Steadily Upgrading Everything!
Chapter 34: You Can’t run from me, Little Cultivator.

Chapter 34: You Can’t run from me, Little Cultivator.

John slowly stepped forward, the echo of his footsteps faintly bouncing across the cavern’s stone walls.

The light grew stronger with each careful step, illuminating the center of the vast, silent cave, a single coffin, glowing with a haunting silver-blue hue.

It looked ancient, almost fossilized, yet the shine pulsing from it felt alive, as if it were breathing softly in the dark.

He narrowed his eyes.

That light... it’s coming from the carvings.

Taking a deep breath, John cautiously approached the coffin.

When he was about ten steps away, he activated his Spatial Sense, trying to probe the structure and the space around it.

But the moment his sense touched the surface of the coffin, his eyes widened in horror.

"Wh—!"

BOOM!

An invisible backlash of energy exploded outward.

A blast of raw spiritual force slammed into him like a charging beast, launching him backwards like a ragdoll.

His body crashed into the cave wall with a violent thud, a spray of blood flying from his mouth.

"Urgh..." he groaned, sliding down the wall, bones rattling from the impact.

For a moment, darkness danced at the edges of his vision.

What... was that? My Spatial Sense... was repelled? It’s never reacted like this before.

He wiped the blood from his mouth and forced himself to his feet, staggering slightly.

The oppressive pressure in the cave had intensified, the air so heavy now it felt like trying to breathe underwater.

Still, he stepped forward.

Whatever this is... whatever this coffin is hiding... I need to know.

With trembling hands, John reached out and placed his palms on the carved runes etched into the coffin lid.

The cold stone was oddly smooth beneath his touch, yet as his fingers traced the swirling patterns, he felt something, a pulse.

The carvings seemed to respond to his Qi.

He focused, channeling a thin stream of his spiritual energy into the etchings.

For a second, nothing happened. Then...

BZZZZZZZMMM!

The carvings flared to life.

Bright, pale blue light surged outward from beneath his palms, traveling along the grooves of the coffin like veins awakening after a long slumber.

The entire chamber lit up in that moment, shadows fleeing the corners.

Then, with a low rumble, the coffin cracked open.

An icy wind howled from within.

From the coffin rose a figure, tall, elegant, and cloaked in a flowing mist of darkness.

Her skin was pale as moonlight, her eyes a glowing white with no pupils.

Her black hair cascaded like ink, floating as if underwater.

Her features were seductively human, yet her twisted aura screamed of something ancient and not of this world.

Then John saw it.

In the center of her chest, glowing faintly beneath translucent skin, was a blue crystalline Core.

His heart skipped a beat.

"A Core Formation Realm Ghost Spirit..." he whispered.

The pressure coming from her presence was suffocating.

John’s legs nearly gave out as his instincts screamed at him to run, to escape, to hide.

Every part of his body knew that if this spirit wanted, it could reduce him to ash in a single breath.

The spirit slowly tilted her head and looked down at him.

A cruel, knowing smile curved on her lips.

"Another cultivator... come to disturb my slumber?" Her voice was like a siren’s, both intoxicating and terrifying.

John stood frozen, staring up at her as beads of sweat formed on his brow.

This... was a mistake.

The ghost spirit floated silently above the glowing coffin, her eyes shimmering with eerie white light.

Her presence was like a blade against the skin, cold, sharp, and unrelenting.

As John stared at her frozen in place, her smile deepened into a twisted grin.

Then she lunged.

"Die," she whispered, softly, as if offering him a gift.

Just as her clawed hand was about to touch John’s chest, a sudden flash of ancient silver light erupted between them.

Her fingers halted mid-air, repelled by an invisible barrier.

A ripple of spiritual force pulsed through the chamber.

John stumbled backward, his heart pounding like thunder in his chest.

He gasped and looked up, an ethereal spirit barrier now floated around him in a circular dome, glowing faintly with runes he couldn’t recognize.

The spirit snarled.

"No... this ancient seal..." Her voice trembled in frustration. "It still binds me?"

She floated back, her form flickering with fury. But instead of retreating, her white eyes glowed brighter. "You can’t run from me, little cultivator. Let’s see how long your mind lasts."

She raised her hand, and a thin beam of black light shot toward John’s forehead.

Before he could react, everything went dark.

John opened his eyes to a blistering heat. Blinding sunlight assaulted him, and coarse, golden sand stretched endlessly in all directions.

The sky was a dull, lifeless gray.

There were no clouds. No shadows. No sounds.

Only the oppressive sun and the shifting sands.

He tried to stand, and realized his clothes were tattered, his body weak, his lips cracked with dryness.

"Where... am I?" he whispered hoarsely.

He reached for his system panel out of habit, but it didn’t appear.

Panic struck. "System?" he called. "Open panel. Upgrade slot... anything!"

Silence.

Not even the wind answered.

John had walked for days. Then months. Then a year.

There was no water. No food. Yet he didn’t die.

