All things in the world possess a spirit, and beasts that awaken to cultivation transform into creatures known as yao—a general term, not meant to be derogatory.
To humans, even a creature like Qinghe, with its dragon-like form, is classified as yao.
Of course, if you pointed at Qinghe’s nose and called it a yao, Qinghe wouldn’t hesitate to teach you a lesson—swift and merciless.
Plants that awaken to sentience are fundamentally the same as beasts, but unlike yao with brains, brainless plants rely entirely on the right conditions—celestial timing and earthly advantages—to come into being.
Things like spiritual energy nourishment or the radiance of moonlight.
As a result, plant cultivators are often referred to as jing, a term that carries a touch of preciousness.
Around a thousand years ago, yao and jing were rare treasures. Though weak and demanding to care for, their adorable nature and ornamental value made them highly sought after.
For a time, there were even specialized yao-catching teams.
But then a certain genius devised a method for breeding yao, causing their prices to plummet.
Many at the time must have questioned their existence, wondering if the apocalypse was near—how else could yao suddenly become so abundant?
By the time the selling price of yao barely covered the cost, leaving only meager profits, this genius outright published the breeding method.
While it was a marvel to behold, it also left many grinding their teeth in frustration.
Fortunately, this genius had both the skill and the sense not to spread rumors like "only by hoarding yao can one survive the impending apocalypse."
Otherwise, the world itself might not have been vast enough to spare them.
From then on, yao became worthless.
And naturally, no one bothered breeding them anymore.
After all, you could cultivate whatever you wanted—flower jing, tree jing, anything you fancied.
But the process was tedious, and these jing had little combat prowess. Poisonous ones might have had some use, but most cultivators would rather spend their time on actual cultivation.
The yao craze was swept away in the vast tides of immortal cultivation history, as if it had never happened.
Nowadays, most yao and jing are genuine, naturally occurring specimens.
Compared to their domesticated counterparts, wild jing are brimming with wariness.
If you approach them politely and sincerely, hoping for a conversation, you’d be lucky to catch even a glimpse of them.
After all, no one would risk their life out of curiosity—who’s to say whether these human cultivators want to chat or find out what they taste like?
Plants, after all, are part of the human diet.
Li Yingling was no fool. She wasn’t about to march into the Valley of Ten Thousand Flowers shouting for the jing to reveal themselves.
No, this called for Li Yingling’s grand master plan.
Under the cover of night, at the spot in the Valley of Ten Thousand Flowers where the moonlight shone brightest, Li Yingling placed a man-made Wood Spirit Crystal.
This was the most effective bait from the era of yao hunting—no jing could resist the allure of a glowing Wood Spirit Crystal.
Bathed in moonlight, the crystal shimmered with a soft emerald glow, its life energy drifting gently on the breeze.
The fresh night belonged not only to small creatures but also to diligent flower jing like San Dong.
San Dong sensed that the surroundings were as tranquil as the night before.
Amidst the dense sea of flowers, a pale blue blossom cautiously transformed into a tiny girl no taller than a hand’s length.
A long dress, woven from the petals of her flower, became her clothing.
She had once seen a human wearing such an outfit, and among the myriad blossoms, San Dong had fallen in love with it at first sight.
She had worn this dress for countless winters, and though she’d seen humans in all sorts of other garments, none had ever captured her heart like this one.
She glanced up at the full, round moon and smiled in satisfaction.
This place had sparse spiritual energy, with no rare treasures to speak of. Relying solely on ambient energy, she could barely stave off starvation.
If she truly wanted to cultivate diligently and become a powerful flower jing, she had to make the most of every full moon, every night the moon’s essence descended.
Such nights were rare, and even then, San Dong couldn’t always absorb the moon’s essence.
After all, good fortune was something everyone coveted—even other yao creatures.
San Dong wasn’t necessarily weaker than them, but she disliked fighting.
As a jing, she could live far longer than most yao.
And unlike the wandering yao, San Dong preferred to stay in one place.
