Chrono Cultivator (Xianxia)

[IronLung]

Synopsis

When I, Jian Feng—a cultivator so obscure even village elders laughed at my ambitions—accidentally activated a dusty old artifact, I didn't expect to get a timeless superpower stuck in my soul. Suddenly, I'm not just some nobody meditating in a cave; I'm seeing glimpses of futures, rewinding embarrassing screw-ups, and even speeding up my cultivation like I'm cheating at life itself.

Sounds awesome, right? Yeah, except now every sect, clan, and cranky immortal within a thousand li wants my head—or at least the secret inside it. And if dodging assassination attempts wasn't bad enough, it turns out someone else is already messing around with the timeline. And that jerk has decided there's only room for one Chrono Cultivator in this universe.

Great. Just my luck.

 

[IronLung]

I always thought my life would be measured in spirit stones—how many I could scrape together to bribe an elder, buy a pill, or maybe rent a spot in the back row of a lecture hall. Turns out my life is now measured in heartbeats.

Mine. Stopped.

But I'm getting ahead of myself—literally.

If you asked the so‑called geniuses of Azure Peak Sect to describe me, they'd wave their silk sleeves, wrinkle their perfect noses, and say something like:

"Oh, Jian Feng? That outer‑sect drifter who still hasn't built a proper foundation? The one who carries a broom as often as a blade?"

They aren't wrong. I am a drifter, and yes, I still accept janitorial duties because the pay is one medium‑grade spirit stone a week plus leftover food tokens. You can cultivate on an empty belly, sure—but you can't cultivate well.

So when Senior Brother Meng bragged yesterday about a "worthless, half‑collapsed ruin" in the Emberlight Ravine, my broom‑pushing ears perked up. If the ruin was truly worthless, why hadn't anyone finished looting it? And if they missed something…maybe my empty storage pouch would finally jingle.

That is the official reason I sneaked out of Azure Peak before dawn.

The unofficial reason? I'm sick of sweeping courtyards while disciples who were still learning to write their names when I joined the sect now ride flying swords overhead. Call it jealousy, call it ambition—call it survival. If I don't find a breakthrough soon, I'll be forty years old, stuck at Qi Condensation, and the sect will boot me down the mountain like yesterday's chamber pot.

Emberlight Ravine is a scar of black rock between two crimson ridges, famous for crimson lichen that glows at twilight and poisonous wyverns that nest on the cliffs. It is not famous for polite signage or cleared paths. By the time the sun burned through the morning mist, my robe sleeves were shredded by thornspine vines, and I'd already used my single detoxifying pellet to flush out wyvern venom from a shallow scratch on my calf.

Worth it? Ask future Jian Feng, if he still exists.

I found the ruin at noon. From the outside it looked like a weather‑hollowed shrine: two cracked columns, a lintel carved with strange hourglass symbols, and a stone door half‑swallowed by rubble. Someone—likely Senior Brother Meng—had already broken the simple locking seal. Dusty footprints proved I wasn't the first scavenger here, but they also showed frantic retreat marks. Interesting.

I pressed two fingers to the stone and sent out a thread of spiritual sense. Nothing overtly dangerous. No lingering arrays, no soul‑eating curse glyphs, no "enter here if you wish to be stabbed by reality." Just silence thick enough to choke on.

I stepped inside.

The air tasted of old incense and…something metallic. Timeworn murals lined the narrow corridor: sun‑dial shadows, water clocks, star maps swirling around a central emblem—an empty circle flanked by twelve ancient characters: Chen, Si, Wu… the earthly branches that mark time itself.

A chill licked my spine.

Relax, I told myself. Murals can't hurt you.

"Unless they can," I muttered, remembering Elder Zhang's lecture on spirit‑imbued art that devours viewers' eyes. Encouraging thought. I hurried onward.

The corridor ended at a chamber shaped like an inverted cone. Tiers of crumbling balcony circled overhead, each lined with rusty bronze incensors. At the center squatted a stone pedestal. On that pedestal—a dusty, palm‑sized disk of jade, etched with overlapping clockface markings.

