"If three drops aren't enough..."
"...I'll simply give you more."
Outside, the wind whispered through the broken roof.
The ancient book remained silent. Yet deep within its worn pages... Something had finally begun to awaken.
The abandoned hut became Mo Xuan's greatest secret. By day, he remained the quiet boy everyone expected him to be. He rose every sunrise, shared breakfast with his father, and then made his way toward the Rune Archive while the other children gathered at the training grounds.
Nothing about his routine seemed unusual.
Nothing that would invite suspicion. Only Mo Xuan knew...
His true destination each evening was not his room. It was the forgotten hut at the edge of the estate. His days settled into an almost mechanical rhythm.
Morning belonged to knowledge. Afternoon belonged to study.
Night...
Belonged to the mysterious book.
The Rune Archive became his second home.
He continued reading everything he could find concerning ancient artefacts, bloodline inheritances, and Spirit Treasures. Every scroll offered another possibility. Every theory ended in disappointment.
Some treasures required descendants of a specific bloodline. Others awakened only after forming a Soul Contract. Yet he found no mention of a book like An Extreme Theory. It was as if Ancestor Mo Song had erased every trace of its existence from history.
The more he searched...
The more convinced he became that he had stumbled upon something never meant to be discovered. When dusk arrived, he would quietly leave the estate. The abandoned hut greeted him with the same silence every night.
He had even begun cleaning it. The broken table had been repaired with scraps of wood. The cracked window had been covered with old cloth to keep out the wind. A small oil lamp rested permanently upon the stone platform where the book lay.
What had once been an abandoned ruin had slowly become his private sanctuary.
His place of hope.
Mo Xuan sat cross-legged before the stone slab. The leather-bound book rested silently before him.
"Let's try again."
He smiled weakly. "I've had all day to recover."
Taking the small iron knife from his sleeve, he pricked his fingertip with practised ease. A crimson drop formed. It fell upon the first blank page. The page absorbed it instantly.
He waited.
Nothing. "...Still hungry?"
Another drop. Nothing.
Another. Nothing.
He laughed softly. "I don't know whether you're a book..."
"...or a beast."
Carefully wrapping his finger with cloth, he closed the cover and sighed. "Tomorrow, then."
Tomorrow became the next day. The next day became another week. His visits never stopped. Each evening, he offered another drop of essence blood. Each evening, the book silently accepted it.
Each evening...
Nothing changed.
As the weeks turned into months, subtle changes began appearing. His complexion gradually lost its healthy colour. The lively brightness that had once filled his eyes faded little by little.
Dark circles formed beneath them. His footsteps grew noticeably slower. Sometimes, after climbing the Archive's staircase, he found himself pausing halfway simply to catch his breath.
At first, he dismissed it as ordinary fatigue. "I'm reading too much."
That was what he told himself. But deep down...
He knew better. Every drop of essence blood carried a fragment of his vitality.
Still...
He continued.
Because after everything he had endured...
After being declared a cripple...
After losing his future...
He refused to abandon the only path that had ever answered him.
Winter gradually gave way to spring.
Spring slowly welcomed summer.
The children who had awakened alongside him advanced steadily through the early stages of cultivation. Some reached the fifth level of the Meridian Opening Realm.
Others proudly demonstrated newly learned Soul Skills during clan gatherings.
Mo Xuan attended every celebration. He applauded sincerely and congratulated them without jealousy.
That evening, he quietly walked back to the abandoned hut. He never once questioned whether the effort was worthwhile. Not because he possessed unwavering confidence.
But because he had nothing else.
If this failed, there would be no second chance.
Eventually, the changes became impossible to hide. One evening, during dinner, Mo Kang quietly set down his bowl.
His eyes remained fixed on his son. "Xuan'er."
Mo Xuan looked up. "Hm?"
"You look sick."
"I'm feeling okay."
His father remained silent.
For several moments, the only sound inside the room came from the crackling fire beneath the cooking pot.
Finally...
Mo Kang stood and walked over. A faint strand of Spiritual Sense flowed into his son's body. It travelled carefully through his meridians. Through his blood. Through the fragile currents surrounding his Sea of Consciousness.
The more he examined...
The deeper his frown became. His son's Blood Qi had weakened considerably. Even his soul felt strangely exhausted.
Yet...
There were no injuries. No illness. No signs of cultivation deviation.
Only loss.
It was as though something had been taking pieces of his son away, one at a time.
Mo Kang withdrew his Spiritual Sense and looked directly into his son's eyes.
"Xuan'er..." His voice carried unmistakable concern.
