The Solitary Path to Divinity

Crackle—

Lowell swept his spear, sending several lightning bolts straight into the snake swarm. He had started with his magic artifact, but its power came at a cost—he only had so many mid-grade spirit stones, and he needed them for when it really mattered. So he had switched to a top-grade spirit artifact. Even so, as a lightning cultivator, his attacks hit hard. Even third-grade snakes struggled against him.

Monty's eyes flickered with something that might have been respect—or calculation. "Lowell, your skills are impressive. With you on our side, those Purple Ginseng plants might as well be in our hands already."

"You're no slouch yourself." Lowell stepped back, pleased despite himself. He had been measuring himself against Monty all along, especially when Quincy was watching. Now that she was outside, he saw no reason to keep pushing. "Your turn."

"Not quite up to your standard, I'm afraid." Monty laughed easily and raised his ice-spike spirit artifact. He flicked his wrist, striking the air. The temperature dropped. Snowflakes drifted in the cave air. A dozen meters away, six or seven black snakes froze solid and dropped. A third-grade one twitched on the ground, encased in ice. An Ice Profound Sect disciple stepped in and finished it.

Lowell's eyes flickered with dismissive amusement. Impressive to ordinary cultivators, perhaps, but nothing special to him. Still, for killing lesser snakes, it did the job. Big techniques burned through spiritual power. Monty, he noted, hadn't shown anything truly dangerous. Unlike himself, who had pulled out his lightning spear twice while Quincy was watching, taking down dozens of snakes in one go.

Snake corpses littered the floor. Solon, Angus, Gale, and the other cultivators moved among them, stripping scales, harvesting cores. The work was messy, but the materials were valuable.

Screech—screech—

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The remaining two hundred or so snakes still looked formidable—enough to give anyone pause. But they had lost too many of their kind over the past few days. Their leaders let out mournful cries, and the swarm retreated into the cold pond like a receding tide.

Lowell and Monty exchanged glances. They tested the water, sending attacks into the mist. Nothing came out.

The snakes were done. Both men's faces lit up. That meant the Purple Ginseng was theirs for the taking.

Lowell strode forward without waiting. He had done more than Monty, killed more. He deserved the biggest share. Quincy had done her part too. He'd take the best plants for himself and give her a few. That would make her happy. The other disciples could have what was left.

The Palace disciples followed. Monty's face darkened. He moved too, not about to be left behind. Wood was his junior, close to him even, but when it came to Foundation Establishment Pills, friendship meant nothing. If Lowell tried to take it all, there would be a fight.

Whoosh!

The pond exploded. A tail, thick as a barrel, whipped out at Lowell, who was in front, and Monty, half a step behind.

Lowell snarled and thrust his lightning spear at the massive black tail.

Clang! Lowell's lightning spear struck the black tail, but it was like hitting solid armor—the impact rang out like metal splitting stone.

Monty's ice spike struck a hair later, with the same result.

Both men flew backward, landing a dozen meters away. They dropped their spirit artifacts and pulled out their magic artifacts.

The tail smashed into boulders, shattering them. Black scales scattered.

Whoosh—

A giant python, over ten meters long and thick as a barrel, rose from the pond. It slithered onto the ground, opened its mouth, and spat—a storm of wind blades, thick streams of venom.

"It's just a bigger snake. Nothing special." Lowell's voice was steady. The python's aura was formidable, its scales tougher than any top-grade spirit artifact, its strength beyond any ordinary Qi Refining cultivator. But it wasn't a fourth-grade beast. Not yet. And that meant it could be killed. For fighters like Lowell and Monty, that was enough.

Lowell leaped, spear raised. An image of the weapon, three or four meters tall, crackling with lightning, shot at the python's head.

The python reared, opened its mouth, and launched wind blade after wind blade. The image punched through them, driving forward. The python snapped at it, shook it, shattered it.

Monty's ice spike multiplied, blurred, shot at the python's throat. The beast twisted, dodging most, but one struck home. Flesh tore. Blood froze.

The python screamed. It shook off the ice and lunged at Monty.

"Tough bastard. We'll wear it down. The real problem is the Ginseng—there's not enough for everyone." Monty ran the calculations in his head. The python's strength was monstrous—he wouldn't stand a chance without his artifacts. What gave cultivators the edge over demon beasts wasn't raw power, but their weapons. If they only had top-grade spirit artifacts, both he and Lowell would have fled already.

With their artifacts, he and Lowell could take the python together. It would drain them, and they'd have to use everything they had, but they could kill it. It would cost them, but it could be done.