About nine hours after starting the game, Leo was ready to begin training his divine sense with Mike.

  Kevin had bought Leo a beginners divine sense meter delivered via 1 hour Amazon delivery service, and Leo tested his divine sense offline, 0.1 Si (Spirit Threads).

  Apparently he needed to get to an absurd amount of at least 20,000 Si to have a chance at creating the formation. Maybe even much higher if the formation ended up being a 'forbidden' one.

  "Which is why we have a shortcut." Arthur had explained earlier, his voice carried an edge that Leo found deeply concerning.

  Kevin gave Leo a strange look, one that seemed almost apologetic, before logging off to earn some money drawing formations. Arthur, inexplicably, went off to explore without taking the saber they had claimed from Wei Tuo.

  That should have been Leo's first warning sign.

  Mike's teaching style could generously be described as "careless."

  "You'll learn about divine sense theory in high school," he said, waving away Leo's questions. "I'm just going to help you strengthen it."

  "But how does divine sense even work? What am I actually developing?"

  "Make sure you have the dictionary completely saved offline." Mike ignored the question entirely. "And save our phone numbers so you can contact us on Earth if the training is... successful."

  "If? What do you mean 'if'?"

  Mike didn't answer. He just pulled out his saber, his movements taking on an increasingly mechanical quality.

  When they were finally settled, Mike delivered the explanation Leo had been dreading.

  "Okay Leo, here's how this works." Mike's voice was calm, professional, completely at odds with the horror of his words. "We're going to exploit the fact that you will... hopefully... revive every three hours."

  "Hopefully?" Leo's voice cracked. "What do you mean hopefully?"

  "There are many aspects of divine sense training," Mike continued as if Leo hadn't spoken. "Control, plasticity, quality, all of these can be trained through weeks of normal study. But raw Si? Pure divine sense quantity? That's harder."

  "Mike, you're scaring me."

  Mike gripped Leo's arm, his Foundation Establishment strength making escape impossible. "Didn't you read the game rules? Players revive on death. The question is whether that applies to destruction of divine sense."

  "Destruction of..." Leo's blood ran cold. "What are you going to do to me?"

  Mike's expression was complicated. Something that might have been guilt flickered behind his eyes.

  "The three of us agreed to this," he said. "If it works, you'll become a formation genius. You'll make a fortune. You'll be set for life."

  "And if it doesn't work?"

  "Then you won't be anything at all."

  Leo thrashed in Mike's grip, but the Foundation Establishment cultivator held him as easily as a parent holding a tantrum-throwing toddler.

  "I'm going to use my divine sense to push your consciousness against this saber," Mike explained, his voice taking on a clinical detachment.

  "The collision will... destroy your divine sense completely. Theoretically, upon reformation, your divine sense will absorb residual energy from both my attack and the weapon itself."

  "Theoretically?!" Leo screamed. "What do you mean theoretically?!"

  "Arthur was involved in some scientific studies back in the day. POW research, officially classified." Mike's jaw tightened. "The technique definitely works. Divine sense grows stronger through destruction and reformation. The problem is that normal humans suffer brain death after one or two attempts."

  "Then why would you..."

  "Because you're in a game." Mike positioned Leo so that his head rested directly on the flat of the Flowing Cloud Sword. The cold steel pressed against his temple. "Arthur believes the game's revival mechanics will protect you enough to survive one trial. And if you survive one..."

  "Then the game should protect me forever," Leo whispered, understanding dawning with terrible clarity.

  "Hopefully." Mike's hand covered Leo's mouth, muffling his protests. "Make sure to call me when you wake up. We all want to know if you survive."

  Then Mike dropped the hammer.

  Three thousand Si of Foundation Establishment divine sense crashed down.

  Leo's skull cracked under the invisible weight. The pressure invaded his ear canals like molten lead, forcing its way through bone and tissue into the soft grey matter of his brain.

  The sword's cold Qi acted as an anvil, and Mike's divine sense was the hammer. Leo's fragile awareness was caught between them, compressed, crushed, ground into spiritual paste.

  Every nerve ending in his metaphysical body fired simultaneously. A symphony of white-hot agony bypassed his nervous system entirely, assaulting the core of his existence with pain that transcended physical sensation.

