Nate's Eternal‑grade spirit tool guided him through thunderous clouds and violent winds until he arrived before what seemed like the eyes of a storm—a circular formation of mountains enclosing a silent basin.
At the center of this circular range, a hundred feet from every peak, stood a humanoid Eternal-grade spirit wind lightning lifeform, its body woven from currents and thunder. Silent and unmoving, it waited as if daring him to enter.
His wind orb pulsed violently in his chest, urging him forward. But the moment he crossed into the circle of mountains, a binding formation snapped shut. Lightning and cloud sealed the domain, trapping him within. His orb dimmed, sealed away. It could have broken free, but only at the expense of Nate's body—and after finding such a suitable wielder after centuries, it refused to risk him. So it kept calm and silent.
This was not a trial for his artifact.
This was a trial for Nate alone.
Already twenty feet inside, Nate was struck by a violent blast of lightning. He twisted aside, invoking his Spirit Wind Art: Dance Like the Wind (#2), his body flowing with the rhythm of the gale, barely escaping.
Another bolt followed, faster, sharper. Soon the sky itself seemed to hunt him, each strike arriving a heartbeat sooner than the last. His movements grew frantic, his skin scorched, and his robes shredded.
When one bolt finally landed, it should have ended him. But Nate roared, summoning Tornado Slash (#5). A spinning gale erupted, dispersing the brunt of the strike. Yet the storm's fury still tore into him, leaving his body scorched and broken.
His robes hung in tatters, flesh burned raw, as the blast hurled him back to the starting point. Only then did the assault cease, the storm falling silent within the narrow safe zone. Nate trembled in the quiet, knowing the reprieve was not mercy but a prison—a place where he could recover, only to face the storm again.
Three days after he recovered in the safe zone and changed his robes, Nate attempted once more. This time, not only lightning came at him, but also the rain. Not water—but needles of condensed qi, piercing flesh and spirit. Wind blades followed, slashing from every direction.
The storm itself had become alive, birthing entities of thunder and wind that lunged at him with claws of lightning and blades of gale. Nate fought desperately, but he was eventually forced out again, battered and wounded.
Yet he did not give up. Every time he recovered, he would try again.
Nate unleashed everything he had—both from the fourteen original techniques he inherited from Jalen's Spirit Wind Art and those he forged into the cultivation method through his own mastery.
Gust Dance (#3): He spun with the storm's rhythm, deflecting slashing winds and turning their force outward.
Spirit Rend (#8): His gale penetrated thunder avatars, detonating them from within until their bodies unraveled.
Echoing Wind Shell (#6): A vibrating shell absorbed sonic thunderclaps and hurled their shockwaves back into the storm.
Tempest Surge (#7): Counterwinds erupted from his palms, pushing back hurricane walls that tried to crush him.
Storm Barrage (#9): A flurry of compressed gusts shredded swarms of lesser entities.
Storm Pulse (#10): A sudden burst of compressed wind qi exploded outward in all directions, scattering rain needles, staggering thunder avatars, and buying him space when overwhelmed.
Whispering Veil (#11): A silent current cloaked his movements, allowing him to cut unseen through thunder echoes.
Sky Piercer (#12): A vertical spear of wind impaled lightning columns, splitting them apart.
Wind Fusion (#13): He dissolved into pure wind, creating a wind domain that amplified the power of his attacks and rendered him intangible, most strikes phasing harmlessly through his form—but within the trial, the storm forced him back into flesh wherever it struck.
Hurricane Barrage (#14): He summoned a storm of his own, its raging currents colliding with the trial's tempest to carve open space.
Featherfall Blades (#15): Leaping high, he rained slicing gusts down on thunder beasts.
Razor Draft (#16): Thin, razor‑sharp winds cut through armored entities.
Mirage Current (#17): Wind‑clones scattered across the battlefield, confusing storm avatars.
Spiral Fang (#18): A spiraling gale drilled through thunder walls.
Shifting Zephyr (#19): He bent lightning bolts back into the storm itself.
Phantom Gale (#20): Invisible currents collapsed thunder beasts without warning.
Skybreaker (#21): A descending hammer of wind crushed giant entities.
Hollow Tempest (#22): Vacuum pockets suffocated thunder avatars, tearing them apart.
Wind Shackles (#23): Binding currents immobilized lightning beasts mid‑charge.
Cyclone Guard (#24): A rotating barrier shredded entities that rushed him.
Soulwind Echo (#25): His gale resonated with thunder qi, disrupting the cores of storm entities until they dissolved.
But it was pointless. Each attempt only carried him twenty feet closer to the treasure before the storm smashed him back brutally into the safe zone.