Every cultivator knows what a chance encounter looks like: a glowing herb, a floating sword, a mystical orb chanting your courtesy name in celestial soprano. This disk did none of those. But my heartbeat quickened, and the prickling sense behind my navel—the one that always warns when I'm near something truly valuable—flared hot.

I took one cautious step.

Nothing happened.

Another.

Still nothing.

I reached out, brush‑brushing dust away. The jade was cool—but not cold—in spite of the stale air. As my fingers traced the outer ring, a tiny click echoed like a mantis snipping a thread.

The disk spun.

A heartbeat stretched—rubber‑band thin—then snapped.

Pain slammed through my dantian like molten iron. I doubled over, seeing stars behind my eyes. A tidal wave of something—qi? lightning? cosmic regret?—surged upward, jammed into my meridians, and ricocheted back, fracturing every spiritual pathway I owned.

I should have died, or at least vomited blood in dramatic fashion. Instead, everything froze.

Dust motes hung motionless. My own gasp dangled, half‑formed. An itch on my nose paused mid‑itch. The world was a paused painting.

Only my mind moved, galvanized by agony.

This is it, I thought, absurdly calm. This is how sect rumors start: "Outer disciple Jian Feng found dead in ruin, face twisted like he sniffed rotten tofu."

Time didn't restart. Instead, it folded.

Picture a book: pages flipping backward so fast they blur, then forward just as quickly, but the text changes each pass—countless drafts of reality revising themselves. Flashes paraded before me:

I walk in and trigger a killing array—dead.
I walk in and the disk crumbles—nothing gained.
I walk in and another scavenger arrives first—empty pedestal.
I never hear Senior Brother Meng brag—still sweeping courtyards.

Millions of possibilities, branching like fractal lightning. All gone in an eyeblink.

Then a voice—not sound, but a ripple across my soul:

"Anchor established. Chrono‑Seed accepted. Initiating Temporal Root."

The disk vanished. Not exploded, not teleported—just folded into the and of nowhere. Something burning hot and needle‑thin drilled into my chest, nudging aside muscle and bone as if they were suggestions.

THUMP. My heart restarted. Time surged forward. Dust motes fell.

I collapsed to my knees, gulping stale air. For a long moment I could only clutch my pounding heart and listen to the echo of that voice fade.

My first coherent thought: I didn't die.
Second: What in the Nine Suns just lodged itself in me?
Third: …Do I get to keep it?

I forced a shaky pulse of spiritual sense inward, scanning meridians. To my shock, my dantian hadn't shattered—it expanded. What used to be a misty pond of low‑grade qi was now a spinning vortex, wide as a plate, drawing ambient energy like a hungry tiger. At its core floated a silver seed‑shaped glyph, marking time in tiny ticks.

Every cultivator dreams of a larger dantian, but too much too fast usually means exploding like a ruptured melon. Somehow, I was still intact.

Then I noticed the flow.

Qi no longer trickled through meridians at lazy river pace. It streamed, fast‑forwarded. A circulation loop that once took twelve breaths to complete now finished in one. My entire cultivation cycle accelerated by a factor of twelve.

Anchor established.
Temporal Root.

The phrases made sense now. I hadn't merely swallowed a treasure—I'd rooted the Dao of Time in my own foundation.

I, Jian Feng—outer disciple, broom warrior—had become a Chrono Cultivator.

I let out a laugh so high pitched it startled a roosting bat from the rafters.

Giddy revelation is nice, but empirical evidence is nicer. I picked up a pebble, tossed it mid‑air, and willed the world to slow.

Nothing happened.

I frowned, circulating qi the way manuals describe channeling Sword Intent—focus, intent, resonance. Again I willed.

The pebble paused mid‑arc like a lantern in still water.

My breath caught. Everything else moved at snail speed: dust floated languidly, droplets of my sweat drifted like miniature pearls, the echo of my heartbeat drew out into an oceanic drumbeat.

I snapped my fingers.

Sound crawled—snick—like a reed flute dragged across sludge.

I released the intent. The pebble finished its fall, struck the stone floor with an ordinary tock. Time resumed its usual river rush.

I exhaled a shaky laugh. "I can stop…time." Saying it aloud felt sacrilegious.

