Chapter 11

After a stick of incense burned, Wang Yu felt his head grow heavy and involuntarily opened his eyes, ending his cultivation.

“Not bad, not bad! For your first time, holding out this long is quite acceptable—only slightly behind Qing Feng. Remember, drawing in spiritual energy consumes spiritual awareness; if your awareness is insufficient, you cannot sense the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, and cultivation will stall. With your current awareness strength, one stick of incense per day is your limit. Pushing further yields diminishing returns—wait until tomorrow when your awareness recovers before resuming.”

“Master, how long did Qing Feng hold out during his first cultivation session?” Wang Yu rubbed his head, feeling dazed and unable to sense the surrounding spiritual energy, and winced as he asked.

“Qing Feng lasted only one-third longer than you. But once your bloodline fully awakens, your breath-holding duration should increase. Though you awakened a physical bloodline, it will still offer slight benefits to your spiritual awareness.”

“I see. How long do you think it will take me to fully awaken this ‘Iron-Eating Crocodile’ bloodline?” Wang Yu ventured.

“As long as you continue taking the Blood-Refining Decoction, and once I find you a Body-Strengthening Technique, the time won’t be long. From now on, come here every three days to drink a bowl of the decoction, and practice one stick of incense of breath-holding daily. With your talent, you should break through the first layer of Yin Water Art in about a year, reaching the second layer.”

“Thank you, Master, then I’ll take my leave.” Wang Yu felt his skull growing heavier and had no choice but to bow out.

“Mm, your condition truly isn’t suited for lingering here. Go rest. By the way, when you feel the decoction taking effect, don’t be startled—practice the Wind-Splitting Sword Art more often; you’ll gain something from it. Also, don’t contemplate the cloud pattern in the White Cloud Scripture for now—focus your energy on cultivating Yin Water Art.”

Wang Yu nodded and stepped out of the meditation chamber.

On his way back, he saw Dong Yue sweeping the courtyard. As soon as she spotted Wang Yu emerging from the main hall, she dashed over, broom in hand.

“Qiu Ye, I heard from Senior Brother that the Abbot has taken you as a formal disciple—is it true?” The chubby boy lowered his voice and pressed urgently.

“The Abbot did accept me yesterday. It was Senior Brother who told you, right?” Wang Yu smiled in reply.

“Yes, Senior Brother said now you only need to focus on cultivation—you don’t have to clean the temple anymore. Congratulations, Junior Brother! Since the Abbot took you as his disciple, he’ll surely teach you spells eventually. Alas, I have no spiritual aptitude and can’t join the sect. If only I could learn even a little, I could become a Daoist Master.”

“Dong Yue, you know about spiritual aptitude and spells?” Wang Yu blinked, seemingly surprised.

“Of course I do! Otherwise, my family’s modest wealth in Huangshi City wouldn’t have driven us all the way out here to donate so much silver. Too bad I lack talent—but even as a temple acolyte here, my family still has ties to the Abbot. The silver isn’t wasted.”

Wang Yu listened, speechless.

After reluctantly promising to demonstrate any spell he learned to Dong Yue first, he returned to his quarters under the boy’s envious gaze.

That evening, in the training ground behind the temple.

Wang Yu held a wooden sword, face flushed, practicing the Wind-Splitting Sword Art. Each movement, each strike, whipped up a whistling wind.

At this moment, he felt as if his blood had ignited—his stamina boundless. Movements he once struggled with now flowed effortlessly. The first seven forms of the Wind-Splitting Sword Art were repeated again and again, transforming from clumsy and slow to smooth and fluent, his motions visibly accelerating. He poured himself entirely into the practice, losing all sense of time…

The next morning, on the grass beside the training ground, Wang Yu slowly woke, clutching his wooden sword, realizing he’d practiced half the night without noticing—and his body felt no ache or fatigue.

Astonished, he thought for a moment, then returned to the training ground. He held the wooden sword horizontally before him, bent slightly, then shot forward in a sudden lunge. The sword hissed as it became a blur, stabbing straight at a nearby sapling.

“Crack.”

The sword tip shattered against the tree, leaving only a shallow puncture.

Wang Yu stood before the tree, one hand gripping the sword, frozen in the thrusting posture—but inside, he was stunned and elated.

This thrust had mimicked the very strike Master Chongyun had used to pierce the tree. Clearly, he was far from matching it—but he sensed that with persistent practice, reaching that level might one day be possible.

Whether from the Blood-Refining Decoction or the awakening of his physical bloodline, last night’s sword practice had left him with boundless stamina, and his flexibility and coordination felt transformed. The Wind-Splitting Sword Art came to him as if guided by divine hands—and in a single night, he had mastered the first seven forms.

