The morning sun had barely crested the peaks when Zi Qing's cheerful knock echoed through Li An's door.
"Junior Sister Li An! The Peak Master is waiting!"
Li An opened the door, her plain features carefully composed. Zi Qing stood outside in flowing white robes, her hair tied back with a jade pin, her smile bright and teasing.
"Ready to meet our esteemed master?" Zi Qing asked, linking her arm through Li An's with easy familiarity. "She doesn't usually take time for new disciples personally, you know. You must have really impressed her yesterday."
Li An allowed herself to be guided down the winding stone path toward the Peak Master's hall. The morning air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of frost-touched pine.
"Senior Sister," Li An began carefully, "about yesterday—"
"Oh, you mean the bathhouse?" Zi Qing's eyes sparkled with mischief. "When you melted into the spring like a spoiled kitten and asked me to carry you back?"
Li An's cheeks flushed. "I was... disoriented. The warm water was—"
"Intoxicating?" Zi Qing laughed, squeezing her arm. "Don't worry, Junior Sister. Every new disciple has that reaction the first time. Though I must say, your little mewling request was absolutely adorable. 'Senior Sister, carry me~'" She mimicked Li An's drowsy voice with exaggerated sweetness.
"I did not sound like that," Li An protested weakly, her embarrassment deepening.
"You absolutely did." Zi Qing grinned. "I'm never letting you forget it."
Li An bit her lip, feeling the heat in her cheeks intensify. The ease with which Zi Qing teased her, the casual physical contact, the playful intimacy—it was all so foreign. In her male body, such interactions had been rare and formal. Now, as Li An, she was expected to respond with the same warmth and openness.
It was exhausting. And strangely... pleasant.
They reached the Peak Master's hall—a graceful pavilion overlooking a frozen waterfall. Inside, the Mystic Peak Master sat behind a low table, her posture elegant and her expression serene. She was a woman in her apparent forties, with high-grade water spiritual roots that gave her skin a faint luminous quality, like moonlight on still water. Her robes were deep blue, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that resembled flowing currents.
"Li An," the Peak Master said, her voice calm and measured. "Come forward."
Li An stepped inside and bowed respectfully. Zi Qing remained by the door, her playful demeanor replaced by quiet deference.
"I have reviewed your situation," the Peak Master continued, gesturing for Li An to sit. "A loose cultivator with mid-grade yin spiritual roots who has reached mid-stage Foundation Establishment through her own efforts. Impressive. Most loose cultivators with your talent would have been claimed by a sect long ago."
"I was... unlucky in my circumstances, Peak Master," Li An replied carefully. "The Southern Continent's yang-heavy environment was not suitable for my cultivation."
The Peak Master nodded. "Then you have come to the right place. The Mystic Peak specializes in yin-based techniques, and our supreme inheritance—the Mystic Yin Sword Art—is one of the most powerful sword techniques in the Northern Continent."
Li An's heart quickened. "Supreme inheritance?"
"Yes." The Peak Master rose and retrieved a jade slip from a nearby shelf. "This sword art draws its power directly from the cultivator's spiritual roots. Only those with yin spiritual roots can practice it, and the higher the grade of the roots, the greater the technique's destructive potential."
She placed the jade slip on the table between them.
"I possess high-grade water spiritual roots," the Peak Master continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "Water and yin are similar in nature, so I can partially emulate the technique's effects. Even with this limitation, I can defeat most cultivators in the same realm. A few—perhaps three or four in the entire Frost Cloud Pavilion—can match me in direct combat."
Li An stared at the jade slip, her pulse racing. "And if someone with true yin spiritual roots practiced it?"
"They could fight above their cultivation level." The Peak Master's gaze sharpened. "With mid-grade yin spiritual roots like yours, Li An, you could potentially challenge late-stage Foundation Establishment cultivators once you master the first three levels. Perhaps even early Golden Core, if your comprehension is exceptional."
Li An's breath caught. She thought of the primordial yin spiritual roots hidden beneath Li An's plain skin—the highest possible grade, symbolizing pure destruction. If the Peak Master knew the truth, what would she say? That Li An could shatter mountains? Freeze seas? Destroy the very earth beneath her feet?
