Mo Xuan stood motionless.
His eyes remained fixed upon the lone leather-bound book resting behind the collapsed shelf.
Unlike every other volume surrounding it, it was untouched by dust. It neither gleamed nor emitted spiritual fluctuations. It simply rested there, quiet and patient, as though it had been waiting for someone.
He carefully pushed aside several decayed scrolls that had fallen across it. They crumbled at the slightest touch, turning into powder after centuries of neglect.
Yet the leather-bound volume remained completely intact.
"...Strange."
He reached toward it. His fingers stopped midway.
A strange feeling settled over him, but he smiled despite himself and wrapped both hands around the volume.
A book barely thicker than two fingers should never weigh this much.
"It feels… a bit strange."
Even so, he carried it to his usual seat beside the western window.
Golden afternoon glow spilt across the worn wooden table. For the first time since he had entered the Archive, Mo Xuan ignored every other book. He examined the cover carefully. The leather was unlike anything he had seen before.
It was neither cowhide nor any ordinary beast skin. Its surface shimmered faintly beneath the light, revealing intricate natural patterns that resembled tiny stars scattered across a night sky.
His fingertips gently brushed across the faded lettering burned into the cover. Most of the title had disappeared with time. Only a few words remained barely visible.
An Extreme Theory.
Mo Xuan frowned. "What kind of title is that?"
Cultivation manuals usually bore grand names. Heavenly Sword Canon or Phoenix Scripture.
Something impressive. Something that inspired confidence.
But...
An Extreme Theory?
It sounded less like an inheritance... And more like an unfinished discussion.
He chuckled. "Who names a cultivation manual after a theory?"
Curiosity slowly replaced caution. He opened the cover. The old pages creaked softly.
To his surprise... The writing moved. The black characters twisted like living creatures before settling into neat rows once again.
Mo Xuan blinked. "...Living Script?"
He had only read about it. According to the ancient texts, ordinary writing was merely ink. Living Script contained intent. The words themselves possessed spirituality. Only great Runists could create it.
His heartbeat quickened. He lowered his head and began reading.
Ah-ha-ha! If you are reading this, child, then Fate has chosen you.
Mo Xuan blinked. "...What?"
Most ancient manuals began solemnly. "This humble one..."
"To future generations..."
"Those lacking affinity should close this book immediately..."
Something along those lines, yet this one… started by laughing at him.
He continued.
I am Mo Song.
Once the mightiest cultivator our clan produced. Yet even my strength proved incomplete. Beyond our continent lies a greater world...
Mo Xuan's pupils contracted.
"Mo..."
"...Song?"
His breathing unconsciously slowed. Every child of the Mo Clan knew that name.
The Founding Patriarch.
The Golden Quill Ancestor.
The greatest Rune Master in the clan's history. His statue stood proudly within the Ancestral Hall.
Every Awakening Ceremony began by offering incense before his likeness. Every child bowed before that statue countless times while growing up.
Yet according to the records... Mo Song had disappeared over three thousand years ago without leaving behind a complete inheritance.
Mo Xuan looked back at the page. His heartbeat had become noticeably faster.
"Impossible..."
"If this really belonged to Ancestor Mo Song..."
"...why is it hidden in the Outer Pavilion?"
Without hesitation, he turned the page.
The handwriting remained alive. Each character seemed to breathe beneath his gaze. Only a few lines appeared, but every character had been written with astonishing precision.
Rune Masters strengthen the mind. But mind alone cannot surpass Heaven.
Body. Mind. Soul.
These three must become one. Gather these herbs. Prepare the medicinal bath.
Remain immersed for three days. On the final day, recite the mantra. Failure means death.
Mo Xuan stopped reading.
"...Death?"
His expression stiffened. He reread the final sentence. There was no warning.
No explanation. No reassurance.
Only certainty. Failure means death.
He swallowed quietly.
"Ancestor..."
"...you're rather straightforward."
He turned the page.
Blank.
He turned another page. Blank.
Then another. And another.
Every remaining page was empty. The book ended without another word.
Mo Xuan slowly closed it. The Archive fell silent once more.
He stared at the cover for several moments. Then sighed.
"So..."
"...that's it?"
He tapped the cover lightly. "I finally discovered an ancient inheritance..."
"...and it's missing almost everything."
He laughed helplessly.
"What kind of joke is this?"
Even so... Something continued bothering him.
The few lines he had read felt deliberate. Nothing about them resembled the ramblings of a fraud.
Every sentence seemed to serve a purpose. If someone wished to deceive others...
Why leave plenty of empty pages? It made no sense.
Mo Xuan reopened the book. He carefully examined every page once more.
