Following Crimson, John stepped out of the sect’s towering gates and into the nearby wilderness.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and wildflowers, and the ground crunched softly beneath his boots as they made their way through the morning mist.
Not far ahead, two familiar figures stood waiting, Benneca, with her usual unreadable, monotonous expression, and Clark, whose lips curled into a disdainful smirk the mont his gaze fell on John.
Benneca’s dark eyes t his without a flicker of emotion. "I hope my sword is sowhere safe," she said flatly, as if stating a fact rather than expressing concern.
John’s mouth quirked upward. "I hope that too." He tilted his head slightly. "By the way... how far are we going?"
"Five days." Clark held up five fingers, his tone smug as if he were pleased to announce the number. "It would take us five days."
John’s brows rose. "No one told that we’d have to walk for five days."
Crimson stepped forward with exaggerated calm, inhaling deeply before flashing a grin that was more teeth than warmth. "And who told you we’re gonna walk, you dipshit?" he said, clearly enjoying himself.
John returned the smile, but his eyes glinted with mischief. "And who told you that I can fly, dipshit?"
Before the verbal sparring could escalate, Benneca’s voice cut through like a blade. "You two, don’t start fighting now. Co behind us, John." She turned and strode ahead, her pace brisk and her tone making it clear she would tolerate no further bickering.
They erged into an open clearing, and John’s eyes imdiately caught the gleam of polished tal.
Resting in the center of the field was a sleek flying ship, its hull a deep black trimd with faint silver engravings that shimred faintly under the sunlight.
Though smaller than the grand vessel the Blue Cauldron Sect had used for their entrance test, it was no cheap craft, just acquiring sothing of this size and quality would have cost a fortune.
John’s surprise flickered across his face before he masked it, though his raised brows betrayed him. "Are you telling that we’ll need five days of travel... on that ship?"
Clark nodded once. "That’s right."
John crossed his arms. "Exactly how far are you planning to go? And after I unseal whatever it is you want, how am I supposed to get back this far on my own?"
Benneca’s answer ca smooth and matter-of-fact. "You can take this ship back. We’ll manage to return by other ans and reclaim both the ship and my sword from you—along with giving you the three Nine Heavens Fruits we promised."
Crimson snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into a mocking smile. "Anything else, shitpiece? Do you not like the ship? Or do you need a dragon to ride?"
"Let’s go." Benneca’s voice cut in again, this ti sharp enough to slice through their brewing argunt.
She didn’t even look back as she moved toward the ship, her long coat swaying behind her.
John’s gaze followed her, then slid back to Crimson with a smirk. "You seem like the kind of guy who enjoys riding a dragon. Don’t put us in the sa category." With that, he brushed past him and followed Benneca up the boarding ramp.
Crimson froze for half a heartbeat before his eyes narrowed, catching the subtle barb in John’s words.
His jaw flexed. "You..." He exhaled sharply through his nose, snorting in irritation before stomping after them into the ship.
Inside the ship, the faint hum of the spirit engine echoed through the corridors, a steady vibration that made the air feel alive with power.
Clark was the first to move, striding toward the captain’s room with an air of practiced familiarity, his hand brushing over a polished brass railing as if claiming the vessel as his own.
A mont later, the sound of chanical levers and shifting gears could be heard as he began the startup sequence.
Benneca, without so much as a word, turned sharply down the hallway and vanished into one of the private cabins.
Her steps were silent, her posture relaxed yet unreadable, as if she had completely shut herself off from the world the mont the door closed behind her.
That left only John and Crimson in the narrow passageway.
They locked eyes for a mont, a faint animosity flickering between them like the static before a storm.
Neither spoke. Eventually, John exhaled through his nose, deciding that a drawn-out staring contest wasn’t worth the effort.
He stepped back, muttering sothing under his breath, and moved to claim a room for himself.
Five days aboard this ship.
He would need to make the most of it.
Once inside his cabin, John took a mont to inspect the space.
It was simple but functional, one narrow bed against the wall, a small desk bolted to the floor, and a circular porthole window that revealed a strip of blue sky and drifting clouds.