But she would never know. Li An would keep that secret buried, no matter the cost.
"Thank you, Peak Master," Li An said, bowing deeply. "I will not disappoint you."
The Peak Master's expression softened slightly. "The Mystic Yin Sword Art is divided into nine levels. The first level focuses on foundation—posture, balance, movement, and the proper integration of your body's center of gravity with the sword's weight and momentum. It is designed to teach female cultivators how to wield a blade efficiently, using the entire body rather than relying on brute strength."
She handed the jade slip to Li An.
"Study it carefully. Practice diligently. And remember—this technique is not just about power. It is about harmony between your spiritual roots, your body, and your weapon. If any of those three elements are misaligned, the technique will fail."
Li An accepted the jade slip with both hands, feeling its cool weight against her palms. "I understand, Peak Master."
"Good. You are dismissed."
Li An bowed again and turned to leave. Zi Qing fell into step beside her as they exited the hall, her cheerful demeanor returning immediately.
"So? What did she give you?"
"The Mystic Yin Sword Art," Li An replied, clutching the jade slip tightly.
Zi Qing's eyes widened. "Already? She gave you the supreme inheritance on your second day?"
"She said my yin spiritual roots make me suitable."
"Suitable?" Zi Qing laughed. "Junior Sister, you're more than suitable. The Peak Master hasn't taken a personal disciple in decades. If she's giving you the Mystic Yin Sword Art this early, she's clearly invested in your future."
Li An felt a flicker of warmth in her chest—pride, perhaps, or relief. She had spent so long as a crippled, discarded cultivator. To be valued again, even under a false identity, was... intoxicating.
But also dangerous.
"I need to practice," Li An said quietly. "But I don't have a suitable sword."
Zi Qing tilted her head. "Your old weapon doesn't work?"
"It's too heavy. Too long. It was forged for a male cultivator's grip and strength." Li An hesitated. "I need something lighter. Shorter. Better suited to... this body."
"Hmm." Zi Qing tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You should visit Senior Brother Zhang Hao at the Forging Peak. He's one of the best weapon smiths in the sect, and he's always willing to help fellow disciples."
Li An's pulse quickened. "Zhang Hao?"
"Yes! You met him yesterday, remember? Tall, dependable, always covered in soot from the forge." Zi Qing's smile turned sly. "He's very popular, you know. Half the sect treats him like a reliable older brother."
"I see." Li An's mind raced. She needed a sword, and Zhang Hao was clearly the best option. But asking him for help felt... awkward. She barely knew him.
"Come on," Zi Qing said, tugging her arm. "I'll take you to the Forging Peak. It's not far."
The Forging Peak was a stark contrast to the Mystic Peak's serene elegance. The air was thick with heat and the rhythmic clang of hammers on metal. Disciples moved between workshops, their robes stained with ash and sweat, their faces focused and intent.
Zi Qing led Li An through the maze of forges until they found Zhang Hao standing beside a massive anvil, inspecting a half-finished blade. His robes were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, soot-streaked forearms. His face was above-average—pleasant and trustworthy, with a square jaw and steady eyes—but not striking enough to draw lingering attention.
"Senior Brother Zhang!" Zi Qing called out cheerfully.
Zhang Hao looked up and smiled. "Senior Sister Zi Qing. Junior Sister Li An. What brings you to the Forging Peak?"
Zi Qing nudged Li An forward. "Junior Sister Li An needs a sword. I told her you were the best person to ask."
Li An opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She felt Zi Qing's expectant gaze, the weight of the jade slip in her hand, the lingering embarrassment from the bathhouse teasing—
"I—" Li An's voice came out softer than intended. "I need a sword. Something... lighter. Shorter. Suitable for a female cultivator."
Zhang Hao nodded thoughtfully. "What's your cultivation level?"
"Mid-stage Foundation Establishment."
"And your spiritual roots?"
"Mid-grade yin."
Zhang Hao's expression brightened. "Yin spiritual roots? That's rare. Most of our disciples have fire, earth, or metal roots." He set down the blade he'd been inspecting. "A yin-aligned sword would serve you best. I can forge one, but it will take time. And materials. Do you have contribution points?"
