The star-fire didn’t scatter into breakdown.
In traditional training, the fractured essence of a shattered core was soft, chaotic, and formless. A fragile baby mass that needed months of bitter nurturing inside a spiritual womb before it could take human shape. Fighters called it “the sacred divine infant.”
Lin Ke didn’t build infants. Infants were fragile, prone to crying, and possessed zero working work in high-load combat environments.
He started the container compilation routine.
The cut half of his Golden Core’s intent crystal-hardened with razor-sharp-angled care.
It didn’t form chubby limbs or a baby’s soft skull.
Instead, the cyan light tightly packed along rigid crystallographic vectors. It folded and condensed until it formed a tiny, six-inch-tall humanoid figure sitting in a flawless lotus stance within his Sea of Mind.
The figure was an exact replica of thirty-eight-year-old Colin Shaw.