The faint scent of oiled wood and polished tal lingered in the air.
"It’s good," he murmured to himself, lowering onto the bed. "The longer it takes, the more I can upgrade."
With that, he summoned his System Panel.
---
[System Panel]
Na: John Coral
Age: 25
Cultivation: Spirit Seed Realm (1524 / 3200)
Upgrade Slot: Death Clone Technique (Level 1) (100 / 200) (Upgrading at one point per 9.5 minutes)
Skills:
ditation (Level 6 – Max)
Breathing (Level 5 – Max)
Spatial Awareness (Level 5)
Slow Toad Breathing Skill (Level 10 – Max)
Double Face Lizard Technique (Level 7 – Max)
Basic Fla Control (Level 3)
Alchemy (Level 5)
Twelve Circle Slashes (Level 4)
Soul Piercing Gaze (Level 5)
Lightning Bull Kicks (Level 3)
Death Clone Technique (Level 1)
Ten Serpents Breathing Skill (Level 0)
---
His Death Clone Technique had just reached Level 1, but with five days ahead, he estimated it would reach Level 4 by the ti they arrived.
"Hm... I wonder what the real effects of this technique are." His voice dropped to a murmur as he leaned back, eyes half-closed, and focused inward.
A faint sound, like parchnt unfolding, resonated through the small room.
Threads of black and white spiritual energy twisted in the air before him, condensing into a shape, until a figure stepped out of nothingness.
It was him.
Or rather, it was the face he had been using in the Blue Cauldron Sect, identical down to the smallest detail.
The clothes, the posture, even the faint scar on the left brow, it was all there.
"I can control this... as if it’s my other hand." A slow smile crept across his lips as he willed the clone to pace around the room.
The sensation was strange, almost intoxicating, his consciousness split cleanly into two bodies, yet with perfect control over both.
Still, he quickly spotted the flaws. The clone’s cultivation was only at the Skin Refinent Realm, the lowest tier possible. "Could it use all of my techniques?" he wondered aloud, flexing the clone’s fingers. "At this level, it wouldn’t last more than a breath in a real fight."
Even as a spy tool, its utility was limited. Most guarded locations wouldn’t even let soone with such low cultivation through the gates.
With a sigh, he dismissed it.
The clone’s form unraveled into thin wisps of energy, fading like smoke. "Completely useless for now," he concluded.
John shifted into a ditative posture on the bed, his breathing slowing, his mind narrowing into focused silence.
The hum of the ship beca a backdrop to his cultivation, and he let ti slip away.
The first day passed quietly, but not without interruptions.
Occasionally, he heard Crimson’s heavy footsteps pacing the corridor, always accompanied by the faint rattle of a weapon at his side.
Once, a dull thump shook the wall, either he’d dropped sothing or was venting his frustration on the ship itself.
On the second day, John heard the soft tallic click of Benneca’s door opening.
Her presence was like a ghost, no heavy steps, no rustling clothes, just the subtle shift of air as she moved past.
She didn’t acknowledge him, rely drifting toward the captain’s room before retreating again.
By the third day, the steady drone of the ship’s engine had beco as familiar as his own heartbeat.
From ti to ti, faint bursts of conversation leaked through the thin walls, Clark giving terse navigational updates, Crimson muttering curses under his breath, Benneca’s voice a rare and controlled interjection.
None of them sought him out, but their movents painted a picture of restlessness and unease.
The fourth day brought the scent of cooked at from the small ss hall, pulling him briefly from his cultivation.
Crimson’s loud laugh echoed once, sharp and unexpected, but quickly died away.
Even from inside his room, John could feel a faint tension in the air, as though the others were preparing themselves ntally for sothing difficult ahead.
By the fifth day, the Death Clone Technique’s upgrade progress was nearly complete.
John could feel the shift in energy within him, a coiling anticipation that matched the subtle changes in the ship’s atmosphere.
The wind outside howled a little louder, the vessel dipping slightly as it adjusted its course.
Whatever awaited them at the end of this journey... it was close.
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