A lone skiff glided across the lake, wisps of faint smoke trailing behind it, lending a dreamlike shimmer to the scene. Han stood aboard, gazing at the nearing island at the lake’s heart and the Yunlong Pavilion perched atop it. Ao Xuanwei waited on the shore, her smile warm as she greeted him.


    “You’re here.”


    “Figured it was about time.”


    Stepping onto the island, Han recalled this as the spot where he’d first met the Dragon Maiden. They strolled toward the pavilion, and she asked, “What sparked your sudden interest in this stuff?”


    “Just hit me one day—human life’s got an expiration date. Got to overthinking, chatted with Aunt Mo, and found out there are all sorts of tricks out there that tap into lifespan. Got hooked,” he said.


    “Birth, aging, sickness, death—it’s the way of the world,” Ao Xuanwei replied, shaking her head. “Even the Four Seas Dragon Sovereigns and the Phoenix Age Emperor can’t dodge it. No point in us dwelling on it—we’ve got plenty of years ahead, and we’ve seen sights mortals couldn’t dream of in a lifetime. You’re so young—why’re you even thinking about this?”


    “Random brainwave,” Han shrugged.


    How could I not? Ten thousand years—well, minus ten now. Nine thousand-plus years just sitting there, unused. It’s driving me nuts. You don’t get it—no one does!


    “Heard a Tianming Sect cavern popped up in Tianyue County?” she asked.


    “Yeah, a beast arena they left behind—packed with a beast Mandate,” Han confirmed.


    Ao Xuanwei sighed softly. “Tianming Sect—so mysterious. No telling how much of their stuff is still out there, shaping countless people and factions. If they hadn’t vanished overnight, who knows what the world would look like? No one could guess.”


    “History’s mightiest orthodoxy—hard not to be awestruck,” Han agreed.


    “That beast arena in Tianyue County? Pretty run-of-the-mill for Tianming Sect back in the day,” she said. “Someone once snagged an immortal artifact from one of their hidden sites.”


    Han’s jaw dropped. “An immortal artifact? For real?”


    Immortal artifacts were beyond rare—factions wielding them ruled as today’s overlords, able to stand toe-to-toe with giants like Xuandu Temple. The powerhouses on the Mountains and Rivers Life Chart might fade, but a well-kept immortal artifact endured forever—the ultimate trump card. Finding one in a ruin sounded like a fairy tale. What kind of insane luck did that take?


    “Who nabbed it? Did the story get out?” Han pressed.


    “Oh, it spread like wildfire—everyone knows,” Ao Xuanwei said with a grin. “The guy who got it from that Tianming site was none other than the founding emperor of Southern Jin’s Sima clan. That artifact, the Luoshen Fan, was what let them overthrow the old regime and take the throne.”


    “Southern Jin’s Sima clan—the weakest of the Three Kingdoms…” Han hadn’t pegged them for such a wild stroke of fortune.


    The Three Kingdoms’ royals sat at the world’s peak, each with immortal-grade aces up their sleeves—Han wasn’t shocked by that. No way they’d hold power without it. But the Sima clan’s artifact having such a fantastical origin? Mind-blowing.


    “Don’t sleep on the Sima clan,” Ao Xuanwei cautioned. “Jin might be the underdog, but the Sima aren’t pushovers.”


    Han chuckled. “Me, look down on them? They’re a royal dynasty—I’m just a Visceral Realm scrub. Even at their weakest, they’re way out of my league.”


    He could scoff at their style, sure—but their raw power? Untouchable.


    “Wait—if that’s true, Tianming Sect had more than one immortal artifact, right?” Han realized.


    “Naturally,” she nodded. “Records from that era are scarce, and Tianming’s secrets barely trickle down. But what’s been dug up suggests every major external site—outside their main stronghold—might’ve had an immortal artifact guarding it.”


    Han whistled. “So one of their hideouts could match a modern overlord faction?”


    That’s what you call history’s top dog!


    “Pretty much,” she agreed. “But those sites were rare—even for Tianming Sect, only a handful existed, and they’re damn near impossible to find. In all of history, just two have surfaced. One’s where the Sima clan scored; the other was already looted clean by the time anyone got there—no trace of who took what. Still a mystery.”


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Han mulled it over. “Sounds like Tianming Sect hasn’t totally kicked the bucket, then. Anyone snagging their Mandates or treasures could be carrying their torch, in a way.”


    “True, but no one owns up to it—nobody wants that tie,” she said.


    Han blinked, then got it. “Because of how they went down?”


    “Exactly. A juggernaut like Tianming Sect wiped out overnight? Chills the bones. People steer clear, scared of whatever did it.”


    Han fell silent. Even the scraps history uncovered hinted at Tianming’s jaw-dropping glory. Wiping them out in one night would’ve been like smashing today’s top factions—Xuandu Temple, the Academy of Sages, all of them—combined. And that was just a guess; the real Tianming was likely even mightier. The secrets and terror behind it? Too vast to fathom. No one could handle that heat.


    “Man, when do I get my hands on an immortal artifact?” Han sighed, envy dripping. I’m a Tianming Immortal Seed, right? Handing me one of their immortal toys to inherit isn’t too much to ask, is it? In this post-collapse era, I’m the legit heir! Tianming ancestors, open your eyes!


