Chapter Twelve: A Brush

In the unfathomable underground world of the Sole Self Sect.

When Wang Ran caught sight of the plaque before him, his expression froze for a moment.

Azure Sea Thirteen Towers?

What could that mean?

Thirteen towers was easy enough to grasp—Wang Ran had already seen the thirteen pavilions from the air. But what of this "Azure Sea"? There seemed to be nothing within the Sole Self Sect that bore any relation to such a name. Puzzled and unable to solve the riddle, Wang Ran decided to let it go.

He moved forward, ascending the steps of the palace, and paused before the entrance to the first tower. Just as he was about to step inside, a sense of caution held him back. Ever careful by nature, he dared not act rashly.

After a moment's thought, he bent to pick up a fragment of stone from the ground and tossed it into the room.

Tap, tap, tap...

The pebble bounced across the floor, its sound echoing. Seeing nothing amiss, Wang Ran finally set foot within.

The first floor was vast. Glancing about, Wang Ran noticed a door ajar to one of the chambers and stepped inside.

A cough escaped him.

The moment he entered, a cloud of dust assailed him. He waved his hand vigorously to clear the air and peered within.

It appeared to be a simple living quarters. A single table stood in the center, upon which rested a jug of clear wine, though both were thickly coated in dust and the jug’s spout was clogged with cobwebs. Opposite the table was a solitary wooden bed, neatly made, and above it on the wall hung a long sword. Wang Ran stepped closer to examine it—its craftsmanship was exquisite, and its scabbard bore the emblem of a curling wave.

Were it not for the overwhelming air of decay and neglect, one might have thought someone still lived here.

After leaving that room, Wang Ran explored the others. The arrangement was much the same in each: it seemed the first floor served solely as sleeping quarters.

He continued up the stairs to the second floor.

The second floor was slightly smaller than the first, but there was little of worth here—just the lingering stench of rot and furniture buried beneath layers of dust.

Wang Ran pressed on, ascending floor after floor, until he reached the seventh level. Here, things changed. There were no sleeping chambers on this floor; instead, the north and south halls were both libraries.

Just like the Daoist Arts Hall of the Sole Self Sect, these rooms were filled with all manner of techniques and scrolls.

Wang Ran picked one up, blew off the dust, and unfurled it. It was a third-tier combat technique, titled "Jia Eagle Finger."

Legend had it that this technique was conceived by a cultivator named Jia Eagle, who could channel all his strength into a single fingertip—a touch that could pierce steel and shatter stone.

Yet, for all its reputation, it was only a third-tier technique. For many cultivators, it would have been formidable, but Wang Ran had already mastered eighth-tier arts during his Qi Condensation stage. This was mere child’s play to him.

Not worthy of my attention, Wang Ran thought.

He tossed the scroll into his system's pack without a second glance and began to rummage through the other techniques.

The seventh floor held a great many techniques, but most were of the second or third tier, with very few reaching the fourth or fifth. It became clear to Wang Ran that this hidden, subterranean palace was a relic from ages past, perhaps unknown even to the Sole Self Sect itself.

Without the system’s aid, he doubted he would have ever found this place.

Though the rank of most techniques was low, Wang Ran, ever one to not let opportunity slip by, collected them all without hesitation.

After clearing out the seventh floor, he took stock: more than a hundred techniques, with eighty percent being of the third and fourth tier.

Still, it was a stroke of unexpected luck. Satisfied, Wang Ran moved forward.

He ascended three more floors in succession, though they yielded little of value. Yet with each ascent, the grandeur of the towers grew more pronounced.

Only upon reaching the twelfth floor did Wang Ran’s eyes light up and his breath quicken.

For here, the room was used to store spirit jade!

The twelfth floor, though not spacious, held but a single chamber. Yet within, a mound of spirit jade was piled as high as a small hill. Because of its purity, not a speck of dust marred its surface despite the passage of countless years. The stones gleamed, luminous and inviting.

“I’ve struck it rich! I’m going to be rich!” Wang Ran exclaimed, rubbing his hands in excitement. He picked up a piece of spirit jade, feeling its cool, soothing texture in his palm. With his eyes closed, he could sense the pure spiritual energy contained within.

These jades were far more precious than the ordinary kind.

And here, hundreds of them lay, free for the taking.

Without hesitation, Wang Ran summoned them all into his system’s pack with a wave of his hand. While most cultivators had to rely on storage pouches, Wang Ran’s system granted him a vast pack, more than sufficient to hold these treasures—saving him the cost of buying a pouch.

At this point, Wang Ran was thoroughly satisfied. Since entering this hidden inheritance, he had first acquired a trove of techniques, and now stumbled upon a fortune in spirit jade. The bounty exceeded even his wildest hopes.

Casting a final glance around the twelfth floor to ensure nothing was missed, Wang Ran strode up to the final level—the Thirteenth Floor.

This was the highest chamber within the ruins, and also the smallest. If the Azure Sea Thirteen Towers were a pyramid, then this was its apex.

Though not vast, it comprised a single grand hall, magnificently adorned and exquisitely wrought.

The ceiling soared a hundred feet high, encrusted with radiant gems that sparkled in the light. The hall itself was empty, though the stone walls were carved with intricate murals depicting a vibrant array of scenes.

Some figures soared skyward, challenging the heavens themselves.

Others sat fishing with rod in hand, seeking enlightenment in the Dao.

Still others dashed across the land upon flying swords, as if to cleave the world apart.

The murals were rich and varied, and as Wang Ran set foot in the hall, the images seemed to come alive. His vision blurred, and in the next instant, a different world unfolded before his eyes.

He saw a man rise into the air, unleashing a sword strike whose formless energy slew enemies a thousand miles away. Another let out a thunderous roar as he grew to giant size, treading upon rivers and tearing stars asunder with his bare hands.

Countless other cultivators displayed their own unique arts, locked in a brutal melee that turned the land into a river of blood and a sea of carnage.

It was a battlefield.

Before Wang Ran could react—scarcely had he caught a glimpse of this ferocious war—the vision vanished.

The hall returned to its previous emptiness and silence, as if nothing had happened.

A shiver ran through Wang Ran’s heart. Steeling himself, he walked deeper into the hall.

Not far ahead, something seemed to float in midair.

As he approached, the object became clearer, until at last it was fully revealed.

Wang Ran’s eyes widened, his heart pounding uncontrollably.

Suspended before him was an enormous writing brush, thick as a tree trunk, lying quietly in the air.