Moreover, his strength had surged. Each strike now was swift and brutal—impossible for an ordinary person.

Too bad he wouldn’t stay in this world long. No matter how well he mastered this sword art, it would be useless.

Wang Yu thought of this and felt a deep pang of regret.

In the days that followed, Wang Yu spent each day either practicing Yin Water Art’s breath-holding or wielding his sword in Wind-Splitting Sword Art. At every porridge meal, he ate medicinal tendon meat, and every three days he visited the Daoist for a bowl of the Blood-Refining Decoction and to ask about cultivation doubts.

Because his bloodline was already half-awakened, the medicinal meat’s effects quickly faded—but the Blood-Refining Decoction retained its astonishing power. Each time he drank it, he felt his body grow stronger, his height inching upward, and his Wind-Splitting Sword Art grew ever more refined. He even learned the next six forms from the Daoist.

The Daoist still showed no intention of teaching him spells.

According to him, the spiritual energy absorbed in the first layer of the Yin Water Art was primarily used to nurture the spiritual seed, with only a tiny fraction convertible into spell energy; thus, he could not yet learn spells. Only after reaching the second layer and accumulating a modest reserve of spell energy could he barely learn low-tier illusion techniques.

Wang Yu also learned from Master Chongyun that Qing Feng had already reached the third layer of Yin Water Art, successfully forming his spiritual root. Now, he only needed to perfect this layer to advance to Qi Condensation Fourth Stage and become a true cultivator.

As for the Daoist’s own level in Yin Water Art, he revealed nothing—and Wang Yu dared not ask.

But under Wang Yu’s persistent coaxing, Qing Feng revealed that Yin Water Art had twelve layers total, and even demonstrated a minor illusion technique called “Firefly”—a tiny flame that appeared on his fingertip after reciting a chant. Wang Yu was deeply disappointed.

Since learning Wang Yu had become Master Chongyun’s disciple, Dong Yue grew even more enthusiastic. He forcibly stuffed the remaining medicinal tendon meat into Wang Yu’s hands and swore to provide all future supplies. Wang Yu felt rather embarrassed.

Thus, ten days passed in the blink of an eye.

One day at noon, Wang Yu went as usual to the meditation chamber behind the main hall to find Master Chongyun—but upon entering, he found his master entertaining a visitor: a middle-aged man in yellow robes and a pale face.

The man seemed to have been arguing with Master Chongyun, his expression slightly agitated. But as soon as he saw Wang Yu enter, he fell silent and studied the boy with surprise. “Chongyun, is this your new disciple?”

“Qiu Ye, come and greet him. This is your Huang Shu.” Master Chongyun spoke calmly.

“Greetings, Huang Shu,” Wang Yu suppressed his curiosity and bowed respectfully.

“Chongyun, you already have Qing Feng as your disciple—why take on another now? Qiu Ye must have exceptional talent.” The man in yellow robes waved his hand at the boy, then asked in surprise.

“Yes, Qiu Ye’s talent is decent, and he has a karmic connection with me—that’s why I took him in. Huang, did you bring what I asked for?” The Daoist, unwilling to dwell on Wang Yu, changed the subject.

“Of course I brought it. This should meet your needs. But won’t you reconsider my earlier proposal? The promise from my Huang family is genuine—I swear it.” The man pulled a wooden box from his robe and handed it to Master Chongyun, then urged again.

“Forget the Huang family offer. I’ve grown accustomed to my idle life—I only wish to cultivate peace here.”

“Sigh. Since you won’t accept, I won’t press further. But our agreement still stands. I have many matters in Huangshi City—I’ll take my leave.” The man sighed, reluctantly bid farewell, and turned to leave.

Master Chongyun held the wooden box in one hand, expressionless, watching the man depart. He remained silent for a long while.

Wang Yu stood beside him, utterly confused, and dared not speak.

“Come here. Let me see your progress these past days.” The Daoist suddenly ordered.

“Yes, Master,” Wang Yu stepped forward quickly.

The Daoist pressed one palm against the boy’s lower abdomen. Instantly, a chill surged into his dantian, circled once, then retreated swiftly back into the Daoist’s palm.

“The spiritual seed has only grown slightly. At this pace, without increasing daily spiritual energy intake, breaking through the first layer of Yin Water Art will take over a year. But circumstances have changed—it may be too late.”

“Master, what’s too late?”

“Time is too short. You must break through the second layer of Yin Water Art within half a year and learn at least one illusion technique to gain basic self-defense. Come with me.” The Daoist paused, then seemed to make a decision. He tucked the wooden box into his robe and gestured to the boy.