Data-Driven Cultivation: I Defy Heaven and Overthrow Interstellar Domestication

The battle in the outer courtyard lasted only about half a cup of tea.

When the dust settled, more than thirty inner disciples, who usually held their heads high, lay sprawled on the ground. Groans rose and fell, but no one could get up.

The news traveled faster than the mountain wind. In less than an hour, the entire Qingyun Sect was in an uproar. From the woodcutters at the foot of the mountain to the elite senior brothers in the inner sect halls, everyone was chanting the same name—Xie Yanchen.

To be honest, three days ago, if you mentioned this name, everyone would just scoff: "Useless. Mixed spiritual roots, cultivation stagnant for three years, bottom of the outer sect, wouldn't even make a splash in a crowd."

But now?

That "good-for-nothing" who had been holed up in the outer sect for three years slapped everyone in the inner sect until their faces were swollen. Without using any magic or fancy tricks, he beat over thirty elites at the fourth and fifth levels of Qi Refining to the point of questioning their existence, all with his bare fists.

On the outer sect side, the atmosphere was even more lively than during the New Year. Years of pent-up frustration had finally been released. Before, the inner sect members, relying on their superior spiritual roots, bullied the outer sect like they were their grandchildren, and no one dared to utter a sound. Now, Xie Yanchen's battle wasn't just about people; it was about upholding the rules.

But this joy turned into malice when it reached the inner sect.

When Zhou Cheng and his group crawled back to the training ground, covered in dust and grime, their disheveled appearance was enough to make anyone's heart ache. Their spiritual energy was disordered, their bodies ached, and they even had difficulty standing up straight.

The training ground was packed with people, and it was as noisy as a market.

"Nonsense! A mere outer sect disciple, even if he ate an elixir, could crush over thirty of our brothers in one move? Who would believe that!"

"Exactly! Zhou Cheng and his crew are seasoned veterans in the ring, they're all skilled. How did they lose so miserably?"

"I think it was because they underestimated their opponent! A bunch of people rushed in recklessly, tripping themselves up, which allowed that kid to take advantage of the situation."

"To put it bluntly, he's just a low-level, amateurish practitioner. If it really came down to a sword fight, he'd be nothing."

Just as the argument was raging, the crowd suddenly parted like a tide to make way.

Lin Qinghan has arrived.

Clad in pristine white, his figure was tall and straight, a gleaming white sword at his waist gleaming coldly. His face remained perpetually aloof, and the arrogance in his eyes seemed etched into his very bones. At nineteen, he had reached the half-step Foundation Establishment stage, the undisputed pinnacle of the younger generation of the Qingyun Sect, a sword genius who had never tasted defeat since childhood.

"Senior Brother Qinghan!" Everyone bowed in unison, even their breathing became soft.

  

Lin Qinghan ignored the rabble, his fingertips casually brushing against the scabbard, emitting a barely audible dragon's roar that instantly silenced the arena. He glanced at Zhou Cheng, who was cowering at the back of the crowd, his face still bruised, and a faint sneer curled at the corner of his lips: "Losing is losing, why say more? Thirty-odd people ganging up on an outer disciple, and still getting beaten back like a dead dog, is this your 'skill'?"

These words were like a whip, lashing Zhou Cheng and the others until their faces turned red to the roots of their necks, yet none of them dared to retort.

Zhou Cheng swallowed hard, endured the pain, and stepped forward, gritting his teeth as he said, "Senior brother, that Xie Yanchen is too arrogant! Relying on his unorthodox methods, he completely disregards the sect's rules and even spouts nonsense about the distinction between insiders and outsiders..."

"Exactly!" someone quickly chimed in. "If we don't curb his arrogance today, won't those peasants from the outer sect rebel? Where will we, the inner sect, put our faces?"

Lin Qinghan listened to the group chattering and splashing dirty water on Xie Yanchen, his face remaining expressionless. Only after they finished speaking did he speak calmly, his voice not loud, but it suppressed all the noise: "The rules of the Qingyun Sect are not upheld by words."

He paused, a cold glint flashing in his eyes: "Winning a game by chance and becoming arrogant and ignorant—this unhealthy trend really needs to be stopped."

As he spoke, he raised his hand and drew half of the long sword from his waist with a "clang," and a chilling sword intent instantly spread out.

"Since he wants to climb to the top by stepping on the inner circle, then I will grant his wish."

"Three days later, at noon, in the central arena."

"I, Lin Qinghan, challenge Xie Yanchen to a duel."

"If you dare to come, then let's settle this and see who deserves to be called the number one among our peers. If you don't dare..." He sneered, his gaze sweeping towards the outer gate, "then hide in your shell and never show your face again."

The news swept through the entire clan like a hurricane.

In the outer courtyard, on a dilapidated wooden couch, Xie Yanchen had just finished a bowl of cold, coarse tea.

The three-year shackles have been broken, his spiritual root has been reshaped, and the spiritual power within his body is surging like a stream. Outsiders all say that he won by taking shortcuts, but they don't know that in these three years, he has thoroughly figured out the methods of the sect's disciples. With the addition of the mysterious Zero Terminal in his sea of ​​consciousness, those so-called exquisite moves are nothing more than waste paper full of flaws in his eyes.

The wind outside the window grew stronger, and the clear, cold voice of the challenge pierced through the clouds and reached the courtyard.

Xie Yanchen opened his eyes, his gaze expressionless.

As expected, they've come. When someone's gaining too much attention, someone has to step in and take down their flag.

His mind stirred slightly, and Terminal Zero silently activated. What appeared before him was not a list of dry text, but a dazzling interplay of light and shadow—Lin Qinghan's figure practicing swordsmanship was instantly dissected, every move of the Thirteen Swords of Qingyun, from its initiation to its variation and conclusion, was laid bare under this hyperdimensional perspective.

The sword technique that the inner disciples revered as a god was, in his eyes, like an open exercise book, with a note behind each standard answer stating "can be broken here".

Analysis complete: The playing style was too conventional, the routines were rigid, and there was insufficient adaptability on the spot.

Xie Yanchen's lips curled up slightly, not in mockery, but in a kind of indifferent certainty.

"Half-step Foundation Establishment, Thirteen Swords of Qingyun..."

He muttered to himself, his fingers tapping lightly on his knees, as if he could already hear the heartbeat on the other side.

"Perfect, I'll use you as a sacrifice to establish these new rules for Qingyun."

The outcome of the match three days later was already a foregone conclusion from that moment on.