Xing Jue sat there, stunned. Had it not been for the Beast Soul, the Qi Condensation Pill, and the two ancient books lying in his lap, he would have dismissed the entire encounter as a vivid daydream.
He carefully picked up the books, his fingers tracing the worn covers reverently.
"Mystic-rank, Low-grade Cultivation Technique: Qi Control Method."
"Mystic-rank, Low-grade Martial Skill: Wind Devouring Palm."
"Holy…" Xing Jue breathed, his jaw agape. Mystic-rank! Both of them!
In the vast world of Martial Cultivation, skills and techniques were categorized into four major ranks, from highest to lowest: Heaven, Earth, Mystic, and Yellow, each further divided into three tiers—low, middle, and high. Back in the Xing Clan, possessing even a high-grade Yellow-rank technique was considered a privilege. And here he was, holding two Mystic-rank techniques, casually gifted by an old man who could appear and disappear at will!
A wave of exhilaration washed over him, washing away the last traces of despair. "Just when I thought all hope was lost," he murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face. It seemed fate wasn't done with him just yet. "Looks like the heavens haven't given up on me after all!"
The old man's warnings about the potential dangers barely registered in his mind. "Even if I die," Xing Jue whispered, his voice firm, his eyes blazing with a newfound determination, "I'm not going down without a fight."
"Here goes nothing." He looked down at the Beast Soul and the Qi Condensation Pill in his hand, took a deep breath, and swallowed them both in one gulp.
"Oh…" Pain, like a searing hot iron branding him from the inside out, ripped through his abdomen. It was as if he had swallowed a ball of molten lava.
"Argh!" He doubled over, the pain intensifying with every passing second. He rolled on the ground, his vision blurring, his body convulsing. His skin, usually pale, turned a sickly red, his clothes drenched in sweat. He was burning from the inside out. So this was the danger the old man had warned about.
He blacked out, unable to withstand the excruciating agony consuming him from within. As he lost consciousness, a faint, bluish gas started to emanate from his body, enveloping him in a protective cocoon. Gradually, his skin returned to its normal color, his breathing evened out.
"Old Zhang?" He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on Old Zhang's worried face hovering over him. He sat up, his mind still foggy, and realized he was in the cottage. How did he get here?
"Xing Jue, what happened?" Old Zhang asked, his voice laced with concern. "I found you lying unconscious on the hillside. You gave me quite a fright! I was about to fetch a doctor!"
"Don't worry … must've dozed off." Xing Jue forced a yawn, his mind racing. He couldn't tell Old Zhang about the Beast Soul, the pill, or the agonizing transformation he'd just endured. "Still feel a little tired, actually," he mumbled, burying his face in his pillow.
"Get some rest, then," Old Zhang said, his worries seemingly assuaged. "I'll wake you up when dinner's ready."
Xing Jue waited until Old Zhang was gone before letting out a whoop of pure joy. He could feel it—his Qi Sea! It was there, a warmth glowing in the depths of his being. He was no longer just a Martial Artist. He was on the path to becoming a true Martial Apprentice. He could almost taste victory.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, his excitement making it impossible to rest. Following the instructions in the Qi Control Method, he made a series of hand seals. Gradually, he could feel it— wisps of faint, yellowish energy—Martial Power—flowing into him, converging towards his newly formed Qi Sea.
An hour later, he opened his eyes, his face flushed with excitement and the exertion of cultivating. The Mystic-rank technique was incredible! Even compared to the basic cultivation techniques he'd practiced back at the Xing Clan, this was leagues ahead.
"At this rate," he thought, feeling the Martial Power slowly accumulating within his Qi Sea, "I'll be able to transform my Qi Sea into a Qi Whirl and become a true Martial Apprentice within a year!" He grinned.
A Qi Sea was a vessel, a reservoir for Martial Power. Once it accumulated enough energy, it would transform, evolving from a mere container to a Qi Whirl, a spinning vortex of pure energy. Only then would he be able to wield Martial Qi, the true mark of a Martial Apprentice. Normal weapons would be useless against him, his very presence a force to be reckoned with.