Li An's heart sank. "I... no. I just joined the sect yesterday."
"Ah." Zhang Hao scratched his head. "That's a problem. A decent yin-aligned sword requires rare materials—cold iron, frost jade, spirit silver. The cost would be at least five hundred contribution points."
Zi Qing stepped forward. "I can lend her the points! She can pay me back once she completes a few missions."
"No," Li An said quickly, her voice firmer than she intended. "I don't want to owe anyone."
Zi Qing blinked, surprised. "Junior Sister, it's not a big deal—"
"I said no." Li An's hands clenched at her sides. She had spent two centuries learning the hard way that debts—whether material or emotional—always came with strings attached. She would not repeat that mistake.
Zi Qing's expression softened, but she didn't press further.
Zhang Hao watched the exchange with quiet understanding. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to a cluttered corner of the workshop. He rummaged through a pile of discarded weapons and pulled out a dull black rod.
"Here," he said, offering it to Li An. "This is a failed project from when I was still learning. It's not a proper sword—no edge, no hilt, no scabbard. Just a reinforced rod. But it's durable, well-balanced, and shorter than a standard blade. And it's free."
Li An stared at the object in his hands. It looked more like a blunt stick than a weapon. The surface was rough and unpolished, the weight distribution awkward.
But when she took it, something shifted.
The rod was shorter than her old sword by several inches, and the weight—though substantial—didn't pull her off balance the way her previous weapon had. She gave it an experimental swing, feeling the way her wrist, elbow, and shoulder aligned naturally with the motion.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't beautiful.
But it fit.
"I'll take it," Li An said quietly. "Thank you, Senior Brother Zhang."
Zhang Hao smiled. "It's nothing. If you ever earn enough contribution points, come back and I'll forge you a proper blade."
Zi Qing, meanwhile, was staring at Li An with a strange, knowing expression. Her lips curved into a small, secretive smile.
"What?" Li An asked, suddenly wary.
"Nothing," Zi Qing said innocently. "I just think it's sweet that you're so grateful to Senior Brother Zhang."
Li An's cheeks flushed. "I'm not—"
"You're blushing."
"I am not!"
"You absolutely are." Zi Qing's grin widened. "Don't worry, Junior Sister. Your secret is safe with me."
Li An wanted to protest, but the words tangled in her throat. She clutched the black rod tightly and turned away, her face burning.
Behind her, Zhang Hao looked utterly confused.
Zhang Hao mentioned that the Forging Peak had a training area where disciples could test their techniques on reinforced dummies. Li An thanked him and made her way there, eager to begin practicing the Mystic Yin Sword Art.
The training area was a wide courtyard filled with wooden dummies, stone targets, and practice rings. A few disciples were sparring in the distance, their movements sharp and precise.
Li An found an empty corner and retrieved the jade slip. She pressed it to her forehead, allowing the technique's instructions to flow into her mind.
The Mystic Yin Sword Art begins with the body. A female cultivator's strength does not come from her arms or shoulders, but from her hips, legs, and core. The sword is an extension of the body's natural flow. To wield it properly, you must learn to move as water moves—fluid, adaptable, and relentless.
Li An opened her eyes and assumed the first stance.
Immediately, she felt the awkwardness. Her hips shifted forward, her weight settling into her legs rather than her upper body. Her chest—fuller and heavier than she was used to—pulled her slightly off balance. She adjusted, trying to mimic the diagram in her mind, but the motion felt unnatural.
She swung the black rod.
Her balance wavered. Her hips twisted too far. Her breasts shifted with the motion, the fabric of her robes pulling tight across her chest.
She tried again.
And again.
Each swing felt wrong. Her body moved in ways her male instincts couldn't predict. The center of gravity was lower. The power came from her legs and core, not her arms. And every motion—every shift of weight, every turn of her hips—felt embarrassingly provocative.
She glanced around the courtyard. A few male disciples were watching her, their gazes lingering.
Li An's face burned. She lowered the rod and turned away.
I can't do this here.
Back in her residence, Li An securely barred the doors and windows. Rather than relying on the sect's standard defensive charms, she brought out a set of concealment formation flags she had personally refined in the past, drawing upon the decades of meticulous formation mastery gained during her former life. With a quiet pulse of spiritual energy, the intricate arrays hummed to life, completely cloaking her aura and isolating the room so that not even a Golden Core cultivator's divine sense could perceive what happened inside.