No hidden formation. No folded parchment. Nothing. Yet... His intuition refused to let it go.
Carefully, he closed the volume and slipped it beneath his robe before leaving the Rune Archive.
The afternoon sun hung low as Mo Xuan walked home, the book hidden beneath his robe. The comforting aroma of stewed vegetables drifted to his nostrils, while his father sat beneath the eaves, resting.
During dinner, the words written by Mo Song refused to leave his mind.
Body. Mind. Soul.
These three must become one.
The principle felt unlike anything he had ever read about cultivation.
Over the following days, the book rarely left his side.
Whenever he finished reading the clan's ordinary scrolls, he returned to An Extreme Theory.
He tried reading it during the day. He tried reading it at night.
He examined every page beneath sunlight. Then beneath candlelight.
He even held the parchment against the window, hoping hidden writing might appear.
Nothing.
He lightly tapped the cover. "Ancestor..."
"If you're testing my patience..."
"...I think you've already won."
His curiosity only deepened.
The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.
The personal writing of the Founding Patriarch.
Such materials were treasures that even great sects would fight over.
No one would waste them creating an empty notebook.
"Unless..."
He frowned.
"...it isn't empty."
That possibility lingered in his thoughts throughout the day.
From that day onward, the book became another puzzle to solve.
Whenever he visited the Rune Archive, he searched through ancient records for techniques capable of concealing writing.
He found dozens.
Heat-sensitive ink.
Moonlight formations.
Spirit-activated scripts.
Blood seals.
Soul Imprints.
Each method fascinated him.
Each afternoon, he returned home and carefully tested another theory.
Still nothing.
He even copied several low-grade revealing runes from the Archive and painstakingly drew them around the book with ordinary ink.
Nothing changed.
The pages remained perfectly blank.
Nearly a month passed.
Most people would have abandoned the mystery.
Mo Xuan couldn't.
Every failed attempt only strengthened his conviction.
"If Ancestor Mo Song hid this..."
"...then he expected someone to find it."
The question was never whether there was a secret.
Only...
How was it meant to be opened?
That evening, Mo Xuan returned to his room earlier than usual.
"Father, if an ancient artefact refused to open, how would you make it recognise you?"
Mo Kang stroked his beard thoughtfully, his Spiritual Sense brushing over his son—checking meridians, checking Soul Power flow, checking for hidden injuries. "That depends. Some treasures choose their master. Karmic affinity. Bloodline resonance. Dao Heart alignment."
"And others?"
"Others can only be awakened by Blood Sacrifice." His father's voice dropped. "But that is dangerous. Many treasures kill before they respond. They drink life force, essence blood, soul essence. The old laws of cultivation are clear: power demands a price."
"Blood sacrifice..."
Mo Xuan nodded as if he were only making conversation.
Mo Kang studied him for a long moment, something sharp in his gaze. "Xuan'er... you're not thinking of—"
"Just curious, Father." A smile. "Reading too much. You know me."
Late that night...
The estate slept peacefully beneath the moonlight. Mo Xuan quietly slipped out through the back gate. The cool night air brushed against his face as he crossed the empty courtyards and followed an overgrown path toward the abandoned disciple quarters at the edge of the estate.
Few people ever came here anymore. Years ago, a disciple had suffered a severe cultivation deviation inside one of the huts. Rumours claimed his resentful spirit still wandered the area.
Most members of the clan avoided it. Which was precisely why Mo Xuan had chosen it.
He pushed open the broken wooden door. It groaned softly. Dust drifted through the moonlight. Broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, while cobwebs stretched between cracked beams overhead.
Perfect.
No one would disturb him here.
He placed the book upon a stone slab that had once served as a cultivation platform. Then he drew a small blade and pricked his index finger.
A crimson droplet slowly welled to the surface. It trembled for a moment before falling.
The drop struck the page with a soft tap. Mo Xuan leaned forward expectantly.
Nothing.
Not even the slightest ripple.
Perhaps one drop wasn't enough. He frowned and tried again.
He squeezed harder.
Another drop.
Then another.
Three crimson droplets soaked into the page.
This time...
The book emitted an almost imperceptible pulse.
Golden Script shimmered along the edge of the page. The characters appeared for less than a breath before vanishing, leaving only warmth beneath his fingertips.
Mo Xuan looked at the book and gave a quiet, humourless laugh. "Not enough, huh?"
He looked down at the book as if it had insulted him. A slow smile spread across his face. "Greedy thing."
He pricked his finger again.
And again.
Still, the pages remained silent.
His face grew paler. His breathing became uneven, yet he refused to stop.
"Come on," he whispered. "You wanted blood, didn't you?"
He pressed his bleeding finger against the page once more.