The scripture was thin, its pages yellowed and its edges slightly curled, like an old book that had been thumbed through countless times.
Yet it felt heavy in his hands—not because of the paper, but because of the words.
The first page began without any mystical preamble or grandiose sermon.
It got straight to the point, asking just one question: What was the meaning of cultivation?
The answer was direct, even a little crude.
Whether cultivators or evolvers, humans or other races, at their core, they all wanted to become stronger.
That was all there was to it: becoming stronger. Cultivation was neither mysterious nor profound, just a path to pursuing power.
The scripture's first principle was to dispel everyone's reverence for cultivation.
Reverence itself wasn't a bad thing, but too much of it would make you timid in the face of power, afraid to touch it, question it, or, more than anything, surpass it. Cultivation required composure, not reverence.
The next key point was "application."
There was no need to force the improvement of one's life level. It could happen naturally.
The real key wasn't how high your cultivation was, but how well you understood and applied "cosmic power." How could you use cosmic power to its fullest? How could you make every bit of power land exactly where it needed to? That was what mattered.
The scripture's original words were rather caustic: blindly raising your life level would make you, at best, a fool with a big body and a tiny brain. Had anyone ever seen such a person who could be called strong?
Before reaching Planetary Rank, the stronger you were, the more rewards from the cosmic will you would receive when you truly advanced to Planetary Rank.
Put simply, you could use the moment of ascension—when