His initial euphoria faded, replaced by a steely resolve. He stepped out of the cottage, gazing up at the starry sky, memories he had tried to bury resurfacing in his mind.
"You think you've won, Xing Feng?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of Cloud Mist City, where his tormentor resided. "You may have beaten me down, humiliated me, but I'm back. And this time," he added, his hands balling into fists, his voice hardening with a promise, "I won't be so easily defeated."
Xing Feng. The name flashed in Xing Jue's mind, rekindling the humiliation he'd felt that day. Xing Feng, another talented youth brought into the Xing Clan at the same time he was. Xing Feng, who had always been overshadowed by him … until three years ago, when everything changed. Xing Feng, who had formed his Qi Sea at thirteen, become a Low-Rank Martial Apprentice six months ago, the Xing Clan's new golden boy …
A low growl, originating from somewhere in his stomach, interrupted his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. "Ugh, I'm starving! How long has it been? Where's Old Zhang with dinner?" He glanced toward the setting sun. It was getting late. "Maybe he forgot? Nah, I'll just head down there."
Humming a cheerful tune under his breath, Xing Jue descended the hill, making his way towards the Xing Wine Tavern. He walked with a spring in his step, his heart brimming with a renewed sense of confidence that radiated from him like an aura.
He was unprepared for the scene that greeted him as he stepped into the tavern.
"You dare defy our young master?!" Two hulking figures, built like oxen, towered over a frail-looking Old Zhang, their faces contorted with rage. Shards of broken porcelain littered the floor, a spilled jar of fine Daughter Red wine staining the wooden floorboards a deep, crimson red.
"This is none of your business, old man!" one of the thugs roared. "Leave now, and we'll forget this ever happened."
Cowering behind Old Zhang, visibly shaken, stood a young serving girl, her eyes wide with fear.
"Maybe we should just let it go, Old Zhang," another server whispered nervously, sidling up to Old Zhang. "They're trouble, especially that one." He jerked his chin towards a handsome, smugly confident young man seated at a nearby table, leisurely fanning himself. "He's a Low-Rank Martial Artist and the town bully. We can't afford to make an enemy of him."
"She's one of ours," Old Zhang snapped, his voice low but dangerous. "I'm not going to stand around and do nothing while they harass her."
"You asked for it, old man," one of the thugs snarled, brandishing a gleaming scimitar. He lunged towards Old Zhang, his partner following close behind.
Before they could reach him, Old Zhang moved. He didn't even seem to be trying, yet his movements were a blur of motion too fast for the untrained eye to follow. There was a thud as both thugs crumpled to the floor, clutching their stomachs, groaning in pain.
"Impressive," the seated young man drawled, his eyes narrowing. "A Low-Rank Martial Artist. The Xing Clan does train its servants well."
Whispers rippled through the tavern. The other servers gaped at Old Zhang with a mixture of awe and disbelief. A Martial Artist! Maybe there was hope for them yet.
"Leave now," Old Zhang said, his voice hard, his gaze never leaving the young man, "and I will forget this transgression."
The young man threw back his head and laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. "You think you can defeat me, old man?" he sneered. "I may be a Low-Rank Martial Artist, but you? You're nothing but an ant!" He blurred into motion, his hand transformed into a claw, a gust of wind heralding his attack. He was a Mid-Rank Martial Artist!
Fear flickered in Old Zhang's eyes as he registered the sheer power behind the young man's attack. He could have dodged, but not without putting the young woman behind him at risk. He stood his ground, placing himself between her and the incoming attack.
"Mid-Rank!" The servers gasped, their faces draining of color. They'd hoped Old Zhang's arrival from the main house would mean an end to this tyranny, but it seemed their hopes were dashed.
There was a collective gasp as a figure intercepted the young man mid-strike, grabbing his wrist in a grip of iron.
"Argh! My hand!" The young man screamed in agony as a sharp pain shot up his arm. A look of horror spread across his face as blood gushed from a gaping hole where his hand used to be.
"Lick it up," a young voice, deceptively calm, rang out from the tavern's entrance. "Every last drop of that wine. Or you'll regret it." All eyes turned towards the figure that had just entered the tavern. Dressed in black from head to toe stood Xing Jue.