise, not a restoration.
"Su Tian," he said suddenly, remembering the boy. "I need to find him."
The aphrodisiac gas had long since dispersed. Li Feng moved through the corridors of the ruin, his disguised body moving with masculine confidence even as the feminine form beneath adjusted to every step.
He found Su Tian collapsed in a side chamber, unconscious but breathing steadily.
"Su Tian," Li Feng said, kneeling beside him and gently shaking his shoulder. "Wake up. We need to leave."
The boy's eyes fluttered open. "Elder... Li Feng?" His voice was weak, confused.
"Yes, it's me. You're safe now."
Su Tian sat up slowly, wincing. "What happened? The masked cultivators... the other disciples..."
"Dead," Li Feng said quietly. "I'm sorry. I couldn't save them."
Tears welled in Su Tian's eyes. "It's my fault. They came for me."
"No." Li Feng's voice was firm. "It's the fault of those who value power over life. Don't carry that burden."
Su Tian wiped his eyes and looked around the chamber. "Where are we?"
"An ancient ruin. We fell through a spatial opening during the fight. We need to find a way out."
They explored together, moving cautiously through corridors lit by fading formations. Eventually, they discovered what appeared to be living quarters—a chamber filled with furniture, supplies, and most importantly, information.
Immortal dresses hung along one wall, their fabric shimmering with defensive formations. Shelves held herbs, preserved food, and jade slips. And on a stone table in the center of the room lay several handwritten notes, their ink still fresh despite what must have been millennia of preservation.
"Look at this," Su Tian said, picking up one of the notes. "It's addressed to 'future inheritors.'"
Li Feng took the note and began to read. With each line, his eyes widened.
The writer was a female cultivator named Wu Meng Ting. She had possessed primordial yin spiritual roots—one of the two fundamental laws that formed the universe, paired with primordial yang. During an ancient war to determine who would ascend as Immortal Emperor, she had become a target. Cultivators wanted to plunder her spiritual energy to gain an insurmountable advantage. Others wanted her dead to prevent their competitors from obtaining that power. Still, others feared her individual strength.
Surrounded by enemies, her homeland and bloodline threatened with extinction, she had made a desperate choice: she sealed herself within this planet, using her own soul and cultivation to preserve what remained of the world she loved.
"The Immortal Emperor," Su Tian whispered, reading over Li Feng's shoulder. "The ultimate goal of cultivation. Omnipotent and omniscient. But there can only be one, and the Heavenly Dao will not permit another."
Li Feng's hands trembled as he held the note. "This body... Wu Meng Ting's body... it fought multiple powerhouses to a standstill. And now it's mine."
He flipped through the other notes frantically, searching for more information. He learned the location of the exit. He learned that Wu Meng Ting had left these supplies for whoever inherited her legacy. He learned that she had hoped, against all odds, that her sacrifice would not be in vain.
"We need to leave," Li Feng said, his voice tight with emotion. "Now."
"But Elder, these dresses—" Su Tian gestured at the wall.
Li Feng was already moving toward them. The immortal dresses were exquisite, their defensive capabilities far beyond anything the sect possessed. And they fit his true body perfectly—Wu Meng Ting's body.
"I'm taking them," he said, storing them in his spatial ring. "They'll be useful later."
Su Tian watched him with a strange expression. "Elder... are you alright? You seem different."
"I'm fine," Li Feng said quickly. "Just tired. Let's go."
They followed the directions from the notes, navigating through collapsing corridors as the ruin continued to destabilize. Finally, they emerged into the forest valley where the ambush had occurred.
Li Feng surveyed their surroundings carefully, his spiritual sense extended to its limit. No masked cultivators. No immediate threats.
"Come on," he said to Su Tian. "We're going back to the sect."
As they began walking, Li Feng felt a strange sensation—a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, feminine and ancient, speaking words he couldn't quite hear.
He stopped, his heart racing.
"Elder?" Su Tian asked. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Li Feng said, but his voice was uncertain. "I thought I heard... nothing. Let's keep moving."
But as they walked, the whisper continued, growing neither louder nor softer, simply present, like a second heartbeat beneath his own.
Wu Meng Ting, he thought. Are you still in here? Are you watching?
The whisper didn't answer.
But it didn't fade either.