Chapter 12

Wang Yu answered with a grunt and followed the Daoist out of the room, his mind full of doubts, heading straight for the training ground behind the temple.

Before the stone house beside the training ground, the Daoist unlocked the copper lock and led the boy inside.

As soon as he entered, the icy chill of the stone house made Wang Yu shiver; whether it was his imagination or not, he felt the temperature was even lower than last time he’d been here.

The Daoist’s gaze swept over the ground before the altar, paused briefly, then walked to a corner, picked up a jar sealed with talismans, shook it, pressed his ear to it, and nodded with satisfaction.

“The yin spirit inside should be purified now—usable.”

No sooner had he spoken than the Daoist tore off the talisman and lifted the lid.

Wang Yu jumped back two steps in alarm, his hand instinctively gripping his waist, where a small wooden sword was stuck—the thunder-struck wood sword Qing Feng had once given him.

Ever since he learned that yin spirits and other invisible ghosts truly existed, he had carried this small sword against evil spirits at all times.

“What’s there to fear? You haven’t trained today—here, practice the Yin Water Technique and breathe.” The Daoist glanced at Wang Yu, placed the jar on the ground before him, and smirked.

“I haven’t learned any spells—I always feel uneasy around these things.” Wang Yu smiled awkwardly, then sat cross-legged without hesitation, released his spiritual awareness, and began practicing the first layer of the Yin Water Technique.

“This is...” As soon as the Yin Water Technique completed one small heavenly cycle, Wang Yu’s eyes snapped open in shock, staring straight at the jar before him.

Just now, as he channeled the technique, thin streams of gray mist had emerged from the jar, mingling with colorful specks of light, drawn into his body and channeled into his spirit seed.

“You’ve noticed, haven’t you? Purified yin spirits transform into pure spiritual energy, though this energy leans heavily toward yin-cold. Only cultivation methods of the same affinity can absorb it—the Yin Water Technique happens to be one such method. With this, you absorb more than several times the spiritual energy in the same time. Theoretically, you could break through to the second layer of the Yin Water Technique in just three or four months.” The Daoist said.

“Master, is this really possible? What do you mean by ‘theoretically’?” Wang Yu’s face lit up with joy, then clouded with confusion.

“The spiritual energy from yin spirits isn’t true heavenly energy—it’s impure and excessively yin-cold. Inhaling it daily would harm your body. Best to absorb it every four or five days—that’s the optimal efficiency, roughly doubling your cultivation speed. With this aid, you should reach the second layer of the Yin Water Technique in half a year. Hmm, three yin spirits’ energy should be enough.” As he finished speaking, the Daoist pulled out the same wooden box from his robes, opened it, took out a small black bottle, uncapped it, muttered incantations, and waved the mouth toward the jar before Wang Yu. Instantly, streams of gray mist surged out and were sucked into the bottle.

Not stopping there, he selected two more jars, used the same method to draw all the gray mist into the bottle, then handed it to the boy.

“This ‘Yin Marrow Bottle’ isn’t a true artifact, but it can store yin spirit energy without letting it dissipate quickly—keep it well.”

“Thank you, Master, for this gift—I will train diligently,” Wang Yu bowed deeply as he accepted the bottle, feeling its icy touch and knowing it was a precious item, thanking the Daoist repeatedly with joy.

“Autumn Leaf, if you reach the second layer of the Yin Water Technique within half a year, I’ll continue supplying you with yin spirit energy. But if you fail, then this aid simply isn’t suited to you—after that, train steadily, step by step.” The Daoist spoke two cold sentences, then led Wang Yu out of the stone house.

After that?

Wang Yu followed behind the Daoist, but he paid no mind to the Daoist’s words.

Calculating the time, he had only about ten days left before his one-month limit in this world expired—shouldn’t he find a way to leave the temple and visit Huangshi City? It was the only city in this region, likely holding more valuable information from this world.

After all, the more information he brought back to Blue Star, the greater the government’s reward.

Also, should he try to obtain one or two cultivation methods from the Daoist or Qing Feng—even the most basic spell, if he brought it back, would be a major achievement.

Wang Yu pondered thoughtfully.

Two more days passed.

That noon, as Wang Yu and Dong Yue trained behind the temple, they suddenly heard a clear birdcall—a small emerald bird descended from the sky and landed on the eaves of the rear hall.

“Huh, looks like the Abbot’s leaving,” Dong Yue grinned at Wang Yu.

“Why do you say that, Brother Dong Yue?” Wang Yu asked, puzzled.

