Chapter 404

I never imagined that this change of identity would be so steep. One moment I was the hunter clutching onto prey and refusing to let go; the next, I had become the prey both sides were fighting over.

Piercing Heart Arrow is a very fierce spell in the Scarlet Lotus Sect, and it once circulated among the folk in Jiangxi.

The Nailing Down Method is a ruthless technique; unless it is a life-and-death grudge, it never extinguishes the last trace of vitality.

Although the Hundred Solutions Method comprises a hundred solution spells, its premise requires absolute strength; it is of little use and fraught with risk. When these two spells clash, it is a matter of life and death. Victory or defeat does not merely represent winning or losing; the losing side must also stake their own life.

At this moment, I was clasping my hands together in the Spirit Mountain Seal, fingertips pressed firmly against my chest. On the surface, it looked as if I were repeatedly squeezing my hands and pushing them toward my chest, truly appearing like a madman gone berserk.

However, the danger involved is known only to the two parties engaged in the duel, and my suffering is felt only by me, the one experiencing it.

Piercing Heart Arrow is not merely a spell; when the curse is cast, a real arrow truly pierces the heart of the target. Yet this arrow is an invisible blade, unseen by ordinary people. Only those who have cultivated can sense its existence.

Performing the Hundred Solutions Method, I pressed my palms together before my chest and slowly drew out the arrow embedded there. The process cannot be described merely as pain and hardship; it alternated between loosening and tightening. At times my chest would ease, then suddenly flare with sharp pain.

If I had to describe how I feel right now, damn it, I feel like a slab of pork being stabbed back and forth by an arrow. As the duel proceeds in and out of my chest, the arrow moves in and out of my chest—sometimes advancing an inch, sometimes retreating a fraction. One moment I am in heaven, breathing a sigh of relief; the next second I plunge into hell, pain so intense I feel like I'm dying and coming back to life.

I know I cannot continue like this; the longer I drag it out, the more fatigued I become, and the efficacy of the True Yang Saliva will fade faster. Once it wears off, I will surely become fish meat for anyone to slaughter.

Therefore, I can only take a risky gamble, throwing caution to the wind.

I bit through my middle finger, gritted my teeth hard, and in an instant exploded with all my strength.

"Break..."

With an earth-shaking roar, I exerted all my strength with both hands and shoved hard—either using this burst of force to push outward, or after the burst, be killed by the Piercing Heart Arrow.

In an instant, a crackling sound came from the joints of my arm—the sound of overstrained tendons and bones suddenly loosening from excessive force.

Finally, I won; in that moment of my all‑or‑nothing burst, I finally managed to pull that arrow out.

At the same time, I faintly heard a puff sound. In that instant I concluded that the opposing sword‑arts practitioner had vomited blood; pulling out the Piercing Heart Arrow meant the opponent had lost, and naturally they would have to bear the aftereffects of the Nailing Down Method.

As I squatted on the ground, weakly gasping for air, a heart‑rending cry of pain came from my ear.

"Pain, pain kills me…… ah"

The roar lasted only a moment before vanishing instantly.

It came from this intersection to the north; my eyes lit up, I ignored my wounds, struggled to my feet, and ran toward the opening.

Entering through the turn at the intersection, I likewise turned into a narrow lane.

Since that scream was fleeting, when I entered the alley I could not tell its source from the sound. Thus I could only wander aimlessly, searching the few households in the lane.

Honestly, although I am just blindly bumping around relying on luck, I actually managed to pick up some clues.

In a relatively dim tile house, I caught a whiff of a familiar scent.

That scent is very familiar—it is the incense used for worshipping gods. Now is neither the first nor fifteenth day of the month, nor the birthday of any deity or bodhisattva; ordinary households would never burn incense as an offering at this time.

Since ordinary people couldn't have it, the only time it would be used is during a ritual altar ceremony.

Immediately, I hesitated no more, climbing over the iron gate into the courtyard. I took out the command flag and carefully prepared to push open the old wooden door.

Just as I reached the doorway, the incoming scent confirmed my suspicion: this was not ordinary incense, but soul‑drawing incense mixed with mulberry leaf powder. Ordinary people could never possess such incense; only sorcerers or Daoists use it when summoning ghosts or laying out formations.

Thinking this, I gave it a casual push and opened the door.

Inside the house stood a one‑meter‑wide yellow altar, bearing a command flag, talisman paper, and a straw effigy inscribed with Chen Zheng's eight characters.

An old man in a Daoist robe, with hair half black and half white at the temples, lay collapsed beside the altar, blood already seeping from the corners of his mouth, ears, and eyes.

Beside him lay a silver flying sword, now motionless; it had lost all trace of spirituality, evidently reduced to a rusted piece of iron.

Indeed, events unfolded exactly as I expected—the master of this flying sword, due to the sword's damage and the backlash of the Nailing Down Method, is now dead beyond death.

The only thing that surprised me was that this old man was actually a fully ordained Daoist monk.

To be ordained means residing permanently in a temple, cultivating day and night under the green lamp. Daoists are divided into lay and ordained; lay Daoists merely hold the title, do not live in the temple, and cultivate only in the secular world, returning to the temple only on special days to stay for a while.

