Chapter 43: Chapter Forty-Three: All Is Ready

During this period, the Seven Mysteries Sect also experienced a major event.

The new generation’s idol, “Master Li,” displayed extraordinary alertness by immediately exposing two undercover agents from the Wild Wolf Gang who were attempting to steal the list of disciples sent down the mountain for training, and together with over a dozen fellow sect members, captured them alive—earning considerable merit.

A few days later, Master Wang, in front of all the disciples, appointed Li Feiyu as Guardian, officially elevating him into the sect’s middle ranks, causing a major stir and further enhancing Li Feiyu’s reputation.

Han Li knew nothing of this; he was locked inside a wooden cabin, undergoing special training. Aside from occasional trips to the kitchen for food, he had not interacted with anyone for days, naturally unaware of his friend’s current glory.

Summer passed into autumn, time flew by, and the final day before the appointed meeting finally arrived.

In the thorny grove at the bottom of the ravine, a bizarre figure flickered in and out among the sharp, spiky branches—those perilous thorns offered not the slightest obstruction; he slipped through the dense web of thorns like smoke, appearing suddenly nearby, then vanishing and reappearing far away, all in utter silence, as if he were not flesh and blood but an intangible form.

Finally, the figure halted on a tree trunk, standing straight on the branch, gazing into the distance—it was Han Li, who had made noticeable progress in his cultivation.

His clothes were now torn to shreds, exposing patches of skin beneath; his hair hung wild and tangled; his face was streaked with black and white smudges, unrecognizable. Most astonishingly, small iron bells hung from his neck, waist, arms, thighs, and ankles.

Seeing these iron bells, and recalling Han Li’s ghostly movement through the grove, it was easy to grasp just how uncanny his technique had become.

He stood motionless, gazing toward Divine Hand Valley, murmuring to himself:

“Perfect timing—I’ve finally perfected the Luoyan Step on the last day. With this, I’ve gained another measure of self-preservation.”

Though his expression was hidden, the joy in his eyes spilled out unobstructed.

After months of research and relentless practice, Han Li had mastered several potent secret techniques. He held considerable confidence in them, believing that even if he could not match Mo Daifu’s unfathomable skill, he could at least rely on them for self-defense.

A light breeze blew, chilling his skin; he looked down at his tattered attire, imagined his current appearance, and couldn’t help but smile wryly.

Recalling his training in the Luoyan Step, he still felt a lingering dread—practicing body techniques in the thorn grove was truly a matter of life and death. At first, due to his clumsiness, he was inevitably slashed by the hard thorns, leaving him bleeding all over.

Fortunately, he had “Yangjing Pills” on him—they not only healed internal injuries but also proved miraculously effective for external wounds. After swallowing one pill, bleeding stopped and scabs formed immediately; by the next day, even the scars vanished completely.

Han Li marveled at this for a long time—this medicine was vastly superior to ordinary wound salves. Yet he couldn’t understand why it was called “Yangjing Pill”; in his view, names like “Scar-Erasing” or “Blood-Stopping” would have been far more fitting.

If the master who created the “Yangjing Pill” had heard Han Li’s thoughts, he would have been so enraged he might have spat blood—his meticulously crafted healing elixir, compared to the crude “Jinchuang Ointment” of village quacks! How could this not infuriate the master!

Yet precisely because he trained in such a dangerous environment, Han Li was able to unleash his full potential and, within a short time, achieve a significant degree of mastery in the Luoyan Step—enough to use it immediately.

Moreover, just a few days ago, Han Li’s Changchun Gong had, as expected, reached its sixth level—the highest level Mo Daifu had given him. Without the dozen or so bottles of spirit medicine, even if he had exhausted every ounce of effort, he would never have achieved it in his lifetime.

After years of cultivation, Han Li had gained deep insights into Changchun Gong, finding it profoundly unusual—both in its method and effects, it differed entirely from ordinary martial arts.

First, Han Li believed that success in cultivating this art, and the speed of progress, depended entirely on the cultivator’s innate talent and compatibility with the technique.

Those with superior talent could advance smoothly and effortlessly; even without external aid, they might reach a high level through sheer diligence.

But those with poor talent would hit a wall at a certain level—without spirit medicine, they would become utterly stuck. Han Li surmised they would remain there for life, with no further progress possible—just as he himself had: he advanced effortlessly through the first three levels, then suddenly hit a complete standstill at the fourth.

Yet with potent spirit pills, the impossible became possible—talent limitations could be overcome, allowing advancement to the next level. Clearly, this art was profoundly dependent on medicinal power.

Yet Han Li’s habit of consuming spirit medicine like candy—one or two pills a day—was surely unmatched anywhere in the world. Thus, the fifth and sixth levels, which should have been far harder, he mastered effortlessly, without the agonizing struggle he’d faced at the fourth level.

The fully perfected sixth level of Changchun Gong had, so far, only made Han Li feel more energetic and mentally sharper; no other benefits had emerged. Strangely, since he began cultivation, Changchun Gong had only enhanced his spirit, mind, and senses at each level, with negligible effect on his body—merely strengthening it slightly and making his steps lighter. The energy flow it generated—Han Li called it “pseudo-true qi”—could circulate freely through his meridians like ordinary true qi, but beyond heightening his tactile sensitivity, it offered no practical combat utility, lacking the devastating power of true qi.

Moreover, having reached this point, Han Li suspected there must be more ungiven verses beyond the sixth level—perhaps the true wonders lay in the final few levels.

Thinking of this, he sighed helplessly and shook his head; given his current relationship with Mo Daifu, the later levels of the technique were out of the question.

He ended his wandering thoughts, leapt lightly, and landed on the ground without a sound, then strode toward the small wooden cabin.

Tomorrow he would meet Mo Daifu; before then, he must fully leverage his talents to mentally plan every step of the encounter, carefully consider every possible detail, and devise optimal responses to all potential dangers yet to come.

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