Power? Yes. But power is currency that invites taxes collectors with swords.

A whisper of qi left me after the stunt—more than I expected. I repeated the thumb test twice more with smaller pebbles. Each time, fatigue gnawed deeper. The third attempt ended with me slumping against a pillar, lungs burning.

Lesson: manipulating time costs more qi than my expanded vortex generates in a minute. Still, a minute's rest restored half my reserves—insanely fast by normal standards. At full strength, I could probably freeze reality for several breaths. Enough to dodge an attack, open a door, or, if I'm honest, steal meat buns from the inner‑sect cafeteria.

A sensible cultivator would head back to the sect, hide new abilities, and plan a cautious breakthrough strategy.

I am not sensible.

Because while I was testing pebbles, the chamber ceiling began to glow: lines of runes ignited in rings, cascading down tiers like dominoes. I'd activated a second mechanism—and this one didn't feel friendly.

Stone ground against stone overhead. Rubble tumbled. A slab the size of a wagon lid dropped toward me.

I froze it mid‑fall, heart hammering.

"Not dying to architecture today," I muttered. I dashed aside, released time. The slab smashed the pedestal to powder.

More runes flashed crimson: a chain reaction. The entire ruin was about to collapse or explode—both, judging by the rising hum.

Decision time.

Instinct screamed "run," but corridors were already trembling, ceiling shedding rocks. Even with time‑freeze bursts, I might not outrun a full structural implosion.

Another instinct—new, raw—whispered something crazier: undo.

Could I rewind? I had glimpsed alternate timelines during the disk's implantation. Maybe that preview wasn't a one‑time show.

I closed my eyes, poured qi into the silver seed. Tick.

Reality rippled. The world blinked…and I stood before the pedestal again, moments before my pebble tests, ceiling inert.

I staggered, nausea twisting my gut. Tiny cracks laced my meridians—rewinding hurt worse than freezing. But it worked. I'd bought back fifteen minutes.

Better plan: take the disk—oh wait, it fused with me—then leave before tripwire runes triggered.

I turned to exit.

A figure blocked the corridor.

He wore ragged black robes, face hidden behind a bone‑white half‑mask. A faint killing intent rolled off him, acidic as old blood.

"Step aside," I said, trying not to sound winded.

He tilted his head. "You carry the Chrono Seed."

Not a question. Not good.

"I carry nothing valuable," I lied.

He raised a hand. His qi…felt wrong—a sluggish undertow, like riverwater turning to tar. Time around his palm curdled, slow yet heavy. He, too, touched the Dao of Time, but in a corrupted flavor.

Someone else is already messing around with the timeline. The earlier dread returned, now wearing flesh.

"I am the Prior," he rasped. "By order of the Temporal Court, anomaly Jian Feng must be erased."

My stomach plummeted. "Erased is a strong word…"

He flicked his wrist. Blades of dull gray light fanned out, each vibrating with slowed‑down lethality. I tried to dodge—too late.

Freeze!

The world paused. I stepped sideways, the blades halting mid‑whirr. But fatigue hit me like a sledgehammer. Black spots rimmed my vision. Holding the freeze longer than a breath threatened to shut down my heart.

I released. The blades sliced empty air, thudding into the far wall.

The Prior clicked his tongue. "A fledgling Chrono doesn't outrun the Court."

He lunged.

I drew my only weapon—a reinforced broom handle etched with minor sharpness runes. Inner disciples laugh at it, but sweeping tools teach reach and leverage.

We clashed. His corrupted time‑qi slowed my strikes, turning wood into treacle. I compensated by rewinding micro‑seconds, repositioning broom head to parry at unnatural angles.

Each trick drained qi like bleeding an artery. Tick, tick. My vortex trembled; the silver seed pulsed warm, yet my meridians frayed.

"You degrade already," Prior observed, mask expressionless.

"Just…warming up," I panted.

He thrust palm‑first. A sphere of dilated time ejected—space inside it looked syrup‑thick. I froze the sphere, then rewound myself two steps back, letting gravity drag Prior into his own attack radius. For a blink he was caught in his bubble, movement glacial.

I sprinted past him—straight toward the exit corridor.