So she would quietly yield her spot, letting the yao absorb the moon’s essence.
The same went for humans who came to admire the moon in the flower sea.
Most were ordinary mortals, often a man and a woman, gazing at the moon together.
A simple spell could scare them away, but San Dong enjoyed listening to their laughter and the fascinating stories they shared.
If she felt safe, she would transform into a flower and listen from afar as they spoke of their dreams, their promises to return every year to see the moon together.
But very few kept those promises.
Some didn’t even return the following year.
San Dong couldn’t understand—were promises so meaningless to humans?
Perhaps it was the stories, or perhaps it was the thought that humans lived such short lives anyway, but San Dong didn’t mind giving up a little time for them.
Or maybe… it was also because humans terrified her.
There was one memory San Dong would carry with her forever—a child lost in the flower sea, crying out in fear.
The sound echoed through the valley, carried far by the wind, but no one came.
San Dong was terrified. What if it was a trap?
But the child’s cries grew hoarse, fading into quiet sobs, the most innocent pleas for help.
In the end, San Dong couldn’t resist. She took human form and showed the child the way home.
But from that day on, humans began searching the flower valley for traces of her.
They even set fire to a small hill of blossoms in their pursuit.
The flames raged for a day and a night.
The sight of the red inferno under the night sky was seared into San Dong’s memory, leaving her heartbroken for many winters.
Had she done wrong?
San Dong still didn’t know, but she had learned one thing—humans… were terrifying.
They held no reverence for life. They cared only for their goals.
San Dong never wanted to meet another human again. She no longer wished to hear their stories.
Tonight, under the radiant moonlight, San Dong moved stealthily through the flowers, heading toward the brightest spot.
Her senses were sharp, but tonight, there were no yao, no humans.
The wind carried only the scent of blossoms.
As she crept closer, her eyes fell upon the Wood Spirit Crystal, glowing faintly green under the moon.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
In all her countless winters, she had never seen such a treasure.
She could practically taste the sweet energy it radiated.
With this crystal, San Dong could become a far more powerful flower jing.
Instinctively, she took a step forward—then froze.
Her sharp mind quickly caught up.
Since when did such good fortune exist in this world?
She knew every inch of this valley, and this crystal had never been here before.
And as luck would have it, it appeared right where the moonlight shone brightest.
San Dong suddenly felt a chill run down his spine—this had to be some human trickery!
But as he stared at the Wood Spirit Crystal, another thought crossed his mind—what if someone had accidentally dropped it?
Yet, in no time at all, San Dong made up his mind—pretend he never saw it and go home to sleep!
If it truly belonged to a human, what if they came back looking for it and found it missing? Would they burn his house down again?
Better to act like he never laid eyes on it!
That way, they’d have no excuse to torch his home!
Today wasn’t a lucky day—best to go home and sleep for safety’s sake.
San Dong still wanted to live a long, long life.
So he swiftly turned on his heels and scurried away. But after just a few steps, a rich surge of spiritual energy wafted toward him on the breeze.
He halted in his tracks, his gaze drifting toward the source of the wind.
San Dong peered cautiously in that direction.
There, nestled among the flowers, lay a small, faintly glowing blue stone—no larger than a human’s fingernail.
Was this… a spirit stone?
San Dong’s feet suddenly felt rooted to the spot.
] This is a dark fantasy-themed dating simulation game. The main gameplay involves containing various monster girls and investigating the truth of a world shrouded in mist alongside your companions. However, due to his love for the dark and bizarre atmosphere, Luo Wei ended up turning a dating game into a detective mystery game. Women? Women only slow down his quickdraw! To Luo Wei, the female leads in the game are more like tools to perfectly clear levels and squeeze out rewards. For Luo Wei, flirting with every girl he meets and then discarding them is standard procedure. Worried about characters losing affection points? No need. With his maxed-out charm stat, Luo Wei is practically a "human incubus." A little psychological manipulation and those points come right back. It's a bit scummy, but the paper cutout heroines in the game won't actually come at him with real cleavers. However... Luo Wei has transmigrated. He's accidentally entered the second playthrough of this game. His past actions have caused all the girls to transform into terrifying yanderes. Due to the game's setting, most of the heroines he once contained are "troubled girls." Obsessive, twisted, mentally unstable, all aggressive yanderes... The type who will kill you if they can't have you... Luo Wei wants to cry but has no tears left. "I really just want to survive..." In short, this is a story of battling wits and engaging in a love-hate relationship with yanderes.
