“Outside the South Sea, between the Black Water and the Green Water, there’s said to be a tree called the Weak Tree.”

  “Ms. Lauren, what are you talking about?”

  Lauren smiled faintly. “I was just wondering where the Weak Tree actually is.”

  They hadn’t yet earned the highest level of access to the sect’s library—certain records, like those about sacred trees, were strictly restricted.

  They’d all heard of the Weak Tree before, but none of them knew nearly as much as Lauren did.

  “Wait,” Nash said. “You’re not saying you’re looking for it, are you?”

  Lauren nodded. “To be honest, even if I hadn’t come to the South Sea with you all, I would have made the trip myself. My real goal is to find the Weak Tree.”

  Dante frowned slightly. “Then tell us—how much do you actually know about it?”

  Lauren pulled a scroll from her sleeve and handed it to him. “Here. This is everything I managed to copy from the library.”

  Dante read it carefully, then exhaled. “You realize the library’s restrictions are there to protect us, right? According to this, even if we found the Weak Water mentioned here, we wouldn’t be able to cross it with our current cultivation.”

  Nash took the scroll, his expression growing more serious the further he read. Then he handed it off to Westin.

  “It says the water’s so dense a feather can’t float. What kind of water is that? Is it poisonous?”

  Lauren shook her head. “No. It’s not poison—it’s the current itself. The surface is so heavy it crushes anything that touches it. Thunder constantly rolls through the skies above it, and violent undercurrents surge beneath. Now that we’re already outside the South Sea, I’m going to search for the Weak Water. The rest of you don’t have to follow. Let’s meet back here when it’s done.”

  “I’m going,” Westin said immediately.

  Lauren turned toward him, surprised.

  “I have Wood Spiritual Roots,” he said with a wry smile. “If I could get even a single branch from the Weak Tree, it could change everything for me.”

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  Westin gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “It wasn’t easy for someone like me—a dual-root cultivator—to make it this far from the outer sect. If I let go of a chance like this, I might never see another sacred tree again. No matter how dangerous it is, I want to try.”

  Edmund’s calm voice echoed in Lauren’s mind. His talent may be average, but his luck runs deep, and his heart is as steady as stone.

  Lauren looked into Westin’s determined eyes and silently agreed.

  There were some people whose cultivation might not come easily, but who had the kind of grit—and fortune—that let them rise against all odds.

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  “I’m not saying I have to find the Weak Tree,” she said at last. “I’ll test the waters first. If it’s too dangerous, I’ll back off. I can always come back when I’m stronger.”

  Westin nodded. “Alright, Ms. Lauren.”

  “In that case,” Dante said, grinning, “we’re coming too.” He clapped Nash on the shoulder.

  Nash gave a helpless smile. “Fine, fine. If everyone’s going, count me in. I want to see what this ‘Weak Tree’ actually looks like.”

  Dante spread out his map, tracing his fingers along the hand-drawn rivers that wound past the South Sea.

  The maps grew vague the farther he looked—many areas were half-guessed, their markings faint and unreliable.

  They boarded the flying boat, adjusting the course as Dante compared landmarks and updated the map. Along the way, they harvested rare treasures and hunted the spirit beasts guarding them, fighting side by side and growing stronger with every battle.

  Six months passed in the blink of an eye.

  By then, each of them had reaped tremendous gains.

  In his spare time, Dante pored over the Overseas Scriptures, noting down the strange species and ancient herbs they encountered.

  Another six months came and went.

  Lauren spent that year focusing on talisman crafting and treasure hunting. Her cultivation remained steady—solidifying her Core instead of pushing to advance. The same was true for the others.

  At this pace, once they returned to the mountain and went into seclusion, breaking through from early to mid-Core Formation would be almost effortless.

  “Hey! Look!” Nash shouted from the bow of the flying boat one day. “Is that the Black Water?”

  They rushed over. Below, a winding river coiled like a serpent through a vast snow-covered mountain range.

  Because the water flowed at the foot of the shaded slopes, hidden from sunlight, it shimmered like ink—dark and eerie.

  But Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “No… it’s not just shadow.”

  She peered closer, her tone sharpening. “That’s black soil. The riverbed itself is made of it.”

  She turned to the others. “Let’s go down and take a look. I need to confirm this.”

  Dante hurried back into the cabin and steered the flying boat toward the black river.

  They disembarked at the riverbank, boots crunching against gravel and hard-packed soil. The ground was exactly as Lauren had described—dark, almost pitch black, the color of cooled volcanic glass.

  Nash squatted down and rubbed some of the dirt between his fingers. “Hey, haven’t we been here before? How come we didn’t notice it was black soil and black water last time?”

  Lauren glanced up at the overcast sky. “Because it wasn’t winter then. The vegetation along the river reflected green in the sunlight. The trees hid the shadow of the mountains, and we passed through too quickly to notice.”

  Nash grinned. “Ms. Lauren’s got a sharp eye.”

  Dante muttered under his breath, “Black water, huh… so that’s what it really is.”

  This river—dark, cold, and quiet—was indeed the Black Water.

  “Then where’s the Green Water?” Nash asked. “Could it be the same river in summer? When the trees are lush, their reflections turn it green?”

  Dante shook his head. “If that were true, this same river could be called Green Water too. No… there must be a separate river.”

  “The soil here is black, so this is Black Water,” Nash said. “Maybe the soil in the other river is green?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Dante said flatly. “There’s no such thing as green soil.”

  That was true enough—everyone had seen black, yellow, red, even white soil before, but never green.

  Westin crossed his arms, thinking. “If it’s not soil, maybe it’s water plants. If there’s a lot of vegetation in the river, it might appear green.”

  “That makes sense,” Dante said. He unfolded the map, pointing at a winding river that ran parallel to the Black Water. “Ms. Lauren, look here. Could this be it?”

  Lauren leaned over the parchment and studied the inked lines. “It’s winter beyond the South Sea, so most vegetation has withered. But if the riverbed itself is warm, the plants underwater might still be alive—and still turquoise.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Nash said, grinning. “Let’s go check it out.”

  They boarded the flying boat again, following the map’s faint markings until they reached another stretch of river. As they suspected, the water there was warm—almost steaming—and thick with water plants that shimmered a vivid green beneath the surface.

  They’d found the Green River.

  Between these two rivers—the black and the green—had to lie the Weak Water.

  The four of them traveled further inland and soon came upon a slender, crystal-clear stream. In the distance, a group of mortal women laughed and chatted as they washed clothes by the shore, the sight so ordinary it almost seemed out of place.