37: Chapter 37 Cyber ​​Cultivation, Clan Members Respond

Morning light still danced on the metal ground of the test flight field, and Chen Wuwang's hand still rested on the dagger embedded in the stone table.

The blade was buried three inches deep, unmoving, as if nailed into time itself.

He did not pull it out.

The wind blew from the east, carrying the burnt smell of the mecha's exhaust and the faint, fishy scent of coolant.

The sound of forging hammers from the distant workshop had stopped; someone peeked out, then shrank back.

The Family members had not yet dispersed, standing in twos and threes at the edge of the field, their eyes drifting—some with excitement, some with shock and suspicion, but mostly with—disbelief.

That flight just now was too fierce. The moment the sound barrier was torn, even a few broken tiles on the crumbling walls of the ancestral hall were shaken loose.

But no matter how fierce it was, it was just one mecha. Mass production? Cyber Cultivation? It sounded like madness.

Chen Wuwang knew what they were thinking.

He pressed his left hand against the hilt, his mechanical prosthetic eye scanning the crowd slowly.

Data streams scrolled at the edge of his vision: heart rate, breathing rhythm, Qi fluctuations. No one shouted slogans, no one applauded. A cold silence was harder to break than any enemy.

He suddenly chuckled, his voice low but sounding like iron scraping against a grinding wheel: "That mecha just now was not a toy."

The crowd fell silent.

He raised his hand and pointed to the west. Three hundred paces away, the Old Ancestor's hall, with half its roof collapsed, looked like a hunched old man in the morning light.

The blue bricks were cracked, the beams were rotten, the spirit tablets were covered in dust, and the incense had been extinguished for nearly a hundred years.

"Three hundred years ago," he began, his voice not loud but each word hitting the ground hard, "we were kicked out of the Spiritual Vein by a major Sect, just because of our 'lowly Bloodline.' On the day of the Spiritual Root test, my great-great-grandfather knelt and begged them to test again, but they just flicked their sleeves and walked away, saying, 'Do mud-legged peasants even deserve to talk about talent?'"

He paused, his finger not retracting, still pointing at the ancestral hall.

"Today, they still judge talent by Bloodline and determine life and death by birth," he sneered, "but my Chen Family—we will change our fate ourselves!"

As his voice fell, his left hand pressed down fiercely!

"Clang—!"

The dagger sank another three inches, stone chips flying, sparks colliding with the morning light, exploding into a blinding white streak.

This sound was like a bell tolling in people's hearts.

The crowd shivered.

Just then, heavy footsteps came from the direction of the workshop.

Iron boots stomped on the ground, shaking with every step. Chen Tiezhu had arrived.

He was carrying that thousand-pound heavy hammer that never left his side; the hammerhead was still stained with hot molten slag, and as he walked, sparks scattered along the way.

He stood still on the left side of the high platform, panting heavily, his face a muddy mix of sweat and dirt. He didn't look at Chen Wuwang, nor at anyone else, just stared fixedly at that ancestral hall.

Then, he swung the heavy hammer fiercely and slammed it into the ground!

"Thud—!"

The earth trembled slightly, the tip of the hammer piercing the stone slab, sparks flying everywhere.

"The Family Head is right!" he roared, his neck turning red, his eyes burning, "When my wife died, I swore an oath—never again would I let our descendants rely on heaven for their meals! Artifact Refining is not about praying to gods; it's about doing it with your own hands!" He looked up, his voice hoarse, "Who says a hammer can't forge a Dao? I, Chen Tiezhu, will be the first to follow!"

He roared the last sentence at the sky.

The wind blew his oil-stained clothes, revealing half of a mechanical prosthetic interface. That was a scar left from the mine collapse three years ago, and it was also the first prosthetic body he had welded on himself.

After he finished speaking, he didn't move, just stood there, leaning on the hammer, his head held high, like an iron statue just pulled from the furnace fire.

The crowd began to stir.

Some lowered their heads, some clenched their fists, some quietly took half a step back—afraid of bringing trouble upon themselves.

Just then, the cockpit opened with a "click."

Chen Xiaodao jumped down, his left mechanical prosthetic arm still smoking slightly, electric arcs jumping at the interface. He ignored it, rushed to the right side of the high platform in a few steps, and drew his sword!

"Clang—!"

The sword hummed clearly, tearing through the stagnant air. The sword tip pointed straight at the firmament, and the sunlight slid down the blade like flowing fire.

"Cyber Cultivation," his voice was not high, but each word was like a nail, "slaughtering towards the heavens!"

As his voice fell, the sword body hummed, actually causing the residual spiritual energy ripples in the air to resonate, forming a visible circle of ripples.

This was not just agreement.

This was a Sword Cultivator swearing an oath with his Dao Heart.

Below the high platform, there was dead silence.

Then, someone caught their breath, followed by a second, then a third. The sound of breathing gradually grew heavy, like muffled thunder rolling underground.

Chen Wuwang finally moved.

He slowly pulled the dagger from the stone, not rushing, the blade scraping against the stone crevice, emitting a harsh friction sound. The morning sun fell on the blade, reflecting a bright light that pierced straight into the sky.

He didn't speak, just held the dagger high above his head, the blade facing the sky.

Seeing this, Chen Tiezhu immediately raised his heavy hammer, pointing the head at the sky.

Chen Xiaodao held his sword horizontally across his chest, the tip pointing at the sky, motionless.

The three stood in three different positions, between stillness and motion, forming a tripod stance.

Three breaths.

No one blinked.

Then, the three shouted in a low voice simultaneously:

"Cyber Cultivation!"

The sound wave soared to the heavens, startling the birds in the forest, which took flight and circled persistently.

At this moment, the test flight field was no longer just a test flight field. The high platform was no longer just a high platform.

It became a monument—carved with the new name of a Family.

The wind grew stronger, rolling with the smell of rust, machine oil, and the lingering sweat of youth, blowing towards the depths of the Eastern Wilderness.

Chen Wuwang still stood in the center of the high platform, his right hand holding the dagger high, his left mechanical prosthetic eye flickering slightly, reflecting the morning sun, cold light circulating. His expression was resolute, like a statue that would never fall.

Chen Tiezhu was below on the left, leaning on his hammer with both hands, panting heavily, his face a mix of sweat and dust, but his gaze was as scorching as a furnace fire, staring fixedly at that dagger, as if staring at the future path of the Chen Family.

Chen Xiaodao stood on the right, his mechanical prosthetic arm trembling slightly, his long sword held horizontally across his chest, the tip pointing to the sky, his breathing gradually steadying, his eyes sharp as a freshly ground blade, waiting quietly for the next command.

The morning light covered the square, shining on the residual scorch marks of the mecha, on the uncooled hammerhead, and on the three, casting three long shadows.

Like three stakes driven into the earth.