Our Law Sect also has such Daoists, and they are not few. Originating from the Law Sect, after mastering folk arts, they were introduced by peers, took refuge in Daoism, received a state‑issued certificate of refuge, hung a sign under a certain Daoist order, and became lay Daoists. They may marry, need not constantly reside in the temple, cultivate at home, and only return to the temple on special occasions—such as a deity's birthday or when they miss their master—to stay for a time.

Our purpose in doing this is twofold: on one hand, to study and learn Daoist scriptures and integrate them into our Law Sect; on the other hand, because our Law Sect's lineage is a folk transmission passed down master‑to‑disciple, it belongs to popular religion, which the state does not recognize and remains little known to the public.

The techniques of our Law Sect's practitioners are generally developed through real‑life practice, emphasizing actual cultivation, and they continually grow through sparring and exchanging practical experience. Most of us, besides cultivating, must also support our families and earn a living. Therefore, aside from elderly members who live in remote villages and dislike going out, the rest of us frequently travel outside, take on jobs, earn money from the wealthy, advise officials on geomancy, and handle various matters.

Thus, to move about more freely, most of us take refuge in Daoism and assume the title of lay Daoist.

The difference between lay Daoists and ordained Daoists can actually be seen from their appearance: lay Daoists have relatively low requirements and need not keep their hair, whereas ordained Daoists have higher requirements and generally keep their hair while cultivating.

The old man before me had his hair piled high, and in his bosom he carried a received ordination certificate; he is unquestionably a bona fide ordained Daoist, and his years of practice are certainly not few—though he may be versed in health‑preserving arts or some exotic beauty regimen, making his actual age impossible to discern from his appearance.

This proves the old saying: whether it be a renowned great sect or a hidden folk lineage, there is never a shortage of people with corrupt intentions. Good and evil, virtue and vice, can no longer be judged by appearances.

As I reached out and turned the old man over, several yellowed ancient volumes slipped from his bosom; opening one, I saw it was actually a manual for sacrificing and refining a flying sword.

Upon first seeing this ancient manual, my hands trembled with excitement—flying sword! What an awesome technique: kill a man in ten steps, leave no trace for a thousand miles. How damn awesome.

I eagerly flipped open the yellowed manual to study its cultivation method, but when I saw clearly the refining procedure, I could only sigh helplessly, forehead lined with black marks, and put the book down.

It's useless—utterly a chicken rib.

The method for sacrificing and refining the flying sword is not difficult; once you grasp the key points, long‑term blood‑letting enables spiritual communication with the sword.

However, the requirements are extremely stringent: first, one must select cold‑iron and forge a fine flying sword; then, each day during the chen hour when purple qi arrives from the east, and the wu hour when yang qi is at its peak—these two periods, four hours total—one must sit cross‑legged and drip blood to sacrifice and refine the sword, and this must continue without interruption for all 365 days of the year.

What's more absurd is that, from the day one begins sacrificing the sword, the practitioner may eat only vegetarian food, no meat, and must not let turbid qi contaminate the sword, or else the effort will be abandoned halfway. Moreover, even the vegetarian diet must avoid pungent spices—such as chili, leeks, onions, and garlic—none of which may be eaten.

Especially when I saw that line of small print in the book, I nearly spat out a mouthful of old blood.

What the hell is this saying? 'After half a sixty‑year cycle the sword can communicate spiritually; with prolonged sacrifice, after a full sixty‑year cycle one can achieve modest success, thereby reaching the state where a thought moves the heart‑spirit and qi controls the sword.'

At the end there is another inconspicuous line of small print: '(This technique was compiled from the cultivation experiences of our sect's predecessors; since the founding of our school, only three people have ever practiced this art; junior disciples observing this technique should exercise caution!)'.

I instantly felt suffocated and wanted to tear this manual apart. 'Half a sixty‑year cycle—thirty years—to achieve spiritual communication with the sword,.'

Furthermore, even after you succeed in cultivating the flying sword, it must not come into contact with a woman's menstrual blood (tiankui); if it does, the sword will be instantly ruined, and the practitioner must start over from scratch, sacrificing a new sword.

So in the end I could only resentfully put down this ancient book—sixty years is far too long to invest, and success also depends on luck; those who are not constantly rolling in good fortune simply cannot master this art.

I weakly asked myself whether my luck could compare to Pangzi's or that heaven‑defying old man's; even if it did, by the time I managed to cultivate the sword I would be half‑aged, not yet crippled, having spent half a lifetime practicing a sword that would be ruined by a single touch of menstrual blood—hardly meaningful.

Thus, I had no choice but to shift my gaze to the other manuals.

From the old man's person I scavenged a total of four manuals; aside from this sword‑arts technique, there were others from the Scarlet Lotus Sect and some folk sorcery traditions.

From the diagram on the altar one can faintly see that this old man originated from the Law Sect and later took refuge in Daoism; as for how he came to possess so many manuals from various sects, I cannot tell—perhaps he seized them, or perhaps he truly took as his teachers masters of all those traditions.

No matter what, the dead are gone… Though I harbor a thousand doubts, I can't interrogate this corpse to get to the bottom of things; the person is already dead, so any grudges or resentments should be let go.

I glanced at the old man's corpse on the floor, sighed, picked up these few ancient books, and walked out of the room.