The abandoned warehouse in Azure Cloud City's outer district reeked of fear and desperation—perfect for Zǔ Zhòu's purposes.
Twelve rogue cultivators knelt in chains before him, collected over the past three nights by his temporal anchor servant. Bandits, demonic cultivators, failed disciples expelled from sects. Each possessed something he needed: practical experience with techniques his body couldn't yet perform.
"Gentlemen," he began, pacing before them with theatrical precision. "You're going to help me solve a fascinating problem. Some of you might even survive the experience."
A scarred woman in demonic sect robes spat blood. "Liu family whelp. You think you can torture secrets from us? We've endured worse than—"
Her words cut off as Zǔ Zhòu pressed a finger to her forehead. Not a technique—the comprehension lock prevented that. Just pressure on the exact spot where the Baihui acupoint intersected with three minor meridians. His theoretical knowledge translated into precise mundane action.
She convulsed, eyes rolling back. Not from mystical assault but from purely physical disruption of blood flow creating seizure-like symptoms.
"I don't need your secrets," he explained to the others while she twitched. "I need your muscle memory. Subtle difference."
He'd spent three days developing this theory. The comprehension lock prevented him from applying knowledge, but what if he could steal application from others? Not their theoretical understanding—he had more of that than entire sects combined. Their practical, physical experience.
"You," he pointed to a thin man with Qi Condensation cultivation. "Demonstrate the Shadow Step technique."
The man hesitated until Zǔ Zhòu casually broke the woman's finger with an almost absent gesture.
"Shadow Step. Now."
The rogue cultivator performed the movement technique, flickering between shadows cast by warehouse pillars. Crude execution, barely 30% efficiency, but his body knew the rhythm.
"Perfect." Zǔ Zhòu pulled out specially prepared needles. "Remain very still."
He inserted needles at seven points along the man's spine and skull. Not acupoints—those would require techniques he couldn't perform. These were purely neurological junctions where memory was processed into motion.
"Traditional soul searching extracts knowledge," he explained to his captive audience. "But I already have knowledge. What I need is the physical pattern your body learned through repetition."
He began extracting. Not soul energy or memories, but bioelectric patterns. The subtle neural pathways that transformed thought into supernatural action. The man screamed as his nervous system was mapped and copied.
"Fascinating," Zǔ Zhòu murmured, feeling the patterns flow through the needles. "Your body remembers six variations of Shadow Step. Your mind only knows you perform one."
The extraction complete, he withdrew the needles. The man collapsed, still breathing but with noticeably degraded coordination. His muscle memory had been copied, leaving the original frayed.
Now for the test.
Zǔ Zhòu circulated the extracted patterns through his own nervous system. Not trying to perform Shadow Step directly—the lock would prevent that. Instead, teaching his body the preliminary motions that preceded the technique.
He took a step. Just a normal step, but informed by stolen experience. His muscles moved with borrowed confidence, angling in ways that would eventually enable Shadow Step once his cultivation advanced.
"Successful pattern integration," he noted. "Current execution: 0% supernatural effect, but foundational movements acquired."
He turned to the next prisoner. "You. Flame Whip technique."
Over three hours, he systematically extracted muscle memory from each captive. The Shadow Step practitioner's footwork. A boxer's meridian circulation patterns. A swordsman's wrist alignments. Each fragment of physical experience was carefully integrated.
By the sixth extraction, his body began showing signs of neural overload. Too many conflicting movement patterns creating interference.
"Integration limit discovered," he recorded. "Maximum four patterns per day before risking coordination damage."
He paused the extractions to test combinations. The stolen patterns didn't grant him techniques, but they taught his body the prerequisites. Like learning dance steps that would eventually become martial arts once power was added.
"The lock prevents technique execution but not preparation," he mused. "I can't perform Shadow Step, but I can train my body in Shadow Step's precursor movements."
A bandit with interesting scars caught his attention. "You. What's your primary technique?"
"B-blood Boiling Palm," the man stammered. "But I haven't mastered—"
"Show me."
The demonstration was pathetic—barely managing to heat his palm enough to cause mild burns. But the muscle memory revealed something interesting: failed techniques still created physical patterns.
"Your failures are more valuable than successes," Zǔ Zhòu realized. "Each mistake carved neural pathways showing what doesn't work."
He extracted the failed patterns, studying how the body learned from error. These negative examples were almost more instructive than successful techniques—showing the boundaries of what wouldn't work.
"Theory Two requires refinement," he said to his anchor servant, who was documenting everything. "Don't just steal successful muscle memory. Steal the entire learning process—failures, corrections, adaptations."
By the tenth extraction, he'd developed a systematic approach:
Identify technique families (movement, attack, defense, etc.)Extract base patterns from multiple practitionersCompare variations to find optimal commonalitiesIntegrate averaged patterns for broad applicabilityUse failed attempts to map technique boundaries
"The comprehension lock forces linear learning," he concluded. "But by stealing hundreds of learning experiences, I can compress decades into days."
The woman from earlier had recovered enough to speak. "What... what are you?"
"Someone rebuilding godhood from mortal clay," he answered honestly. "Your contribution is noted. Sadly, not enough to earn survival."
He spent the next hour testing integrated patterns. His body now moved with borrowed experience—not performing techniques but preparing for them. Each motion laid groundwork for future power.
"Estimated technique acquisition timeline with memory theft: 70% reduction," he calculated. "What should take a year now takes months."
The final test involved combining patterns. Shadow Step footwork with Flame Whip arm movements created interesting synergies. His body was learning a hybrid style that existed nowhere else—techniques built from stolen fragments.
"We're creating something new," he told the dying cultivators. "Your mediocre techniques will birth superior ones through forced evolution."
As dawn approached, he'd filled seventeen jade slips with extracted patterns and integration notes. The warehouse floor was littered with brain-dead cultivators, their muscle memory torn away leaving only vegetative shells.
"Disposal?" the anchor servant asked.
"Feed them to the temporal scar. Even vegetables can serve as battery components."
Alone with his servant, Zǔ Zhòu reflected on the night's success. The comprehension lock remained absolute, but he'd found a crack to exploit. Not breaking the lock—working within its rules while bending them to breaking point.
"Three methods confirmed," he summarized. "Gradual adaptation through perfect basics. Accelerated experience via temporal energy. And now memory theft for compressed learning."
"The lock seems almost purposefully exploitable."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps any lock can be picked with sufficient creativity." He smiled coldly. "Reality wanted me to earn my power through experience? I'll give it experience—thousands of lifetimes' worth stolen from others."
The comprehension lock had transformed from pure obstacle into an interesting challenge. Like all absolute rules, it created opportunities for those willing to think orthogonally.
Tomorrow he'd need more test subjects. Different techniques, varied cultivation methods, unusual bloodlines. Each would contribute fragments to his reconstruction.
"Ten years to rebuild," he mused. "But what a glorious rebuilding it will be."