Chapter 7

In the side room, Dong Yue opened the bundle, revealing its contents: a large string of golden copper coins, two simple garments, and a long, black, dried strip of meat.

“Qiu Ye, here.” Without hesitation, Dong Yue picked up the meat strip, snapped it in half, and shoved one piece into Wang Yu’s hands.

“This is the good thing you mentioned?” Wang Yu held the object, stunned.

“Brother, this isn’t ordinary meat—it’s a demon beast’s penis, soaked in special medicinal broth,” the chubby boy pointed at the meat strip, winking mischievously.

“Medicinal penis!”

Wang Yu’s expression turned peculiar as he examined the object more closely.

It felt hard and rigid, faintly emitting a medicinal scent, yet its shape undeniably resembled a “penis.”

“Exactly. Demon beast penises are inherently more nourishing than regular meat; when infused with additional tonic herbs, the effect is even better. These medicinal meats are homemade by my family—I’ve eaten them since childhood, which is why I’m so strong. Try it and you’ll see. It’s highly nourishing: just tear off a sliver and drop it into your porridge each time. Otherwise, you might get nosebleeds,” Dong Yue warned.

“Brother, this must be expensive,” Wang Yu glanced at the black meat strip, half-amused, half-alarmed, and hesitantly asked.

“My family runs a meat shop in Huangshi City. These medicinal meats are pricey for others, but to us, they’re nothing. Eat without worry. This piece should last you a month or more,” Dong Yue grinned dismissively.

“Thank you, Brother Dong Yue. Then I won’t be polite,” Wang Yu thought for a moment, then tucked the meat strip into his robe and bowed to Dong Yue in thanks.

“Hah! That’s the spirit, Brother Qiu Ye. Go try it tonight—you’ll feel the difference in your body within two or three days,” Dong Yue laughed heartily.

Seeing Dong Yue’s confidence, Wang Yu found himself genuinely looking forward to the medicinal meat.

At dusk.

Wang Yu stared at the bowl of porridge thick with meat aroma, gulped it all down, then performed light stretches and simple digestion exercises inside the room.

Soon, he felt his skin begin to itch faintly, starting at his scalp, then rapidly spreading to his chest and back, finally reaching his arms and legs—the itch intensified, and his entire body grew slightly warm.

He rolled up his sleeves, raised his arm, and examined it closely: the skin glowed a deep red, almost alarming. Even without a mirror, he knew his face must be flushed.

The medicinal meat’s reaction was far stronger than Wang Yu had ever imagined!

His skin grew increasingly itchy, his body hotter—he could no longer bear it. He left the room and ran around the training ground behind the temple.

Facing the chilly mountain wind, Wang Yu swung his arms and kicked his legs vigorously. Each lap felt like he had endless strength. Where he used to gasp for breath after a few laps, he now ran ten or more without fatigue, growing faster with each circuit, as if his feet were stirring the wind.

After a stick of incense burned down.

“Huff.”

Wang Yu exhaled deeply as the heat inside him subsided. He stopped in the center of the training ground, his gaze instinctively sweeping toward the temple—then he shuddered, shouting, “Brother Qing Feng!”

A figure stood quietly beside the training ground, the pale moonlight illuminating a clean, pale face—it was Qing Feng, whom he’d seen earlier that day.

“You ate the medicinal meat? First time?” Qing Feng asked coldly, holding a small yellow jar wrapped in a thick gray cloth, its mouth tightly bound with several yellow threads.

“Yes, Brother. It’s my first time. Brother Dong Yue gave me a piece,” Wang Yu hurried over, answering honestly, though puzzled by Qing Feng’s sudden appearance.

“Dong Yue is generous. This medicinal meat is worth nearly its weight in silver outside. Since it’s your first time, let me advise you: the first few doses yield the strongest effects. Later, you must take it regularly to gradually improve your constitution. If you truly want maximum benefit, exercise more these days—it will only help you,” Qing Feng said coolly.

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” Wang Yu nodded eagerly, appearing obedient, though inwardly shocked by the meat’s cost. In Wang Tiezhu’s memory, one tael of silver could buy a whole string of copper coins—enough for his family to live comfortably for a month.

Qing Feng glanced at Wang Yu again, then asked: “Master said you possess spiritual sensitivity?”

“Yes, the Abbot said so, but I don’t understand what spiritual sensitivity even is,” Wang Yu blinked, replying.

