Divine Sense

Lingyu began to busy herself with preparations to join a sect. Now that she had a goal, she needed to be purposeful; she had to understand how the Purple Mist Sword Sect recruited disciples, how they assessed aptitude, and what trials they might impose.

Fan Xianshu provided her invaluable assistance in this matter. Somehow, he managed to acquire a thick stack of beast-hide papers, detailing nearly a hundred years of the Purple Mist Sword Sect’s recruitment records, from methods of measuring aptitude to the nature of their trials—everything one could wish to know.

Lingyu roughly sorted through the information. The sect’s recruitment focused on three main criteria: aptitude, temperament, and comprehension. Sword cultivators followed the Daoist path, and for both Daoist and Buddhist sects, temperament was considered as important as aptitude. The Confucian school was slightly different; they prized comprehension above all. Without comprehension, even the most gifted and well-tempered individuals could not grasp their methods. The demonic path was far more freewheeling, only requiring suitable aptitude and rarely caring about temperament or comprehension; if someone’s disposition matched, they were accepted. Martial cultivators were purer still, prioritizing a robust body and unwavering will, with other traits merely supplementary.

The so-called aptitude test was essentially an assessment of one’s spiritual roots. In the lower realm, there was only one way to measure aptitude: a cultivator at or above the fifth stage of Qi Refining would inject spiritual energy into the subject’s body and observe how much was retained. For ordinary people, the energy would simply dissipate; those with high aptitude would instinctively retain some. In the upper realm, the process was far more sophisticated and formal, with the most accurate method being the use of the Lamp of Immortal Fate.

The Lamp of Immortal Fate was a specialized instrument for measuring aptitude. The subject would hold the lamp for at least a finger snap, at most half a quarter of an hour, and the lamp would emit various colors and intensities of light. The brightness indicated aptitude; the color represented the five elements.

According to the somewhat dubious “Ten Ways to Become Immortal,” all living beings possessed immortal fate, differing only in its depth. Why did nine out of ten mortals never step onto the path of cultivation? Because their immortal fate was too weak, insufficient even to cross the threshold. Even those who managed it, most would only linger between the fifth stage of Qi Refining and its completion, unable to form their Dao foundation or soar as immortals.

The Lamp of Immortal Fate vividly illustrated this difference. If it could not be ignited, the spiritual roots were poor; the brighter the lamp, the deeper the immortal fate, and the better the aptitude.

Reading this, Lingyu felt an urge to test her own aptitude. She had never worried about it before—after entering the Dao, she often heard others praise her excellent spiritual roots. But here, in the upper realm, was her inability to form a foundation a sign of shallow immortal fate? Was her previous confidence misplaced?

Unfortunately, Fan Xianshu told her that the method of crafting the Lamp of Immortal Fate was a closely guarded secret, possessed only by major powers. Even with money, they had no way to obtain one.

She could only rely on fate, hoping her spiritual roots were truly exceptional—otherwise, she would miss this opportunity.

When Luo Yun heard this news, he fell silent for a long time. Lingyu knew he was plagued by self-doubt, for his cultivation had stalled at the fifth stage of Qi Refining, likely due to inadequate aptitude. But she could do nothing for him; she was barely managing her own concerns.

“Divine sense…” Lingyu muttered as she flipped through her book.

She recalled seeing other cultivators examine jade slips at the bookshop, yet had been unable to do so herself. Later, she learned from her reading that jade slips required the use of divine sense.

Divine sense, however, began with the dantian. In the lower realm, the dantian was simply three inches below the navel; when spiritual energy entered the body, it would establish a dantian there. True energy circulated through the meridians, ultimately returning to the dantian in an endless cycle. But in the upper realm, things were different. The dantian was actually divided into three.

The upper dantian lay behind the glabella, between the eyebrows, commonly called the mind, the seat of memory and thought. The middle dantian was in the chest—the heart, the residence of qi, the source of vitality. The lower dantian was the familiar spot below the navel.

Usually, when people spoke of the dantian, they meant the lower. The middle dantian was often referred to as the heart palace or sea of qi; the upper was called the sea of consciousness. Divine sense originated in the sea of consciousness.

Lingyu unconsciously touched her brow, recalling the spiritual web that had once invaded her mind—could it be dwelling in her sea of consciousness?

The book explained that divine sense was generated from the sea of consciousness, becoming a cultivator’s true means of perception. When divine sense was strengthened sufficiently, nothing could escape its detection.

Lingyu pondered this—the use of divine sense was not unlike her spiritual web, except the web was formed of spiritual energy, while divine sense was formless and immaterial.

She keenly realized how vital divine sense was in combat. Eyes and ears had their limits; even heightened senses in cultivators were still constrained. Divine sense, however, had no such boundaries, save for distance. Imagine, in battle, perceiving everything within your divine sense—how effortless would it be? Combined with her spiritual web, she would have an extra layer of perception beyond others.