  Blood sprayed from his nose and ears in a fine mist, splattering across the blue steel. His eyes rolled back, showing only white. His body convulsed once, twice, and then went terrifyingly still.

  With a wet, sickening pop inside his cranium, it was over.

  Mike stood up slowly, his face pale, his hands trembling.

  ---

  Earth

  Leo bolted upright in the cramped darkness of the VR pod.

  His forehead slammed into the hard plastic cover with enough force to leave a bruise. His lungs heaved, dragging in air for a raw, ragged shriek that shattered the silence of his parents' suburban mansion.

  He was alive.

  He was alive.

  The realization should have brought relief. Instead, it brought only the memory.

  Leo clawed at his face, ripping the haptic visor off with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. The sensation of Mike grinding his consciousness into paste lingered like a brand, seared into his psyche. He would never forget that moment. Never forget the cold steel and the warm blood and the absolute certainty of his own annihilation.

  He scrambled out of the pod, his legs refusing to support his weight, and collapsed onto the expensive carpet. He curled into a fetal ball, still howling, clutching his temples as if trying to hold his skull together.

  Upstairs, heavy footsteps shook the ceiling.

  "Leo!"

  The door to the den burst open. Mrs. Chen blurred across the room, Foundation Establishment speed carrying her to his side in an instant.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands glowed with soft, soothing green light as she pressed them against his temples, diagnostic techniques activating automatically.

  "Leo! Breathe! Circulate your breath!" Her voice trembled with a fear Leo had never heard from her before. "What happened? What did you do to yourself?"

  Leo couldn't answer. He was dry heaving into the shag carpet, his eyes wide and bloodshot, seeing double. Every time he blinked, he saw Mike Ross's grimace.

  "Who did this to you?" Mrs. Chen demanded, her Qi flaring with protective maternal fury. She hadn't seen Leo in this state since he was an infant, crying inconsolably through teething.

  Leo's mind, still fragmented and reeling, latched onto a single thought: revenge.

  Mike had done this. Mike had crushed his consciousness without hesitation, without remorse, treating him like a lab rat in some sick experiment.

  In a moment of vindictive clarity, Leo pointed at his phone and screamed: "Mike!"

  Mrs. Chen snatched the device from the floor. Her fingers flew across the screen, finding Mike Ross in Leo's contact list. She hit call immediately.

  The phone rang twice before Mike answered.

  "Hello? Leo, is that..."

  "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY SON?!"

  Mike's voice remained impossibly calm. "Mrs. Chen, I presume? Please, let me explain."

  Mike Ross was many things: a former soldier, a stay-at-home dad, a man with questionable ethics regarding fourteen-year-old test subjects. But above all, he was experienced at one crucial skill.

  Calming down hysterical women.

  It was, after all, an essential talent for any stay-at-home parent. Crying babies, frustrated spouses, concerned relatives, Mike had dealt with them all. Mrs. Chen was just another challenge.

  With practiced ease, Mike spun a web of half-truths and careful misdirection.

  "Wait so you are telling me his Si increased from 0.1 to 0.2 in just one training as a Mortal?" Mrs. Chen questioned Mike over the phone.

  "Yes exactly! Your son has a special constitution. We have a safe, but very painful way of training people like your son. With his special constitution he can receive great benefits to his divine sense cultivation. It should be no problem for him to reach 3000 Si before college."

  "3000 Si!" Mrs. Chen gasped, "That could get him a full ride to Harvard."

  "Mrs. Chen, can you do something for me, can you inspect his divine sense for any damage? All the other candidates we've tried had serious damage to their divine sense after training." Mike continued.

  This was actually true, in the POW torture experiments, reformulated divine sense looked more like applesauce than a sphere.

  Mrs. Chen, as an experienced surgeon did a full inspection.

  "His divine sense looks perfect! In fact it looks brand new, without any of the damage from playing video games. Is my son a talent?"

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Leo listened to this exchange through a haze of pain and residual trauma. Part of him wanted to scream the truth, to tell his mother that these people had murdered him, that they were using him as a test subject for techniques that had killed previous candidates.

