The virtual device emitted a low, cooling sound, especially distinct in the cramped, silent space of the hut. Xiang Fan raised his head, a trace of fatigue on his face. He slowly released his fingers, disconnecting the virtual combat device, his gaze fixed on the gradually fading curve of spiritual energy on the screen. At the end of the curve was a glaring red, with the word "Warning" flashing continuously, reminding him that the energy of the low-grade spiritual ore had been depleted.
"I can't make it to the end..." He whispered to himself, his tone filled with unconcealed regret and a hint of helplessness. He carefully removed the virtual helmet, his movements gentle, as if the equipment in his hands was his most precious treasure, and he couldn't bear the slightest damage. This virtual device was pieced together through countless repairs and experiments. Although the outer shell was covered with scratches, the interior had been meticulously adjusted and optimized.
The small room was cramped and cluttered, its surroundings littered with worn parts and fragments of spirit ore. A few worn mechanical tools and yellowed manuals lay scattered across the table. A dim light streamed down from the spirit stone lamp hanging overhead. Its radiance was as dim as a bean, barely illuminating the corners of the room. The lamp's halo swept across the pile of spirit ore fragments on the table, making their dull patterns appear even more dilapidated.
Xiang Fan stared at the fragments, his brow furrowed. He reached out and picked up a piece, gently stroking its rough surface with his fingertips, muttering softly, "Just a little more. Just another half minute, and I'll be able to test the limit of that movement..."
He looked around, as if searching for something, then leaned over and opened the heavy wooden box beside him. The box was filled with all sorts of debris, old mechanical parts and discarded spiritual ore piled in disorder, emitting a faint smell of rust and the residual fluctuations of spiritual energy. He searched for a long time, even emptying the bottom of the box piece by piece, but he still couldn't find even a single intact piece of spiritual ore.
"No more." Xiang Fan finally stood up, his expression calm but slightly tired. He gritted his teeth and said in a low voice, "Looks like I'll have to save up spirit stones for a few more days before the next trade fair."
He straightened the wooden box, put the messed-up items back in their proper places, and then put away the energy connection tubes on the virtual device, his movements skillful and careful. Although the equipment was no longer new, in his hands, every part was maintained cleanly and neatly, without any unnecessary items.
Xiang Fan stood up and looked out the window. The thin window paper trembled slightly in the night breeze, and the world outside was silent and profound. In the distance, the main peak of the Lingxiao Sword Sect was brightly lit, and the faint light of flying swords could be seen flying through it. It was a place where cultivators gathered, filled with splendor and wealth that he could not touch.
He lowered his eyes, patted his head lightly, and laughed self-deprecatingly, his voice so low that it was almost inaudible: "It's just an ordinary battle, I don't even have enough energy... and you're still thinking that you can hold on for a few more seconds, you're really thinking too much."
Xiang Fan's tone was calm, almost indifferent, as if the stunning comeback he had just completed on the virtual battlefield was nothing more than a meaningless exercise. He wasn't proud of defeating Ling Ruoxi, and even believed that it was just an experiment, an unexpected stroke of luck.
He walked back to the table, his eyes fixed on the fragments, then on a crumpled blueprint. He picked it up and unfolded it, gently tracing his fingers along a spiritual energy transmission line, a look of concentration gradually emerging between his brows.
"However...this kind of design flaw..." Xiang Fan said softly, his tone revealing a certain certainty, "I'll probably encounter it again. This actual combat simulation has already verified some of my conjectures."
He placed the blueprint on the table, resting his forehead on one hand, his eyes slightly lost in thought, as if recalling a thrilling moment in the battle, or perhaps mulling over the next direction for improvement. His speech was slow, as if he were having a conversation with himself, or perhaps summarizing his gains and losses in the lonely depths of the night.
The virtual device had ceased operation, its spiritual ore energy depleted, its cold surface emitting its last vestiges of warmth. Xiang Fan carefully placed the helmet back on the table, as if placing a precious artifact. His gaze lingered on the virtual device for a moment, then he turned and pulled two books from his pillow.
One was a yellowed sword manual, the writing on the cover long blurred, only a few deep creases faintly visible, as if traced by countless flips. The other was a technologically inspired "Mecha Operating Manual," the metallic cover unable to conceal the tattered edges, and the linear designs exuded a cold, hard texture. These two completely different books seemed to symbolize two completely different worlds, yet in Xiang Fan's hands, they seemed to fit together so naturally.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through the manual and finding the middle section, where the movements of several basic sword techniques were meticulously explained. The diagrams on the pages were hazy in the dim light, but he knew every detail by heart. Xiang Fan gestured in the air with his fingers, occasionally pausing, occasionally frowning slightly, as if carefully feeling the force and flow of each move.
"Adjusting the angle of your sword grip slightly will stabilize your force and improve your balance," he whispered, his tone calm, but his fingertips moved with an almost obsessive determination. Every time he practiced, he seemed to be pursuing some kind of ultimate perfection.
After a moment, he closed the sword manual, set it beside him, and picked up the "Mecha Operation Manual." His eyes suddenly lit up, and his fingers traced the lines of the pages, his movements gentle yet solemn, as if he were touching some precious treasure. He quickly flipped to a page with a complex circuit diagram, staring at the densely packed symbols and annotations, muttering to himself.
"So that's how it is... If the movement paths are slightly adjusted, the psychic energy flow should be smoother." Xiang Fan stared at the blueprint, his fingers tracing several imaginary spiritual energy flow paths in the air. Though simple, his movements exuded a calm and precise power. He gently tapped the location of a psychic module on the diagram, and a flash of enlightenment flashed in his eyes. "Adding a psychic reflection module... maybe we can complete the movement connection faster."
His world was quiet and lonely, but at this moment, he was completely immersed in it, his gaze so focused that he seemed to forget everything around him. The light reflected on his profile, outlining a certain stubbornness and seriousness, a side that few people could see on a normal day.
The hut was a mess, with worn-out equipment and spare parts cluttering every corner, yet Xiang Fan seemed to blend in seamlessly. His life seemed peaceful and ordinary, yet it concealed a deep-seated obsession. This was his only battlefield, alone. There were no spectators, no cheers, only a moment of satisfaction from each exploration of swordsmanship and mecha.
From childhood, he'd grown accustomed to being ignored. Whether in the village or within the sect, he remained an obscure presence. With mediocre talent and slow progress, Xiang Fan had never been considered a "genius," let alone a "hope." He never complained, instead habitually focusing on smaller, more concrete tasks: how to make each movement smoother, how to make each mecha operation more efficient.
He put down his book, raised his head, and rubbed his eyes. A faint trace of fatigue was evident at this moment, but there was still no trace of regret or resentment in his eyes. Instead, he looked at the virtual device and the parts scattered on the table, sighed, and muttered to himself, "Go to bed early. I still have to find a way to get the spiritual ore tomorrow."
Silence returned to the house. Under the dim light of the spirit stone, his figure looked ordinary and common, as if the mess in the whole house could conceal his existence.
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