This thought made Lingyu eager to experiment.

So, she returned to the bookshop and purchased a copy of “Basic Divine Sense Cultivation.” On her way out, she saw “Basic Sword Control Technique” nearby and bought that as well.

These two books contained specific cultivation methods, costing more than the miscellaneous volumes she had bought previously—five spirit stones each.

Lingyu paid without hesitation; this concerned her cultivation’s foundation, after all.

She then began secluded training.

Cultivating divine sense was not difficult. In fact, after spiritual energy entered the body, all three dantians would automatically open; it was just that lower realm techniques were lacking, so cultivators didn’t know how to sense the sea of consciousness. Following the instructions in “Basic Divine Sense Cultivation,” Lingyu focused her mind and tried to sense her sea of consciousness.

After three days, she suddenly felt a void before her eyes, entering a profound, indescribable state.

The sensation was strange, as though she were in a space of emptiness, surrounded by endless darkness—a darkness that felt warm and comforting, granting her a sense of absolute safety.

“Where is this…” she murmured, feeling as if she were seeing without eyes, hearing without ears, yet neither sight nor hearing was actually engaged.

In the darkness, she saw a tiny point of light, floating peacefully and serenely, its hazy aura exuding a calming presence.

Suddenly, the point expanded, swiftly unfurling into a web. The web was woven of nearly transparent threads, each exquisitely fine—touching one would set it vibrating endlessly.

…Was this her sea of consciousness?

“Lingyu!” A voice sounded from outside, and Lingyu abruptly withdrew from her state, frowning in frustration—just a bit more time, and she could have separated her divine sense.

But she recognized Fan Xianshu’s voice. He wasn’t careless; if he called out suddenly, something must be amiss.

She rose and opened the door, finding Fan Xianshu waiting outside. “Immortal stone, what is it?”

Fan Xianshu didn’t answer immediately. He entered, closed the door, then said, “I think Luo Yun’s acting strange.”

“What happened?” Lingyu had been absorbed in cultivation these days, barely seeing them. Luo Yun had been out for several days, claiming he’d found work, and since then, left early and returned late.

Fan Xianshu explained, “Whenever he comes back, he seems evasive, as if he’s hiding something. Just now, when he entered, I happened to be coming out. As soon as he saw me, he hurriedly hid his hand in his sleeve.”

Lingyu was puzzled. “He had something in his hand?”

“Not in his hand—on the back of it,” Fan Xianshu replied. “I caught a glimpse and suspect he’s injured.”

“What kind of work is he doing?”

“No idea.” Fan Xianshu shook his head. “I asked him; he only said he was working at a shop, but never specified the nature of it.”

Hearing this, Lingyu also found it odd. In Feilian City, mortals made up over half the population, mostly doing odd jobs for cultivators. Most shop work could be handled by mortals. Since it was safe, cultivators didn’t earn much there; Luo Yun was short on money, so logically, he should have chosen a more lucrative job.

Fan Xianshu had already looked into this. He himself had considered finding work nearby, but was dissatisfied with the pay and had delayed, spending time reading instead to learn more before seeking a job with better compensation.

Lingyu thought for a moment and said, “Let’s just ask him directly.”

Fan Xianshu replied, “If he’s being so evasive, he probably doesn’t want us to know. If we just go and ask…”

“What’s there to fear?” Lingyu cut him off. “The three of us have been through life and death together. In this world, if we don’t trust each other, who can we trust? If he doesn’t want us to know, maybe it’s inconvenient to say; we’re worried about him, not trying to harm him—what’s wrong with asking?”

Fan Xianshu gazed at her in silence for a long time.

Lingyu felt uneasy under his gaze and asked, “What is it—am I wrong?”

Fan Xianshu shook his head gently, sighing, “I don’t know if I’ve changed, or you have. It just feels like we’re not the same as before…”

His tone was heavy, making Lingyu feel uncomfortable in turn. She spoke softly, “I know you’ve suffered a lot and aren’t as trusting as you once were, but we…”

“It’s not that.” Fan Xianshu still wore his smile, though something within it eluded her comprehension. “You’re fine as you are—let’s do as you say.” He turned, opened the door, and headed toward Luo Yun’s room.

Lingyu watched his back, for some reason feeling a tightness in her chest.

“Brother Luo, are you there?”

“Brother Luo?”

After a long moment, Luo Yun’s door opened. He appeared pale and tense. “Sister Cheng, Brother Fan, did you need something?”

Lingyu and Fan Xianshu exchanged a glance, then stepped forward together—one seized Luo Yun’s shoulder and pinned his arm, the other pulled up his left hand and rolled back his sleeve.

“Hey—you…”

Ignoring his struggles, they pulled the sleeve aside.

They saw Luo Yun’s forearm covered in bruises, seemingly from whipping or perhaps burns, with medicine applied but not yet dry.

ps: I wanted a nap after dinner, but overslept… Well, this is yesterday’s chapter.