  But another part, the proud transmigrator part, was already counting the gains. Thinking about his future as an unparalleled cultivator. Dreaming of the La Ferrari Eclipse.

  "How much does this training program cost?" Mrs. Chen was asking. Her voice had shifted from fury to the clinical tone she used when negotiating with hospital administrators.

  "The program itself is only $899 a month," Mike replied. "But the real expense is the spirit calming medicine. The training is traumatic, equivalent to experiencing death. Without proper pharmaceutical support, the psychological damage would accumulate."

  "What tier of medicine?"

  "Tier 2 Spirit Calming Tea at minimum, administered every three hours after each session. Tier 3 would be optimal for faster progress."

  Mrs. Chen's fingers flew across Leo's phone, pulling up prices. Bulk discounts brought Tier 1 down to $5 per portion, Tier 2 to $39, and Tier 3 to $299.

  She did the math. Tier 3 tea, administered every three hours, eight times per day for year-round training...

  Mrs. Chen looked down at her son. Leo was still trembling, still pale, still clearly traumatized. He looked pitiful. More pitiful than she'd ever seen him.

  $634,000 annually, plus the $899 monthly program fee. They could barely afford it. She would have to pick up some locums on the weekend to pay for it. But her son's future was at stake.

  "I'll order him the best, Tier 3," she said firmly. "But I want to see results. Monthly progress reports. And if he misses a single training session, I expect to be notified immediately."

  "Of course, Mrs. Chen. We're partners in your son's success."

  "Partners," she repeated flatly. "My husband and I work twelve-hour days to afford opportunities like this. Leo better be diligent. He better attend every session without complaint."

  She looked at her son again, her expression softening slightly.

  "This is your future, Leo. This is your path to immortality. Don't waste it."

  Leo, still curled on the carpet, managed a weak nod.

  ---

  The spirit medicine worked. Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to throw money at it.

  The delivery drone arrived within the hour, depositing a lacquered wooden box containing a dozen portions of Tier 3 Spirit Calming Tea on the Chen family doorstep.

  Leo brewed the first portion according to the instructions printed on silk paper inside the lid. The leaves unfurled in boiling water like sleeping butterflies awakening, releasing a fragrance that seemed to bypass his nose entirely and settle directly into his traumatized consciousness.

  He drank.

  The effect was immediate. The phantom sensation of his skull being crushed, the echo of Mike's divine sense grinding him into paste, all of it receded like a tide pulling back from shore. His hands stopped shaking. His breathing steadied. The world came back into focus.

  This was what wealth could buy. Money truly could purchase happiness.

  That was assuming Leo was able to enjoy it.

  "Divine sense cultivation is the foundation of all Dao Arts," Mrs. Chen lectured, pacing back and forth across the den while Leo tried to enjoy his absurdly expensive tea.

  "Formation masters, artifact refiners, array specialists, every single one requires exceptional divine sense."

  "I know, Mom."

  "A cultivator with 3000 Si can earn six figures straight out of college without ever risking their life in combat. You could work at a hospital, a research lab, a Fortune 500 company's spiritual security division..."

  "I know."

  "When I was your age, we didn't have opportunities like this. We had to fight tooth and nail for every advancement. You're being handed a golden ticket on a silver platter."

  Leo nodded along, having learned from his father that agreement was the path of least resistance.

  When he mentioned wanting to become a formation master, Mrs. Chen's eyes lit up. She was already reaching for her phone, ready to hire tutors, when she paused.

  Her expression shifted as she ran the calculations.

  "Actually," she said slowly, "Mike is right. Learning formation theory is inefficient at this stage. With divine sense this low, you'd spend more time recovering from mistakes than actually practicing. Better to focus on pure Si accumulation first."

  By now, Mr. Chen had been roused from his bed and briefed on the situation. He stood in the doorway in his pajamas, blinking sleep from his eyes, nodding along to his wife's explanation.

  "Whatever you think is best, dear," he said when she finished.

  Happy wife, happy life. Mr. Chen had long ago mastered that particular cultivation technique.

  Leo's phone buzzed.

  A text from Mike: Three hours is up. Ready for round two?

  Leo's stomach dropped. He looked at the half-empty cup of tea in his hands, at the remaining eleven portions in the lacquered box.

