After the cold bath, Ren Lin’s legs felt lighter. The bathroom itself was nothing special, yet it was leagues above the public bathhouse. Just thinking of that place made her gag.

  Lying on her mat, a thought crossed her mind—one that could accelerate her progress.

  “Xing?” she called, looking around the house.

  “Ren? Is something wrong?” The prince was mid-stretch, focused and calm.

  “What if we used the healing Core after training?”

  He murmured, “Hmm… why? Are you injured?”

  “No. It’s to accelerate muscle growth.”

  His head tilted slightly. “How would that help?”

  Oh... she remembered: his teachers had never needed methods like these. Geniuses weren’t taught efficiency—they were taught results.

  “To put it simply,” Ren Lin explained, “when you train, your muscles sustain minor damage. If you use the healing Core afterward, you could recover faster and train longer.”

  The prince chuckled softly. “That’s not our goal. Your body has already surpassed its physical limits—you cannot grow stronger that way.” He paused, considering her words. “Still, you’re right about the healing. We can make use of that.”

  “Then these exercises…?”

  “They help your body adapt to your strength and movement,” he said. “More importantly, they strengthen your mind.”

  “I see.”

  “Come,” he added, motioning her forward. “Let’s stretch together.”

  Ren Lin nodded. As she approached, a faint glow shone from the Serpent Cache Core when he retrieved a second mat.

  On his mat, Feiyun Xing moved with the fluidity of someone who had done this a thousand times. He rolled his shoulders once, then lowered himself to the floor with a smooth, controlled split.

  “Sword users rely heavily on hips and spine,” he said. “If those are stiff, your cuts become shallow.”

  He extended one leg forward, the other bent, leaning into the stretch with precision.

  “Like this. Hold. Breathe.”

  Ren Lin mirrored him, far less gracefully.

  “…This already hurts.”

  “You are stiffer, yes, but your tendons have strengthened. I can see it’s not your first time stretching.”

  He shifted through another stretch, curling backward while grounding his hips, then moved seamlessly through hamstrings, calves, and lower back. Each transition flowed naturally, and Ren Lin felt the difficulty of each hold more acutely than before.

  After a moment, she hesitated, then spoke.

  “…Can I show you one?”

  His brow lifted slightly. “Go ahead.”

  Ren Lin planted one foot forward and dropped into a deep lunge. She placed one hand on the ground, twisted her torso upward, and extended her arm to the sky, sinking her hips lower with every breath. Her spine lengthened, her hips protested, but she held steady.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Feiyun Xing observed, silent and precise.

  “The world’s greatest stretch,” she said lightly. “At least, that’s what people would call it where I come from.”

  His gaze traced every angle—her hip alignment, spinal rotation, distribution of tension. Then, without a word, he copied it. Perfectly.

  Ren Lin blinked.

  He sank into the stretch with flawless balance, adjusting only minutely until the position felt… complete. His breath slowed, his eyes widened slightly.

  “…This,” he said quietly, “is efficient.”

  “Right?” she grinned.

  “It stretches multiple muscle groups at once—hips, spine, shoulders… even balance.”

  He shifted slightly deeper. “…Why isn’t this taught?”

  “No one seemed to know about it,” she admitted.

  Feiyun Xing closed his eyes, letting essence flow through his meridians. Holding the position, he sensed how easily the energy moved.

  Ren Lin watched him and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m loosening my meridians,” he replied softly. “This stretch allows me to reach multiple points at once.” He exhaled slowly. “The flow feels… natural.”

  “And what does loosening them do?”

  “It increases my effective range,” Feiyun Xing explained. “At Third Order, you sense your surroundings. I struggled with the crude Cores of Snow-Lurkers because of my sensitivity. At Fourth Order, this becomes even more critical—you can reinforce not just yourself, but other objects.”

  “Already planning for Fourth Order?” she nudged him.

  “Not soon,” he said with a faint chuckle, “but not far off either.”

  “I think you’ll reach it sooner than you expect.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Feiyun Xing yawned. “Shall we sleep now?”

  Outside, auroras danced across the dark sky—faint streaks of color painting the night like lines from a god’s brush.

  “Yeah… time now.”

  After the mats were prepared, they slept soundly.

  The next morning, a soft knock came at the door. Feiyun Xing opened it to see Sui Zhuan Yang, tears trailing down his familiar cheeks.

  “Good morning,” the village leader said gently. “Are you ready to retrieve the refinement material?”

  Feiyun Xing glanced at Ren Lin, who was already tying her boots. She shook her head slightly.

  “If possible,” she said, stepping forward, “we’d like a little more time.”

  Sui Zhuan Yang blinked. “You don’t wish to leave immediately?”

  “I need a bit more,” Ren Lin admitted.

  The leader studied her, then nodded. “There is no rule against it. Stay as long as you need. The frozen sea will not run away.”

  “Thank you,” Feiyun Xing said sincerely.

  Sui Zhuan Yang wiped his cheek, forced a faint smile, and departed.

  Once the door closed, neither spoke for a moment.

  “Done getting ready?” he finally asked.

  “Of course. Let’s begin.”

  Today, Feiyun Xing did not advance her training. Instead, he watched. He observed how she stood while waiting for food, how her weight shifted, how she favored one leg when tired. He corrected nothing. When she asked questions, he answered briefly and returned to silence.

  Ren Lin noticed. It unsettled her.

  But she trained anyway.

  For a week, it was the same: stances and stretches until her joints burned, resisting the temptation to use the healing Core—because doing so would defeat the purpose. Slowly, the village routine continued around them. Feiyun Xing often left with villagers, returning each day with snow clinging to his boots, his eyes always observing.

  On the seventh morning, he spoke.

  Ren Lin held a stance, breath slow, jaw clenched.

  “Stop,” he commanded. Relief nearly overwhelmed her.

  “Your soul and body have deepened their connection,” he said. “It took longer than I expected.”

  “Am I done with the mental strengthening?”

  “Almost. Your mind has caught up. Now your body needs direction.”

  Her posture straightened.

  “Footwork?” she asked.

  “Yes. But don’t misunderstand—this won’t be easier.”

  “It never is.”

  He stepped back, drawing a line in the dirt. “Stand there. Everything you do now begins with your feet. Late? You die. Wrong—you die. Hesitate? You die.”

  “I understand,” she said quietly.

  A faint curve touched his lips. “Good. Let’s not waste time.”

  The real challenge revealed itself immediately. She could repeat his instructions perfectly—but when it came time to move, her timing was wrong. Her weight shifted incorrectly. Steps were off.

  “No,” Feiyun Xing said, stopping her again. “Reset.”

  She tried. Wrong again.

  He drilled her relentlessly: step. Too slow. Reset. Forward. Diagonal. Pivot. Hours passed.

  When her legs gave out, she allowed the healing Core. Warmth flooded torn muscle fibers, knitting them back together. She rose again. And continued.

  Unlike normal humans, she trained all day. Feiyun Xing left for hunting or gathering, while she stayed—sweat-soaked, breath ragged. Her strength exceeded human limits, but stamina was finite.

  The prince corrected when possible. When he couldn’t, he let her fail. Each day was worth two. And still, the progress was painstakingly slow.

  Dreadspire: The Weakest Druid

  Dreadspire was a single-player game designed to break the unbreakable.

  Eryndor Leafshade, he found himself trapped in the body of a druid, the weakest playable race in Dreadspire.

  Dreadspire proves that no one was ever meant to win.

  Only the strongest may ascend

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