“Since you have spiritual sensitivity, come help me. Hold this,” Qing Feng’s face showed a strange expression. He raised his arm and casually extended the yellow jar toward Wang Yu.

“Yes, Elder Brother,” Wang Yu, caught off guard, instinctively took the jar—then immediately shuddered as a freezing force surged through it, making him grimace and blurt out: “Elder Brother, what’s inside?”

“You’ll find out soon. Hold it carefully and follow me,” Qing Feng said calmly, then walked toward a stone hut beside the training ground.

Wang Yu gritted his teeth against the cold, clutching the jar tightly as he followed.

The stone hut stood cool and silent, its black door still sealed with a copper lock bearing two yellow paper talismans.

Wang Yu glanced at the talismans, then instinctively looked at the jar in his hands—only to see, on its bottom, a similar talisman, much newer than the ones on the lock.

Qing Feng reached the door, murmured something low, touched the lock with one hand—and a faint white light flashed. The two papers drifted silently down, caught and tucked into his robe.

True mystical power!

Wang Yu’s mouth hung slightly open, his heartbeat quickening.

“Come in.”

Qing Feng pulled out a rusted key, unlocked the door, called out, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

Wang Yu steadied himself and followed—then shivered violently, as if plunged into a frozen wasteland.

The stone hut was small, but not as dark as he’d expected.

Directly ahead stood a long altar table, upon which rested a one-foot-tall statue of the “Nine Heavens Qiu Yang Celestial Master.” On either side of the miniature statue burned an ancient oil lamp, its surface carved with dark, indistinct patterns, worn by time.

What struck Wang Yu more was the floor beneath the altar: dozens of jars, identical to the one he held, arranged in neat rows—over twenty in total.

As Wang Yu stared, Qing Feng shut the door, reattached the two yellow talismans he’d removed from the lock, then reached into his robe and pulled out an object.

“Place the jar on the altar. Then take this and follow my orders.”

Wang Yu set the jar on the altar and took the object—only to find it was a tiny black wooden sword, no longer than a dagger, pitted and rough, barely recognizable as a sword, faintly smelling of charred wood.

“Yes, Elder Brother.”

Wang Yu suppressed his confusion and stood quietly to the side.

The young Daoist pulled a white ceramic basin from beneath the altar, placed it beside the jar, then withdrew a grease-paper packet. Carefully opening it, he revealed a chunk of fresh, bloody meat.

Qing Feng tossed the meat into the basin without hesitation, his expression grave as he told Wang Yu:

“When I say ‘act,’ stab this wooden sword into the meat—quickly, with all your strength.”

“Yes.” “Yes.”

Wang Yu nodded rapidly, staring at the meat. Was it his imagination, or did the chunk twitch slightly in the basin? A chill ran down his spine.

Qing Feng drew a deep breath, tore off the yellow talisman from the jar’s bottom, then stepped back swiftly.

“Bang.” “Bang.”

The once-still jar began to shake violently. The thick cloth over its mouth bulged and rippled, as if something inside struggled to escape.

Wang Yu’s heart pounded. His grip tightened on the wooden sword.

“Sssss!” The yellow threads binding the jar’s mouth snapped simultaneously—the contents burst through the cloth.

Wang Yu’s eyes widened in shock!

What flew out was a black, head-sized mass of vapor. As soon as it emerged, it let out a low “wuuu” and surged toward Qing Feng.

“Come on!”

Qing Feng, seemingly prepared, clenched his fist and punched the oncoming black vapor.

“Crack!”

A thin arc of lightning flickered from his fist, striking the vapor and sending it flying back, shrinking its size—but its wailing grew louder. It twisted midair and veered toward Wang Yu, farther away.

Wang Yu felt a wave of icy cold strike his face. He panicked, unsure whether to raise the wooden sword—when Qing Feng flashed forward, blocking him, and punched the vapor again.

This time, the vapor shrank further, its glow dimmed noticeably. After a few mournful wails, it reluctantly dove toward the bloody meat on the altar, blurred, and vanished into it.

“Now! Act!” Qing Feng roared.

Wang Yu dashed to the altar, gripped the tiny wooden sword with both hands, and plunged it deep into the meat.

“Plop.”

The sword sank into the meat as if it were rotten wood. Wang Yu used all his strength to drive it in several inches—simultaneously, thick green smoke hissed from the meat’s surface, writhing wildly beneath the blade.

The smoke reeked of putrid rot, making him gag. A tremendous force surged up the sword, as if the meat fought to tear free—frightened, Wang Yu wanted to let go and retreat.