“Since I came up the mountain, this bird has appeared here four or five times—each time, the Abbot leaves with Senior Brother. This time is no different.”

Dong Yue spoke with certainty; Wang Yu was half-skeptical.

But not long after, Chongyun Daoist summoned Wang Yu before him, gave brief instructions, then hurriedly descended the mountain with Qing Feng.

That night, just after finishing his cultivation in his room, Wang Yu was about to sleep when he heard sudden commotion outside—someone was pounding violently on the temple’s main gate.

Wang Yu froze, leapt from bed, and pushed open the side room door.

“Who is it? Coming to Baiyun Temple so late? The Abbot and Senior Brother couldn’t have returned yet—what a nuisance...” From the opposite room, Dong Yue stumbled out, disheveled, holding a lantern, yawning as he reluctantly headed for the gate.

But before the chubby boy could pull the bolt, the outsider seemed impatient—a loud crash, the bolt shattered instantly, and the gate was violently smashed open from outside.

“Ah!”

Dong Yue staggered back two steps in shock.

“Thud!”

A round object was thrown in from outside, rolled a few times, and came to a stop right before the fat boy.

Dong Yue instinctively raised his lantern to inspect it—and let out a scream, his face draining of all color.

The round object illuminated by the lantern was a bloody, severed human head, eyes wide open, mouth agape—but the familiar, twisted features were unmistakably those of Senior Brother “Qing Feng.”

What happened? Qing Feng had left with Chongyun Daoist only this morning—how could he be dead by night, his head cut off and dumped back at the temple?

Wang Yu saw it clearly too—his mind went numb, his blood freezing in an instant.

“Heh, so there are still two remnants here. Kill them all—don’t leave any loose ends.” A young man’s voice came from outside. Then shadows surged through the gate—seven or eight figures charged in, all clad in black martial attire, faces covered in thick black cloth, wielding gleaming weapons.

“Y-you... who are you? Do you know where you are? This is the temple of Master Chongyun! Don’t you fear his return and his punishment?” Dong Yue threw his lantern aside, stumbling backward, stammering in terror.

“Chongyun the old man can’t even save himself—who cares? Attack!” Another young man in white stepped in from outside—sunken nose, triangular eyes, cruel expression, holding a silver-gleaming folding fan. His gaze swept over Dong Yue and Wang Yu’s novice robes, then he sneered and ordered.

“No good—Brother, run!”

Dong Yue screamed, turned, and bolted.

Wang Yu snapped out of his shock and followed without hesitation, sprinting toward the temple’s rear mountain.

The intruders’ murderous expressions made it clear—they meant to kill them.

“Brat, don’t run!”

“You two—where can you possibly escape?”

The black-clad men surged after them, leaving only the white-clad youth behind.

“Hmph, mere mortals!” The youth sneered, didn’t chase, but glanced toward the main hall—his eyes glowed with greed, then he strode toward it.

But less than a cup of tea later, the youth stormed out of the hall, cursing, flipped his palm to reveal a yellow talisman, slapped it onto his leg—and instantly, a gentle wind surged around his legs, lifting his body as if weightless, and he darted after them toward the rear mountain.

Wang Yu sprinted with all his strength, feeling his body brimming with power—each step launched him over a zhang ahead, the wind howling past his ears; if not for the thick trees and shrubs blocking the path, he felt he could run all the way down the mountain in one breath.

As for Dong Yue, the moment they reached the training ground behind the temple, they had silently split up, each choosing a different escape route.

Going separate ways increased their chances of survival—and as he passed the weapon rack, Wang Yu grabbed a rusted iron sword.

“Swoosh!”

A crossbow bolt shot from behind.

Wang Yu halted, instinctively swinging his iron sword backward.

“Bang!”

The bolt whizzed past his ear and embedded itself in a tree ahead, trembling slightly.

Wang Yu spun around sharply.

“Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!” Three more bolts flew in a straight line.

In panic, he roared, wildly swinging his iron sword in front of him—two bolts were deflected, but the third pierced through his left shoulder, sending him stumbling, barely keeping from falling.

“Brat, you’re good at running—if we hadn’t trained specifically in light-body arts, you might’ve slipped away.” A furious voice came from behind. Four black-clad masked men emerged from the trees, drenched in sweat, clearly exhausted.

The lead man held a light crossbow; seeing Wang Yu hit, he gestured—and the four rushed forward, surrounding him completely, clearly fearing he’d run again.