"Are you being bullied?"
Mo Xuan immediately shook his head. "No."
"Have the elders said something?"
"No."
"The other children?"
Again... "No."
Mo Kang searched his son's face for several long moments.
"What, then?"
Mo Xuan lowered his eyes before offering the same smile he always wore whenever he wished to reassure his father.
"I've just been reading too much."
"I've been staying up later than I should."
"I'll sleep earlier."
"I'll be fine."
Mo Kang knew the answer wasn't the whole story. He could feel it. A father always could. Yet he also saw the determination hidden behind his son's smile.
After a long silence...
He gently patted Mo Xuan's shoulder. "Don't push yourself too hard."
"Knowledge is important."
"But your health comes first."
Mo Xuan nodded obediently.
His father returned to his seat. The conversation ended there. Not because Mo Kang believed the explanation... But because he trusted his son.
And sometimes...
Trust meant allowing someone to carry a burden until they were ready to share it.
Mo Xuan kept his promise.
At least...
The one his father could see.
He returned to bed earlier. He no longer remained in the Rune Archive until sunset. He ate a little more during meals and even accompanied his father on short walks around the estate after dinner.
To his father, it appeared as though he had listened.
Only one thing never changed. Every night, after the lights in the Mo residence had gone out and silence settled over the estate, a small figure would quietly slip out through the back courtyard.
The abandoned hut waited patiently. Just as it always had.
Night after night, the knife bit into the same fingertip until a small scar formed where fresh wounds should have appeared.
Mo Xuan smiled bitterly as he examined it. "I suppose..."
"...we've both worked hard."
He placed the knife beside the book before drawing another tiny bead of essence blood. The droplet trembled at his fingertip before falling.
The blank page absorbed it without leaving even the faintest stain. Mo Xuan waited.
Nothing.
He wasn't disappointed anymore. He had stopped expecting immediate results months ago. Instead, he simply closed the book and whispered,
"See you tomorrow."
Days became weeks. Weeks quietly slipped into months. The abandoned hut witnessed the same scene over and over again.
A lamp. A boy.
A single drop of essence blood.
Then silence.
Autumn painted the mountains beyond the Mo Clan estate in shades of gold and crimson. The first snow of winter eventually covered the rooftops in white.
Still...
The ritual never changed. No matter how tired he felt. No matter how weak his body became. He never missed a single night.
There were evenings when even walking to the hut exhausted him. His breathing became uneven after climbing the small hill behind the estate. Several times, he stumbled before reaching the doorway.
Once...
He actually fell.
The frozen ground scraped both knees as the leather-bound book slipped from beneath his robe and landed in the snow. For several moments, Mo Xuan simply knelt there.
His vision blurred. His body begged him to return home. He picked up the book, brushed away the snow, and held it against his chest.
"I've already come this far."
He forced himself upright.
"I'm not giving up."
Step by step, he continued toward the hut.
Inside the Rune Archive, Elder Qin watched the young boy with growing concern. Mo Xuan still came every morning. He still borrowed books.
He still smiled politely whenever they greeted one another. But the old caretaker noticed the subtle differences. The boy had become thinner. His face was noticeably paler.
Sometimes, while reading, he would unconsciously press a hand against his chest as though suppressing an invisible discomfort.
One afternoon, Elder Qin quietly placed a steaming cup of herbal tea beside him.
Mo Xuan looked up in surprise.
"Drink it. It will help restore your Blood Qi."
"I..."
The old man smiled kindly.
Mo Xuan accepted it with both hands. "Thank you."
Elder Qin did not ask questions.
He simply returned to organising the shelves.
Some burdens, Elder Qin knew, young people preferred to carry alone.
One evening, after feeding the book, Mo Xuan examined the marks carved along the edge of the old stone table.
Ten. Fifty.
A hundred. Two hundred.
Three hundred.
He added another mark. Over time, the lines had filled the edge of the stone, forming neat rows across its surface.
He traced them with his fingertip and smiled tiredly.
The following evening passed like all the others.
One drop.
Silence.
The second day.
Silence.
The third day.
Nothing.
Mo Xuan laughed weakly.
"If you're testing my patience..."
"...I admit defeat."
He closed the cover and rested his forehead against it.
For the first time in an entire year...
Doubt crept into his heart.
"What if..."
"...there really isn't anything?"
"What if this is just an ordinary book?"
The question lingered in the quiet hut.
He had sacrificed an entire year's worth of essence blood. His body had grown weaker. His father had worried constantly.
Yet all he had received...
Was silence.