  Each portion cost nearly $300. The box represented almost $3,600 in spirit medicine. His parents had invested this much because they believed in his potential.

  He couldn't refuse.

  "I have to go back," he said quietly.

  Mrs. Chen patted his shoulder. "Work hard. Remember, every session brings you closer to Harvard."

  The second death was somehow worse than the first.

  Leo knew what was coming. He had time to anticipate, to dread, to feel his heart rate climb as he logged back into the Azure Profound Continent and found Mike waiting beside the Flowing Cloud Sword.

  "Ready?" Mike asked.

  "No."

  "Good. Honesty is healthy." Mike positioned Leo on the cold steel. "Same as before. Try to relax into it."

  "That's the worst advice I've ever heard."

  "Probably."

  Mike's divine sense descended.

  The pain was just as absolute as before. Just as all-consuming. Leo's consciousness shattered against the anvil of the sword, fragmenting into pieces too small to hold thought or memory or self.

  He died.

  He woke up screaming.

  This time, Mrs. Chen was ready. The second portion of tea was already brewed, steam rising from the cup she pressed into his trembling hands.

  Leo drank. The screaming subsided. The world reassembled itself.

  "0.3 Si," Mrs. Chen announced, checking the meter. Her smile was radiant. "Another 0.1 increase. The training is working beautifully."

  She called Mike immediately, gushing about the results.

  Leo lay on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if this was what the rest of his summer would look like.

  ---

  It was.

  Leo had three weeks before he was set to leave for Exeter Daoist Academy, and those three weeks became the most miserable stretch of his young life.

  The mathematics were simple and brutal.

  His death cooldown was three hours. That meant eight possible training sessions per day, though in practice he rarely managed more than seven before his body simply refused to cooperate.

  Seven deaths per day. Twenty-one deaths per week.

  Approximately 147 deaths over three weeks.

  Unlike the other three members of his team, Leo couldn't benefit from the Otherworldly Demon Summoning formation's rest function. He was constantly on cooldown, constantly recovering, constantly preparing for the next session.

  He brewed tea by the gallon. He measured his portions with the precision of a pharmacist. He developed a routine: wake up, log in, die, log out, drink tea, pass out, repeat.

  Sometimes he barely had the energy to position himself on the sword. He would simply collapse onto the cold steel and wait for Mike's divine sense to flatten him.

  "You're getting stronger," Mike observed during week two. Leo's Si had climbed to 12.4, an astonishing rate of progress.

  "Doesn't feel like it."

  "The flattening is taking longer. Your divine sense is resisting more."

  This was true, and it was terrible news. The resistance meant the process hurt more. Instead of a quick crushing impact, Leo now endured extended seconds of grinding pressure, his consciousness slowly compressed rather than instantly destroyed.

  But there was one silver lining.

  The recovery, at least, was getting easier. Each reformation felt more natural, less jarring. Leo spent less time screaming after each session and more time coherent.

  He used that time to learn the language.

  Thankfully, Earth had recently developed Large Language Models. While LLMs were generally useless for most practical applications, their ability to assist with translation and language practice made them perfect for Leo's needs.

  Kevin, paranoid about security, had purchased and configured a local LLM installation that ran entirely offline. Leo practiced Common for hours each day, feeding the AI examples from the dictionary and having it generate conversation exercises.

  The group couldn't bring the LLM into the game world, which meant Leo would be the dedicated translator for any interactions with locals. The responsibility weighed on him, but it also gave him purpose beyond being a Leo shaped silly putty.

  Between sessions, when the tea had done its work and his hands were steady enough to hold a phone, Leo sometimes checked in on the rest of the operation.

  Arthur had excavated the tomb into something resembling an underground fortress. The Spirit Vein was fully exposed, a river of concentrated Qi flowing beneath their feet, and the cultivators spent their free time absorbing its energy, pushing their stagnant cultivation forward.

  After years of saving money, maintaining their cultivation at the entry level of Foundation Establishment, it was a joy to walk on the Immortal path again.

  Wei Tuo, their prisoner, had grown increasingly despondent. He refused to eat, muttering prayers to gods that apparently had no power in this tomb. Mike had already told Leo they planned on executing the man soon, and it seemed as though Wei Tuo knew it too.

