The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

The southern forest, rich with spiritual energy, was the kind of place that made even the laziest cultivator consider sitting cross-legged and pretending to meditate. Everything about it breathed serenity and strength.

Ancient trees stood tall and proud, their canopies swaying gracefully in the breeze. The rustle of grass whispered ancient lullabies, the kind that made you want to lie down and reflect on life—or take a really good nap. Birds chirped cheerfully overhead, almost definitely gossiping about the weird humans wandering below.

Song Meiyu, naturally declared it the perfect place for a picnic and a breakthrough. She had already picked a patch of moss she claimed was ideal for aligning spiritual meridians—though it also happened to be suspiciously soft and nap-worthy.

Shen Zhenyu glanced around with a subtle nod, the kind of man who could appreciate the forest's grandeur while simultaneously calculating how many bandits could be hiding behind each bush.

He Yuying looked slightly paranoid, possibly sensing every tree as a potential ambush, or perhaps just concerned about stepping on another "herb" and triggering a botany lecture from Song Meiyu.

Meanwhile, Linyue… simply looked out at the forest with quiet calm, as though she belonged there all along—just another mystery tucked between the trees.

Altogether, it was a scene straight out of a cultivation manual's ideal chapter: beautiful forest, rich spiritual energy, a team of eccentric cultivators, and just the right mix of peace and suspicion.

After all, cultivation wasn't all about shouting cool moves into the air—though, to be fair, that did happen a lot.

Real cultivation was about resonating with the world's natural energies—spiritual energy. There were five primary elements of spiritual energy: Fire, Wind, Water, Earth, and Lightning. Every cultivator is born with an innate affinity to one of these spiritual energies, which shape their path and techniques. Lightning cultivators, however, were rarer than honest politicians. You could count them on one hand—and still have fingers left for snacks. Earth cultivators, on the other hand, were as common as dirt.

Becoming a cultivator wasn't as simple as declaring, "I shall now be powerful!" and expecting the heavens to applaud. One had to resonate with the spiritual energy around them. Like tuning an invisible string or humming a melody only the trees could hear. And this wasn't something you could force. It was, as the elders liked to say, "either you feel it, or you don't." Brutal, but true.

Some were born with the gift, their souls already singing in harmony with one of the five elements. The rest were blessed with very normal, very safe lives as butchers, bakers, and occasionally very bitter merchants who resented their cousin's "blessed bloodline."

And as one might expect, the number of those who could cultivate was much smaller than those who couldn't.

The way cultivation worked—no matter your element—was all about resonance. The better you could attune to these energies, the more spiritual energy they could absorb. The more you absorbed—the more likely you were to dramatically blast open doors instead of using the handle like a normal person.

Becoming a cultivator came with some impressive perks. One could leap over rooftops like a theatrical squirrel, throw fireballs (or water balls, if that was your thing), and even walk around looking deeply mysterious in the rain without catching a cold.

But perhaps the biggest brag of all?

Cultivators didn't need to eat, sleep, or snack anymore.

Once spiritual energy began flowing through your meridians, you were technically above such mundane needs. Cultivators were supposed to be refined beings—nourished entirely by the essence of nature. The energy circulating through their bodies strengthened them, gradually replacing the need for food, drink, or sleep.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to work.

In practice?

Let's just say the "no eating or sleeping" thing worked great until you accidentally blasted yourself halfway across a meadow trying to show off your new fire technique.

When your precious spiritual energy ran low—after an epic battle, a failed breakthrough, or an unfortunate experiment, you'd find yourself right back where you started: hungry, cranky, and curled up in a blanket muttering about porridge.

Even the most ancient, beard-stroking masters had been caught in the act of sneaking snacks behind scroll shelves. It was something of an open secret in the cultivation world. Ask any elder about it, and they'd squint at you wisely and mutter:

"Cultivation may fuel the soul…but hot soup fuels the body."