His body remained just strong enough to move, just fragile enough to feel pain.

His Level Six Meditation, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t pierce the illusion.

He’d tried dozens of breathing techniques, mental focusing methods, even punching himself.

But nothing worked. It was as if this world was built from a core of despair.

And the worst part, no one was here.

John had always been more of an introvert. He enjoyed solitude. Quiet. His cultivation path so far had been one of discipline, isolation, and focus.

But now?

He missed voices.

He missed the clatter of streets.

The smell of food.

The sound of people arguing in the market.

The distant laughter of strangers.

The silence was unbearable. It carved into his soul.

He walked every day, hoping for a sign of life, anything, but the landscape never changed.

Sometimes he screamed just to hear a sound.

Five Years Passed

His eyes had sunken.

His voice was hoarse. He talked to himself now, not because he was going mad, but to pretend someone was answering.

"Maybe I’m in the coffin too," he muttered one day. "Maybe this is my tomb..."

He remembered Riara. The pavilion. The taste of warm soup. The cool sensation of wine on his tongue.

It all felt like a dream.

He started questioning whether any of it was ever real.

....

The sky was as pale as bone.

The sun hung above, unmoving, an eternal flame in a dead sky.

The sands of the desert howled quietly, though there was no wind.

Time passed like thick syrup, and John had long since given up tracking days, months, or years.

Ten years.

Ten years of endless walking.

Ten years of silence.

Ten years without food, water, shelter, or hope.

He had gone through every mental trick in the book.

Meditation, visualization, Qi suppression, even extreme emotion.

But the illusion was not made by some amateur mind cultivator, this was crafted by a Core Formation ghost, and it had burrowed into the deepest part of his soul.

Even now, his body refused to die.

He hadn’t aged. Hadn’t weakened further. But his mind was eroding. Bit by bit.

"Maybe... this is real," he whispered aloud. "Maybe I’ve always lived here. Maybe the cultivation world was the dream..."

He stared at his hands. Pale. Scarred. Dirty.

His knees buckled and he collapsed into the sand, face first.

He didn’t even have the strength to cry.

Then something flickered.

A memory.

Warm soup. A girl’s laughter. A flaming blue pill in the palm of his hand.

His panel. His skills. His cultivation.

"I was someone..." he whispered.

A spark of rebellion rose up inside him like a dying ember catching a breeze.

"No," he growled.

"No, this... isn’t real. This is NOT where I die!"

He slammed his fists into the sand. "I’m JOHN CORAL! I survived prison, fought beasts, made pills under pressure, and carved my path through blood and sweat!"

"But how do I get OUT?!"

He looked at his body, still whole, still breathing.

His mind was trapped, but his body remained unshocked.

It was too used to the illusion. Too adapted.

He needed something violent.

Something real enough to fracture the false reality.

And then, an insane idea.

His eyes twitched. "A pain so real... it can override the illusion."

He looked down at his right hand.

"No way," he whispered. "That’s... mad."

But his breathing grew heavier. Faster.

"I have to. I have to."

With trembling hands, he knelt.

Positioned his right hand atop a flat rock jutting out of the sand.

"This... has to work."

He lifted his left arm, focused his Qi into it, gritted his teeth...

And SLAMMED it down with all the strength he had.

CRACK.

An explosion of agony ripped through him. The sound of breaking bones echoed in the dead air.

His vision blurred. His ears rang.

He vomited. Screamed.

His mind reeled backward as the pain surged into every nerve like wildfire.

Then...

The sky shattered.

Shards of reality rained down, vanishing before they touched the ground.

The sun blinked out.

The world around him collapsed like glass being stepped on.

Back in the Cave

John’s body spasmed violently on the stone floor of the coffin cave.

He bolted upright, drenched in sweat, gasping for air, blood seeping from his mouth and nose.

His right hand, twisted and shattered, fingers hanging like broken branches. The injury form hallucination realm has also transferred to his real body.

His breathing was ragged.

His body trembled.

But he was free.

Across the room, the spirit howled in agony, flickering violently.

The cost of maintaining such a long hallucination had drained her deeply, and John’s violent escape had shattered her link to the illusion.

"You... you broke it! That’s not... possible!" she screamed, her voice echoing in ghostly panic.

Her form began to flicker.

The core in her chest dimmed.

"I need... more time..."

And with a final shriek of rage and fear, the ghost was pulled back into the glowing coffin, her spectral form retreating like a tide being sucked away.

SLAM.

The lid sealed itself, the runes glowing softly before dimming.

Silence.

John collapsed to the floor, cradling his ruined hand.

The agony was near unbearable, but so was the relief.

He was alive.

He was himself.

And he had endured ten years of solitude, all in a single breath of time.

A soft humming sound drew his attention.

He looked up, and there, above the coffin, floated a scroll, slowly descending toward him.

Wrapped in black silk and pulsing with cold Qi.

He gritted his teeth, reached with his uninjured hand, and took it.

Whatever was inside... he had earned it.