Then, she removed Li An's skin.
The plain black hair dissolved. The unremarkable features melted away. And beneath the disguise, Wu Meng Ting's true body emerged—radiant, divine, and impossibly beautiful.
Her skin was pale as fresh snow, smooth and flawless. Her waist was narrow, her hips wide and curved. Her breasts were full and heavy, their weight a constant, distracting presence. Her hair—long, silken, and white as moonlight—cascaded down her back in a shimmering curtain.
She stood before the mirror, naked and exposed, and felt the familiar dissonance between her soul and her body.
This is me now, she thought. This is what I am.
She picked up the black rod and assumed the first stance again.
This time, the motion felt different. Her soul—reshaped by the tribulation lightning, feminized and aligned with Wu Meng Ting's body—moved in perfect harmony with her flesh. Her hips shifted smoothly. Her legs absorbed the weight. Her core engaged, channeling power through her entire frame and into the rod.
She swung.
The motion was fluid. Graceful. Powerful.
She swung again, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her breasts bounced with each movement, her hips swayed, her buttocks flexed and shifted. The sight was provocative, almost obscene—but it was also right.
This was how a female cultivator moved. This was how the Mystic Yin Sword Art was meant to be practiced.
She continued for hours, refining each motion, correcting every flaw. Her body grew slick with sweat, her muscles trembling with exertion. But she didn't stop.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
She practiced in Wu Meng Ting's true form every night, her naked body moving through the sword forms with increasing precision. She corrected her posture in the mirror, adjusted her balance, refined her technique until every motion was engraved into her flesh and soul.
After six months, she had mastered the first level.
Her sword dance was graceful and refined, no longer resembling the strong, muscular strikes of a male cultivator. Her movements were fluid, adaptable, and devastatingly efficient.
She stood before the mirror, breathing heavily, her white hair clinging to her sweat-slicked skin.
I did it.
But before she could feel any satisfaction, a sharp, piercing pain tore through her lower abdomen.
Li An—Wu Meng Ting—gasped and staggered, her legs weakening. The black rod clattered to the floor.
She looked down.
Blood.
Crimson droplets were trailing down her inner thighs, pooling on the floor beneath her.
Her breath caught. Her mind raced.
No. Not this. Not now.
She stumbled to the bed and collapsed, curling into herself as the pain intensified. Her uterus cramped violently, the sensation sharp and tearing. She had never experienced this before—not in the four years since she had taken Wu Meng Ting's body.
Why now?
Was it because her soul and body had finally synchronized? Because she had accepted her new form so completely that her body was fulfilling its biological function as a woman?
She didn't know. She couldn't think.
The pain was overwhelming.
She tried to circulate spiritual energy, hoping to ease the cramps. But the moment the cold yin energy touched her uterus, the pain exploded.
She screamed—silent, breathless—and lost consciousness.
When she woke, the pain was still there. Duller, but relentless.
She curled tighter, her vision blurry, her body trembling. Blood continued to seep from her, slow and steady, but the passage was so tight—her hymen restored by the tribulation lightning, her virgin body pristine and unblemished—that the flow was obstructed, trapped inside her.
She convulsed on the bed, gasping, tears streaming down her face.
The pain lasted three days.
On the third day, it finally subsided. Her body felt weak, lethargic, drained. Her vision was hazy. Her limbs trembled.
She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and felt a cold dread settle in her chest.
This will happen every month.
She tried to circulate spiritual energy again, hoping to recover her strength. But this time, the sensation was different.
The usual pleasant warmth—the intoxicating pleasure that had always accompanied her cultivation—was gone. In its place was a deep, bone-chilling cold. The yin energy filled her body, dense and oppressive, and her abdomen ached with a dull, persistent throb.
Her body, which had grown more sensitive with each passing day, no longer responded with pleasure.
Now, it responded with pain.
And as her cultivation increased, the cold yin spiritual energy accumulated and condensed, sinking deeper into her flesh.
Her body's temperature was dropping.
And she didn't know if it would ever stop.