ing gift was a patch of barren land, and disciples were all picked up along the way. He spent fifty years diligently building three "ramshackle little sects," thinking he could finally live a carefree life relying on his disciples. But right at the fifty-year mark, he was suddenly swept away by a spatial rift and exiled to the Chaos Desolation, the Disorderly Ruins. There was no spiritual energy there, only slaughter. Relying on the cultivation feedback from his disciples, Gu Changyuan hacked his way through a sea of blood for eleven hundred years. When the system finally fished him back out, he discovered the ramshackle little sects he'd built back then had developed a rather... unusual style. Hold on... I vanished for a thousand years, so how did my ramshackle little sects become holy lands?!
e bizarre and supernatural had descended. The previous emperor was a thoroughgoing tyrant; no longer satisfied with human women, he had set his sights on a stunningly beautiful supernatural entity. He met his end in his bedchamber, drained of all his vital essence. As the legitimate eldest son and crown prince, Wang Hao was thus hastily enthroned, becoming the young emperor of the Great Zhou Dynasty. No sooner had he awakened the "Imperial Sign-In Intelligence System" than he was assassinated by a Son of Destiny—a classic villain's opening. The Great Zhou, ravaged by the former emperor's excesses, was in national decline. The great families within its borders harbored their own treacherous schemes, martial sects began to defy the imperial court's decrees, and border armies, their pay and provisions in arrears, grumbled incessantly against the central government. Fortunately, the central capital was still held secure by the half-million Imperial Guards and fifty thousand Imperial Forest Army who obeyed the court's orders, along with the royal family's hidden reserves of power, barely managing to suppress the realm. As the Great Zhou's finances worsened and supernatural activities grew ever more frequent, the court sat atop a volcano. Ambitious plotters everywhere dreamed of overthrowing the dynasty, and even some reclusive ancient powers emerged, attempting to sway the tides of the world. At the first grand court assembly, the civil and military officials nearly came to blows, fighting tooth and nail over the allocation of fifty million taels of silver from the summer tax revenues. The spectacle opened Wang Hao's eyes—the Great Zhou's bureaucracy was not only corrupt but also martially proficient, a cabinet of all-rounders. Some officials even had the audacity to suggest the emperor release funds from the imperial privy purse to address the emergency. Wang Hao suddenly felt weary. Let it all burn.
ut it can buy an entire year of absolutely perfect training results! Su Yu stared at his empty wallet and decisively opened up various online loan platforms. “Borrow a thousand bucks! Recharge my vitality!” Boom! His vitality broke a hundred points, shattering the limits of the human body! “Borrow ten thousand bucks! Recharge my combat skills!” Boom! A basic punching technique so common it was everywhere instantly maxed out, revealing the ultimate assassination technique of Five Elements Unity—Inner Force! When a rich kid hired assassins for a midnight ambush, aiming to break both of his legs, they instead ran headfirst into a monster—a human-shaped tyrannosaur, brimming with dragon-like vitality. With just two fingers, Su Yu snapped a steel staff reinforced with alloy. Staring at the killer’s stash of stolen cash—a staggering quarter-million dollars—he showed a corporate-sincere smile: “Thanks for the pre-exam gift pack, Mr. Zhao! I’m gonna go re-invest this!” Three days later, at the National Martial Arts College Entrance Exam, while everyone else struggled just to reach the passing line, Su Yu threw a single punch—and more than a thousand vitality points literally detonated the entire arena!