For centuries, Nate fought, cycling through his arsenal again and again. And every time, he was struck down. There were moments when the wounds were so severe they seemed beyond repair: lightning shattered bones, rain needles pierced meridians and tore at his spirit sea, and wind blades carved flesh. Months, sometimes years, were spent recovering in the trial's silence, body trembling, spirit frayed.
At times he felt like a prisoner, trapped in isolation. He sat alone, staring into the storm, knowing he could not leave until he conquered it. He even tried to give up, but the trial would not release him. The tempest raged on, indifferent to his suffering. He was trapped until he succeeded.
Yet his suffering was not in vain. Each technique grew sharper, stronger, and more refined under the relentless grind. Success still eluded him, but every cycle honed his mastery. He learned to time Dance Like the Wind to the rhythm of lightning, to wield Echoing Wind Shell against thunderclaps, and to unleash Skybreaker only when thunder beasts gathered. Slowly, painfully, he adapted.
At the thousand‑year mark, Nate's mastery transformed. He had not yet crossed into the Sky Limit Realm, but his techniques evolved under relentless pressure. His spirit hardened, his body adapted, and his qi deepened.
Wind Deterrent (#26): Born in the heart of the violent storm, it was no longer just a strike—it was the culmination of a millennium of struggle. His gale bent the tempest, cracked its fury, and finally collapsed it under sheer weight. At its core, Wind Deterrent was a suppression art: it silenced all currents, nullified every gust, and erased the storm's foundation itself. Unlike every other technique that shaped, redirected, or amplified wind, this one denied its existence entirely—breaking the trial's theory and forcing the storm into stillness.
With this, the road to the spirit lifeform was clear. But this was not the end. It was only the beginning of the trial.
____
The basin fell silent as Nate approached the spirit lifeform. The figure of wind and lightning stirred, its body woven from currents that shimmered like a storm given flesh. When it spoke, its voice was not sound but resonance—a vibration that shook the marrow of his bones.
"So… you will be the future father of this spirit lifeform."
Nate blinked, stunned. "What?"
The lifeform's eyes glowed with pale thunderlight. Its words rolled like distant thunder:
"This being is an Eternal‑grade spirit lifeform—semi‑sentient, without personhood, born of nature itself from wind and lightning. Its powers serve two purposes: to strengthen a cultivator and allow them to transcend… or to be forged into a brand‑new Eternal‑grade spirit tool. Since you are not a forger, you do not have the choice. Instead, this being will become a part of you.
In the future, its core will be transferred to your firstborn, and he or she will become a living Eternal‑grade spirit tool with sentience. In simpler terms: a wielder and an Eternal‑grade spirit tool combined.
Do not worry. Even when this being's core is passed on to your descendant, you will not be weakened. You will still possess the massive energy it has accumulated over millennia. The transformation it is about to perform will evolve your wind physique into a grade superior to the one you already possess, making your affinity with wind stronger and your attacks greater."
Nate's mind reeled. None of this made sense. Father? Descendant? A living spirit tool? He opened his mouth to ask, but the lifeform did not explain further.
It simply moved.
A spear of wind and lightning pierced straight into his dantian. His body convulsed as the lifeform's essence synchronized with his core. The pain was immediate and devastating. His insides felt as though countless blades were carving him apart, shredding flesh, meridians, and spirit sea alike.
He screamed, but the storm swallowed his voice.
The agony did not fade. It deepened. Every heartbeat was a blade. Every breath was a storm tearing him from within. His qi spiraled out of control, his spirit sea cracked, and his meridians bled. He clawed at the ground, trembling, but there was no escape.
Days bled into years. Years into centuries.
For eight hundred years, Nate endured. His body broke and healed, broke and healed again. His spirit frayed, yet refused to collapse. He learned to breathe through the pain, to anchor his mind when his flesh failed. He meditated in silence, even as his insides burned like a furnace of blades.
At times he thought he had died, only to awaken again in the same torment. At times he begged the storm to end, but the lifeform was relentless. It carved itself deeper into him, fusing with his core inch by inch.
And slowly, something changed.
The agony became rhythm. The blades became chisels. His body adapted and hardened. His spirit sea, once fragile, grew vast. His meridians, once torn, became reinforced channels of wind qi. His physique transformed, not by choice but by necessity.
Eight centuries later, the storm within stilled.
The lifeform had merged with his core entirely. Nate transformed—or rather, transcended. Though centuries had passed, he still bore the youthful frame of an eighteen‑year‑old, untouched by time. His presence was striking: long dark hair streaming like storm currents, eyes gleaming with thunderlight, and his aura vast and unyielding. Wind no longer needed summoning; it bent toward him instinctively, whispering at his command, as though the gales themselves recognized their master.
The trial had ended.
The basin dissolved into mist, and the gale carried him away. When his vision cleared, he stood once more in the Origin World—only hours after Calen.