Even in a world where cultivators transcend mortal needs, the fundamental act of reproduction remains rooted in natural processes—just supercharged by spiritual energy. The reproductive system is reinforced by spiritual energy circulation. Fertility can be suppressed or enhanced through controlled energy flow.

A male cultivator condenses his essence into spiritual "seeds" infused with his elemental affinity. The female cultivator nurtures it using her own spiritual energy. This delicate process explained why cross-element unions were rare—clashing energies can backfire with explosive consequences. Literally. Nobody wanted their romantic moment interrupted by a backfiring clash of fire and wind energies.

All jokes aside, a cultivator's greatness wasn't just measured by how little sleep they needed. It came down to cultivation stages—a fancy way of saying "how likely are you to glow dramatically when entering a room?"

There were four major stages of cultivation, each more impressive—and more prone to causing unnecessarily strong wind gusts—than the last.

The first stage was the Early stage, also known (to make it sound more spiritual) as the Resonance Stage. This was where it all began: the stage where cultivators first learned to sense and absorb spiritual energy from their surroundings.

To progress, one had to attune to their innate elemental affinity—Fire, Wind, Water, Earth, or Lightning. It was a multi-step process: perceiving spiritual energy, drawing it into the body, purging impurities to allow smoother flow, forming a faint elemental aura, and finally, solidifying a spiritual core for future breakthroughs.

Cultivators at this level spent an impressive amount of time meditating dramatically under waterfalls—hoping the water was responding to their inner wisdom, when really it was just gravity. But that didn't stop them from staring meaningfully at their reflection and pretending the mist was actually a sign from the universe.

Most importantly, this is when the village aunties stop laughing and start saying, "Well, maybe the child's not entirely useless."

The second stage was Middle stage, where things actually started working. Sort of. The cultivator and their spiritual energy begin to move together like a duet—though occasionally out of tune. This stage focused on refining spiritual energy and enhancing both physical and spiritual capabilities. The process included strengthening the skeletal structure, improving vitality and healing, reinforcing internal organs, allowing spiritual energy to flow more smoothly through the body, and—finally—unleashing stronger elemental attacks.

They can now summon modest displays of power. Fire cultivators can cook without matches and wind cultivators can finally pull off that dramatic hair flip where the wind actually responds.

At this stage, people start calling them "promising" instead of "delusional." It was progress.

The third was Late stage. Cultivators at this level mastered control over their element, they refined they spiritual energy into purer, denser form. Their attacks are refined, their techniques powerful. They didn't just use their element—they commanded it. Fire curled around their fingers. Wind danced at their feet.

At this point, they'd earned the right to brood dramatically on cliffs and wear flowing robes that always seemed to blow in the right direction, no matter the weather.

And finally—there was the Peak Stage, also known (with appropriate reverence) as the Mythic Stage. Peak cultivators didn't just control their element—they are the element. Their command over spiritual energy was so absolute, they could shape it into a weapon—one forged entirely from their spirit and will.

Of course, creating a spiritual weapon wasn't easy.

It took immense energy, sharp focus, and the kind of patience usually only seen in saints or very stubborn people. Most cultivators failed several times before succeeding. But once formed, a spiritual weapon was a part of them. It could be summoned or dismissed at will. It couldn't be broken. As long as they had spiritual energy left, the weapon would always answer their call.

Sometimes, if a disciple reached the Peak Stage—and their master was either feeling generous or too lazy to watch them struggle—said master might gift them a legendary weapon of their own. So long as the disciple shared the same elemental affinity, they could wield it too.

And thus, the ancient tradition of "I'm proud of you, take this absurdly powerful sword and don't die" continued through the generations.

But between each of these glorious stages were the five proficiency levels—a spiritual staircase that every cultivator had to climb, one slow, agonizing step at a time. No elevator. No shortcuts. No one got to skip steps just because they yelled really loud or had dramatic backstories. They must climb slowly, diligently, level by level.

Most cultivators spend years trying to move from Level One to Level Two, often while being chased by debt collectors, demons, or their own mistakes.