Rebirth of the primordial sovereign

The first rays of dawn painted the sky with hues of gold and amber, their light spilling into Makoto's small room. He opened his eyes, his breathing steady as he emerged from a night of cultivation. The faint warmth in his dantian had grown slightly stronger, a testament to his tireless effort. Though his progress was slow, each step forward was a triumph over the shattered state of his meridians.

Makoto stretched, his body still sore from the grueling practice sessions and the lingering injuries from the duel with Jin. Pain was a constant companion, but it served as a reminder of the path he had chosen—to rise above the ashes of his former glory and reclaim what was lost. He could not afford to waver now.

He washed up quickly, the cold water refreshing against his skin, and stepped out into the cool morning air. The sect was quiet at this hour, most disciples still asleep or meditating in their quarters. Makoto took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs, and made his way toward the sect library.

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The Sect Library

The library stood as a testament to the sect's rich history. Its towering shelves were lined with ancient tomes, scrolls, and jade slips, each containing the accumulated wisdom of countless generations of cultivators. The building itself exuded an air of solemnity, its wooden beams carved with intricate patterns of dragons and phoenixes.

Makoto entered silently, his footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor. The elder overseeing the library, an old man with a long gray beard and sharp eyes, glanced at him briefly before returning to his own studies. Makoto nodded respectfully before making his way to the rows of shelves.

His fingers brushed against the spines of the books as he scanned their titles. He was searching for something specific—knowledge that would aid him in rebuilding his cultivation. Most of the texts he passed were beginner-level techniques, useful for outer disciples but of little value to someone with his experience.

Finally, his eyes landed on a scroll tucked away in a corner. The title read, "The Fundamentals of Meridian Healing and Qi Circulation." Makoto pulled it from the shelf, its edges worn and frayed, a sign of its age.

Back at his room, Makoto unrolled the scroll he had borrowed from the library. The diagrams and instructions within were familiar to him, though far less refined than the techniques he had once mastered.

As Makoto delved into the scroll, he came across a section that piqued his interest: the grades of Qi. The text described the nature of Qi as the lifeblood of cultivation, its quality directly influencing a cultivator's strength and potential. There were four recognized grades:

Impure Qi – The lowest grade, unstable and filled with impurities. Common among beginners who had not yet refined their cultivation techniques.

Refined Qi – A step above impure, stable but still containing minor imperfections. Most cultivators achieved this level after years of diligent practice.

Pristine Qi – Pure and stable, a mark of advanced cultivators. Only those who had mastered higher-level techniques could attain this grade.

Divine Qi – The rarest and most powerful grade, said to be the purest form of Qi, closest to the original essence of the universe itself. Legends claimed that only ancient cultivators of mythic renown had ever possessed Divine Qi.

Makoto's eyes lingered on the description of Divine Qi. It was described as unattainable in the current era, a relic of a bygone age. But as he closed his eyes and focused inward, delving into his dantian, he found something that defied explanation.

The faint threads of Qi flowing within him radiated a brilliance and purity that surpassed even the description of Divine Qi. It was flawless, vibrant, and untainted—a force that felt as if it were drawn directly from the essence of creation itself.

"This Qi…" Makoto murmured, his voice trembling. "This is beyond Divine Qi."

He sat back in his chair, his mind racing. In his past life, he had been the originator of countless techniques and cultivation methods. It was possible—no, likely—that the Qi within him was the original essence, the progenitor of all others.

Makoto clenched his fists, his determination surging. This was his edge, his secret weapon. While others struggled with lesser grades of Qi, he held within him the pinnacle of power. But he knew better than to grow complacent. Raw potential meant nothing without the strength to wield it.

"This world's understanding of cultivation is... shallow," he muttered to himself. "But it's a start."

Makoto began practicing the exercises outlined in the scroll. The first step was to rebuild the flow of qi through his damaged meridians, a painstaking process that required precision and patience. Each cycle of qi was a test of his endurance, the pain in his meridians a constant reminder of the damage they had sustained.

Despite the discomfort, Makoto pressed on. He fell into a rhythm, his breathing steady as he guided the qi through his body. Hours passed, and by the time he finally stopped, sweat dripped from his brow, and his body trembled with exhaustion.

But there was progress. He could feel the faintest trace of qi flowing more smoothly through his meridians—a small victory, but a crucial one.

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An Unexpected Visitor

As Makoto was preparing to rest, there was a knock at his door. He opened it to find Riku standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Riku," Makoto said, surprised. "What brings you here?"

Riku stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Word of your duel with Jin has spread," he said without preamble. "People are starting to talk about you again."

Makoto raised an eyebrow. "And? Let them talk."

Riku's gaze hardened. "You don't understand. This isn't just idle gossip. You've drawn attention—attention from people who don't want to see you rise again."

Makoto's expression darkened. "Let them come. I have nothing to hide."

Riku sighed, his frustration evident. "You're reckless, Makoto. The sect is a dangerous place, and not just because of the cultivation techniques. Politics, rivalries, ambitions—they're all part of the game. If you're not careful, you'll end up being a pawn again."

Makoto met Riku's gaze steadily. "I'm no one's pawn. Not anymore."

For a moment, the two stood in silence, the tension between them palpable. Then Riku sighed and turned to leave.

"Just... watch your back," he said over his shoulder.

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The Path Forward

As the day wore on, Makoto returned to his room and resumed his cultivation. The encounter with riku had only strengthened his resolve. He couldn't let himself be intimidated by the inner disciples or the hidden forces within the sect. He had to grow stronger—strong enough to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Makoto closed his eyes, focusing on the flow of Qi within him. Each cycle of energy through his meridians brought a new wave of pain, but he welcomed it. Pain was a sign of progress, a reminder that he was pushing his limits.

Hours passed, and when he finally opened his eyes, the room was bathed in the soft light of twilight. He stood, his body trembling from exhaustion but his spirit unyielding. The path ahead was long, but Makoto was ready to walk it. The pinnacle awaited him, and he would stop at nothing to reach it.