Behind me, runes flared again. Either the Prior's presence or my stunt triggered the collapse timeline I'd already previewed. Stones began raining.

I felt rather than saw the Prior break free, fury spiking in my senses.

Exiting the shrine, I vaulted rubble, ribs screaming. Outside, Emberlight Ravine's sky blazed with high‑noon glare. A single thought pounded: Get high ground.

I channeled qi to my legs, leapt onto a ledge. The ruin's entrance shuddered; dust belched out. No sign of the Prior yet.

Could I rewind farther? My meridians ached—another large jump might cripple me. Freeze likewise hovered at dangerous consumption levels.

Ahead lay the ravine's spine: a natural rock bridge no wider than a doorway, spanning a fifty‑meter chasm. Cross it, and I'd meld into twisted canyons where even Golden Core elders hesitate to fly—too narrow.

Risky, but better than waiting to be "erased."

I dashed onto the bridge.

Halfway across, a crack thundered behind me. The Prior burst through collapsing stones, mask chipped, robes dusted gray. He didn't pursue on foot. He raised two fingers; time thickened beneath him, forming a slow‑motion platform that carried him forward like surf on molasses.

Show‑off.

I reached the far end, slid down a gravel slope, and turned a corner—only to find the path dead‑ended at a cliff overlooking deeper ravines.

Great. Behind, footsteps almost on me, though slowed.

I spotted a withered sapling clinging to the cliff face, its roots gripping a seam of iron‑rich rock. Inspiration struck.

I jammed my broom handle between root and rock, levered hard. The seam cracked; stones trickled.

The Prior stepped onto the narrow path. "Cornered."

"Confidence," I wheezed, "suits you."

I rewound three heartbeats—just enough to reposition further up‑slope, still hidden from his immediate view.

My past self—now ghosted by timeline editing—jammed the broom again. This time the entire seam fractured. The ledge under the Prior's foot sheared away.

His platform faltered; the distorted qi bubble tried to compensate but misaligned. For one precious second, gravity reasserted itself.

He fell.

I stopped rewinding, merging with the sole surviving timeline. My head spun, blood seeping from my nose.

Far below, a dull whump signaled the Prior slamming into a lower ravine shelf. Not fatal to a cultivator of his caliber, but buying me minutes.

I staggered away from the cliff, deeper into the maze of canyons. Each step throbbed through torn meridians. My vision blurred.

At last I found a hollow under an overhang, shielded from direct sight. I crawled inside and let consciousness drift.

Blackness came, laced with strange pulses—like distant drums echoing across an ocean of years. Dreams unspooled:

Mountains eroding in reverse, rivers flowing upward, stars pirouetting backwards to the Big Bang, an ancient throne room where robed figures with clocks for faces pass judgment over twisting timelines…

Through it all, a whisper:

"Grow, little seed. The Clockwork Cosmos watches."

I awoke to pain, but also stability. Cracks in my meridians had knitted, faint silver scars lining each pathway. My dantian vortex spun steadier, energy cool and fresh—as if my body itself had rewound to a healthier state.

A boon? Or a silent tax I haven't yet calculated?

Dusk painted Emberlight Ravine in blood‑orange hues. I estimated three hours passed. Plenty of time for the Prior to climb back up—assuming he survived.

I had to return to Azure Peak. Hide. Gather manuals on temporal theory—if any existed. And most importantly, figure out who or what the Temporal Court was.

I rose on shaking legs.

A small pebble rolled by my foot, carried by a gust. I knelt, pocketed it—a reminder of the thumb test, of simple experiments that birthed impossible power.

As I turned toward the long trek home, a shadow detached from a boulder across the clearing.

The Prior, robe torn, mask half‑shattered, eyes gleaming midnight blue.

He raised a hand—and time convulsed. Everything in a ten‑meter radius distorted, rocks bending like wax, air warping.

"Anomaly," he hissed, voice reverberating, "there is always time enough to kill."

My reserves were barely half‑full. No ledges to collapse, no easy rewinds left without self‑destructing. He stepped closer, slowing each of my heartbeats to a crawl.

I clenched fists around raw fear, summoned every drop of qi my vortex could spare, and prepared to gamble with the timeline once more.