    Their chat carried them into Yunlong Pavilion’s Quiet Harmony Room. Ao Xuanwei had tea brought in, then said, “I poked around the Dragon Palace—found some stuff you’re after.”


    With a light swipe of her left hand across the table, items spilled out.


    “Beyond arts and martial skills, there’s other lifespan-using gear too.”


    “Oh?” Han’s heart skipped—Dragon Palace delivering again.


    “Take a look.”


    She’d brought books, jade slips, even thin sheets of some mystery material. “Life-Devouring Pill?” A pill recipe caught his eye, and he dove in.


    Only usable below Yin God or True Blood, with sky-high crafting demands—multiple Yin God-grade ingredients. You needed at least fifty years left to swallow it. Effect? Slashes your remaining lifespan to one year, boosts you a full realm, but locks your cultivation forever. Caps out at Manifestation or Marrow Cleansing—no crossing the Yin God-True Blood wall.


    Crazy potent, but useless as hell. One year left—what could you even do? And no growth after? One year’s a lifetime now, huh? Han passed on it fast. Most lifespan gimmicks were brutal, shady stuff—fine for burning years, but not at the cost of his future.


    The palace had three such pill recipes—none made the cut. But the fourth? Intriguing. Reverse Fate Pill.


    This one didn’t eat the user’s lifespan—it ate the alchemist’s. Craft it with rare materials, then, at the final step, the alchemist brews a “lifeblood” using a special method from the recipe—twenty years’ worth—and spits it onto the pill to finish it. Had to be willing, no grudges, or it flopped.


    The effect? Reverts your physical state for a pseudo “youth rewind”—a second golden age for cultivation (ages twelve to eighteen)—and slightly boosts talent. Not extra years or literal de-aging—you stayed your age, just got that prime malleability back.


    Mostly for late-starting mortals craving cultivation, though it worked for practitioners too. To Han, it sounded nuts—an alchemist coughing up twenty years so some newbie could hit rewind and get a tiny talent bump? Get outta here.


    But his eyes lit up. Jackpot pill! Twenty years? Take it—hell, take fifty, keep the change! He’d volunteer, no coercion needed. For a taste of twelve-to-eighteen cultivation vibes, he’d fork over two centuries without blinking. Lifeblood? He’d spit it—let an immortal try stopping him.


    If his cheat didn’t reset monthly, he wouldn’t burn the Eternal Life Taoist Fruit so freely. A decade-long cooldown? That’d be a lifeline when his natural years ran dry. But monthly? Save what? He couldn’t exhaust it now if he tried, and it’d only buy him a month later anyway. Plus, it wasn’t unique—might pop again. Better cash in early.


    Beyond the recipes, most lifespan arts were combat-focused—martial skills and Taoist arts, burning from six months to fifty years. The fifty-year one could let a non-prodigy Manifestation cultivator punch up a tier. That’s the terror of life-fueled power. A regular Manifestation cultivator—old by then—would croak post-burn. Celestial Ascension Art—use it, ascend to the heavens. A thirty-year martial skill, Life-Cutting Six Forms, slashed both your life and the enemy’s. Han loved ‘em both—and the rest too. He’d study them all, picking the right burn for each foe this month. Early Bone Refining punk? Three years—call or fold. Don’t? I lose three; you lose everything.


    Two more arts blew his mind: Life-Nurturing Artifact and Life-Resting Martial Path.


    Life-Nurturing Artifact: Burn lifespan to nurture a tool. Lifespan’s your root, tied to vitality—feeding it to an artifact supercharges it, deepens your bond, syncing mind and tool for unreal power.


    Life-Resting Martial Path: A martial fragment using lifespan to speed minor realm gains—not a forced breakthrough like Lu Qingmo’s art, just a daily training boost. Downside? Lifespan cost. Burn twenty years for what five years of normal grinding could outdo—huge loss. It’s about quick power now, not tomorrow.


    Lifespan arts screamed shady—nothing upright cultivators touched. Han skipped the barrier-busters here too, but Life-Resting puzzled him. “Does speeding cultivation with lifespan mess up your foundation?”


    Ao Xuanwei, who’d been watching quietly, answered, “It’s like using lifespan as a spirit plant or cultivation treasure—no root damage. But it’s still your core—burning it dents your vitality, no question. Takes hefty treasures to patch that up, and it’s not worth it unless you’re desperate for a fast boost. Plus, this Life-Resting thing’s weird—it’s a fragment my dad scored.”


    “Lord Dragon nabbed it?” Han’s eyes sparkled—big origin vibes.


    “Yeah, and it didn’t start as a cultivation aid,” she said. “Dad deduced it was originally a life-slicing art—first hit shaved the enemy’s lifespan. He figured the full version was a beast, maybe Tianming-linked.”


    Han hadn’t expected that name again.


    “It’s too broken to shine or fix,” she continued. “Palace experts tweaked it into this—swapped enemy-slicing for self-slicing, barely adding the cultivation boost. Even then, it’s weak—first use packs the punch, but repeat burns hit a cap fast.”


    By normal standards, it’d been butchered—terrifying foe-killer turned into a self-harming dud. But Han beamed. Perfect! Effect weak? Capped? Didn’t care—long as it worked. Speeding cultivation, no root damage, no future cost—what more could he ask? A hacked-up fragment didn’t need to be fancy. Vitality hit? Fruit’s burning, not me—my lifespan’s locked. Talk vitality loss to the Eternal Life Taoist Fruit!