  The bad news came during week three.

  Mike and Kevin had been analyzing the Great Otherworldly Demon Summoning formation, trying to understand its construction well enough to eventually create higher-tier versions.

  "It's forbidden," Kevin announced grimly. "A forbidden formation."

  Leo looked up. "What does that mean?"

  "Forbidden formations are exponentially more complex than standard ones. The divine sense requirements to create them are... significant."

  "How significant?"

  Mike and Kevin exchanged glances.

  "Standard Tier 3 formations require about 20,000 Si to create," Kevin said. "This one, based on our analysis, requires approximately 60,000 Si."

  The number hung in the air.

  Leo had reached 56.3 Si after three weeks of constant death and reformation. At his current rate of progress, reaching 60,000 would take...

  "Poor Mike," Kevin said, shaking his head. "This is going to get rough for him."

  Leo blinked. "What do you mean, poor Mike? I'm the one getting flattened eight times a day."

  Kevin ignored him. "Mike's divine sense is about 3000 Si. Right now, crushing you is already getting harder and harder. By the time you hit 200 Si, each session will require real effort from him. By 300..."

  "He'll be the one needing recovery time," Arthur finished. "His divine sense will be grinding against yours for extended periods. The backlash will start affecting him too."

  "That doesn't seem fair, I'm the one dying!" Leo said, trying to elect pity for himself.

  Arthur misunderstood Leo's intention. "You're right that we can't sustain this approach forever. Which is why we need the Divine Sense Press."

  "Divine Sense Press?"

  "The sword works fine for mortal-level training," Arthur explained. "But it relies entirely on Mike's personal divine sense to do the crushing. As you grow stronger, we need to automate the process. A properly constructed press can channel and amplify divine sense from external sources."

  "So instead of Mike crushing me directly..."

  "The press does the work. Mike just monitors and adjusts. In fact you probably could do it yourself too." Arthur leaned back. "More importantly, we can use sources of divine sense far more powerful than anything Mike could personally generate. A Tier 3 press could channel the equivalent of 50,000 Si. A Half-Step Tier 4 could go even higher. The crushing force scales with the source, which means your growth rate scales too."

  "Where do we get something like that?"

  "We'll commission it." Arthur shrugged. "The press doesn't require any of our core secrets. We can hire a local craftsman to build the complicated parts. After all, if anyone tries to steal it and use it themselves..."

  He mimed an explosion with his hands.

  "They achieve instant reincarnation."

  ---

  By the time Leo's three weeks were up, his Si had climbed to 60.1.

  His mom had called every relative she could think of, casually dropping Leo's numbers into conversation the way other mothers bragged about SAT scores. His dad kept pulling up the La Ferrari Eclipse product page on the Costco website and doing mental math at the dinner table.

  The night before his departure to Exeter, his dad found him in his room, packing.

  "You know what a 60.1 Si means?" his dad said from the doorway.

  "It means I have good divine sense."

  "It means you might be able to lifebond with a La Ferrari Eclipse by next summer." His dad stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. "The sword requires Foundation Establishment divine sense to initiate the bond. But with growth like yours, you could hit the threshold while you're still in Qi Refining."

  His dad was doing the thing again. The same thing he'd done at Costco, standing in front of that glass case. Except this time he wasn't looking at a sword. He was looking at Leo.

  "The Eclipse will give you High Gold Core combat power, Leo. You'll be fifteen years old with the combat strength of a Gold Core Superior."

  Leo's hands stopped halfway through folding a shirt. He held it there, fingers pressed into the fabric, the words catching up to him in pieces.

  He'd spent three weeks dying and watching the number climb. It had been a score on a screen, something to grind toward between respawns. He'd never sat down and asked what the number actually meant, or what he could do with his divine sense.

  "Wait," Leo said. "From the sword we saw at Costco?"

  His dad smiled. "The very same one we saw at the start of summer."

  High Gold Core combat power. Off a retail flying sword sitting in a glass case between the toilet paper and the olive oil. The absurdity of it crashed into the magnitude of it and Leo started laughing.

  His dad squeezed his shoulder once.

  Leo went to sleep thinking about red steel and open sky, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't dream about dying.