CULTIVATION WITH CHAKRAS

Chapter 45: The Divine Bloom of the Forgotten Formation

The valley of Shennong's Blessing had never witnessed such grandeur. Encompassed by towering jade cliffs and veiled in a perpetual mist of spiritual dew, the sacred arena was nestled in a divine sanctuary—where flora hummed with latent power and ancient spiritual energies lingered like forgotten whispers. The herbal competition had reached its final phase, and an expectant silence cloaked the watching crowd of alchemists, masters, and clan elders. The task was deceptively simple: grow seven ancient herbs from seven divine seeds to their peak within the time of a spiritual hour—equivalent to a hundred years inside the formation space.

The platforms hovered midair like lotus petals drifting in still water, each surrounded by an orbit of protective runes. Sanjeev stood silently on his designated platform, a serene contrast to the tense participants around him. The golden-robed elders above watched from their floating thrones, faces stern and unreadable.

Then, Sanjeev moved.

With deliberate care, he placed each of the seven divine seeds in a circle around his platform, aligning them with invisible leylines only he could perceive. He closed his eyes, fingers drawing elegant arcs through the air, leaving behind glowing trails of crimson fire and emerald essence. A vast spiritual formation began to take shape above him—complex beyond comprehension, pulsating with esoteric symbols and sacred geometry.

One hour passed. Yet within the formation, a hundred years surged by.

While others had activated their preset formations—systems perfected over generations—Sanjeev had chosen a path no one dared tread: he was creating his own.

Whispers flitted among the onlookers. "Is he wasting time?"

But the elders had gone quiet. Very few had ever seen such an act—an individual crafting a formation live, amidst a high-stakes competition. Beads of sweat glistened on Sanjeev's brow, not from exertion, but from the sheer spiritual weight of his creation. Each symbol he etched in the air consumed immense mental and soul energy.

The final stroke.

The formation clicked into place.

And then, the platform shook violently. A vortex of spiritual energy burst forth from the heavens, flooding toward Sanjeev's array like a tidal wave of divine qi. The formation flared with radiant light, casting patterns upon the clouds themselves.

At the center of it all, Sanjeev raised his hand—and in one swift, seemingly sacrilegious motion, cut each seed in half.

Gasps erupted.

The elders' faces twisted into disappointment. "He's destroyed them," one muttered. "They can never grow now."

Even Xue Rong, Sanjeev's grandfather, felt his heart falter.

But Sanjeev didn't react. He gathered the fourteen halves and pressed them together in intricate formations, merging one half of each seed with another—creating two composite seeds for every pair.

Then he planted them in the very center of his array.

Kneeling, Sanjeev placed both hands on the glowing soil, transferring every ounce of spiritual power he had drawn. The air thickened. Time seemed to slow.

Suddenly, a shimmer appeared above the platform.

A luminous figure emerged, draped in flowing robes of living ivy, her hair an endless braid of vines and blossoms. She radiated an aura both divine and maternal. The elders rose from their seats, trembling.

"Impossible... That form..."

"It's the Mother of Herbs."

Legends spoke of her—the First Alchemist, the one who taught gods and mortals alike the secrets of cultivation and healing. She was said to have vanished aeons ago, her presence marked only by myths and murals. And yet here she was, appearing over Sanjeev's formation, pouring silvery spiritual essence like rainwater into the soil.

An overwhelming silence swept through the audience. Nobody dared move.

Hours passed.

The light dimmed.

The figure faded, smiling gently at Sanjeev as if acknowledging him. He collapsed forward, unconscious.

A bell tolled. Time was up.

The elders sealed the realm, closing the illusory painting in the sky that held the chronal formation. One by one, the participants descended with their planters. The crowd swelled to watch the final outcome.

Aarav stepped forward first. His eyes burned with determination. His tray held five herbs aged to 500 years, one at 700 years, and the last, a full 1000 years.

The crowd applauded.

Next came Xui, her face a mask of calm. Her results matched Aarav's perfectly. Cheers echoed again.

Then, the delegation from the Dragon Continent presented their results. Each herb aged to 900 years—a formidable feat. The air was thick with tension.

Finally, Sanjeev stirred.

He rose slowly and walked to the center. The crowd parted for him like reeds before the wind. His robes were slightly torn, his eyes bloodshot, but his presence burned with quiet power.

He placed his tray down.

Seven plants stood in full bloom, glowing faintly with spiritual light. Each radiated an aura more potent than the last.

The chief elder approached, trembling.

He examined one plant. "T-this... this is not just 1000 years. It's... 1200..."

Another elder gasped. "All of them are... overgrown. Their cores are denser. They've surpassed maturity."

The chief elder sank to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes.

"This energy... it's the blessing of the Mother. I've felt it only once before, in the sealed vault of the Ancient Grove. But never like this..."

A sacred hush fell over the crowd. Nobody clapped. Nobody dared.

Instead, they stood.

Every elder, every contestant, every spectator—rising to their feet in silent reverence.

Sanjeev had not only won the competition.

He had rewritten history.

A new legend was born.