Chapter 119: Absorbing Power

“You’ve decided to take us for granted? How bold of you! Talking such nonsense!”

Before Yan Ping could speak, a Yan clan youth with powdered face and red lips couldn’t help but sneer.

He stomped his foot, crushing the golden-yellow true qi beneath him, pushed through the crowd, and shot straight toward Chen Hang, who sat cross-legged atop the central stone pillar.

This man was named Yan Jia; his cultivation had reached the First Stage of Foundation Establishment—the Qi Sea Transformation Realm—and he was also immensely wealthy, adorned with many treasures, making him a formidable fighter among this group.

Chen Hang was merely a Qi Condensation cultivator; even with all his tricks, Yan Ping believed sending Yan Jia, a true Foundation Establishment cultivator, to test him was more than sufficient.

Still, one couldn’t ignore the question: what life-saving method had Xie Tan of the Flower God Mansion given him?

At this moment.

Yan Jia had entered the jagged stone forest, where towering stone peaks, sharp as swords and halberds, stretched for miles across the wild plain, dark, strange, and treacherously deep.

Inside the forest was a pitch-black void, pierced by the piercing wails of icy winds rushing through countless crevices—like mournful laments, heart-chilling to hear.

Yan Jia tore his gaze from the jagged stones below, furrowed his brow, and felt a creeping dread—he sensed countless vengeful spirits lurking silently beneath, ready to snatch him into the ink-black depths at the slightest misstep.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the inexplicable tremor in his chest.

Remembering his clan members stood behind him as backup, he touched the ancestral demonic treasure hidden in his sleeve, and his eyes hardened slightly.

“As agreed beforehand, first cripple this brat, then sprinkle moonstone and Red River sand on him to summon the Underworld’s spirits to finish him off! Then the matter is done!”

Yan Jia muttered this to himself, a cold sneer forming on his face.

The golden-yellow true qi beneath his feet continued forward another dozens of zhang.

When he judged the distance to Chen Hang to be just right, he tilted his head, opened his mouth, and spat out a crystal bead the size of a chicken egg, hurtling straight at Chen Hang’s face!

The bead glowed brilliant blue; the moment it left his mouth, it flashed in midair, transforming into a ten-zhang-long, three-zhang-wide surge of deep-blue water, writhing like a colossal, agile serpent.

This “Floating Mist Pearl,” a replica of the “Shen Dragon Pearl,” was his prized talisman-artifact, refined by him for over a decade—easily controlled, size adjustable, and supremely nimble.

Any cultivator touched by even a thread of this water would have their soul snatched by the phantom mist within, dragged into an endless illusion, collapsing unconscious and never waking again.

At that point, they’d be nothing but a walking corpse, their life and death entirely in Yan Jia’s hands.

Even if some were alert enough to shield themselves with spells or talismans during combat, preventing the water from touching them—

Yan Jia still had his own method.

When the “Floating Mist Pearl” was activated, a damp, misty vapor had already secretly saturated the air, indistinguishable from ordinary humidity.

As long as the opposing cultivator inhaled or exhaled through nose or mouth, drawing in this mist, the phantom qi would gradually accumulate, naturally stealing their soul and trapping them in illusion.

This trick was exceedingly subtle.

The dispersed mist had no color or scent; even with keen spiritual sense, one could detect no anomaly—only mistaking it for the normal turbulence of spiritual energy stirred by the talisman’s activation.

Yan Jia had used this very tactic to eliminate many cultivators; even those one stage above him, if caught off guard, could fall victim.

The roaring water surge surged forward, smashing and shattering numerous stone pillars along its path, sending up clouds of dust, and within moments, closed within ten zhang of Chen Hang.

“The water qi feels… unusual…”

Chen Hang frowned slightly; his Tai Su Jade Body at the Fifth Level of Xuan Realm had already transformed him beyond ordinary cultivators, nearing the power of young primordial spirits.

The moment Yan Jia spat out the “Floating Mist Pearl” and it transformed into a water wave, his formidable physical body had sensed the anomaly in the air—he immediately held his breath.

He pointed a finger; instantly, the Thunderfire Lightning Pearl erupted in blazing flames, encircling him, while streaks of red-and-white lightning spun outward, meeting the onrushing wave head-on.

BOOM!

Yan Jia’s face turned pale—he felt the power within the lightning was ferocious beyond human capability; after just a few clashes, the water wave had been slashed in half.

It was about to be completely shattered, revealing the “Floating Mist Pearl”’s true form.

He frantically formed a hand seal, pouring all his true qi into it, forcing the wave to surge again, regaining some strength, then sweeping horizontally through the air to barely intercept the streaks of lightning aimed at him.

“What kind of embryonic breath does he have? He certainly didn’t learn the ‘Dingjin True Qi’ from our sect!”

Amid the continuous explosions, Yan Jia could barely withstand the assault after a few more clashes—his face flushed crimson, his blood surging violently from the backlash, a sweet metallic taste rising in his throat.

How could a Qi Condensation cultivator possess such skill?

Has he already formed true qi?!

This sight stunned Yan Jia to the core—and left Yan Ping and the others utterly incredulous, suspecting they were under some illusion.

As they rushed to aid him, suddenly, they saw Chen Hang’s body on the stone pillar tremble slightly, and the blazing light from the Thunderfire Lightning Pearl slowly dimmed.

“Got him?! He really fell for my phantom mist!”

Yan Jia’s heart surged with wild joy—he’d barely escaped death.

His hand had already reached into his sleeve, gripping the ancestral demonic treasure, ready to unleash a devastating blow.

Yet he paused, hesitated, then slowly withdrew his hand.

He carefully probed again, and finally let out a silent laugh.

That demonic treasure was called the Blood River Cart Wheel; its forging was exceedingly difficult.

It drew the enmity of Xuanmen cultivators, and its use was bound by fate—each activation consumed one of its limited uses.

Passed down through generations, now in Yan Jia’s hands, it could be activated at most four or five more times before becoming useless iron.

Saving one use now was wise—it might one day save his life in combat…

Yan Jia’s mind raced with thoughts, but his hands moved swiftly.

Though the “Floating Mist Pearl” could steal souls through mist, direct contact with the body was the most immediate and effective method.

Yan Jia flew close to Chen Hang, who seemed on the verge of collapse, and pressed his true qi toward him.

He unleashed the water wave with full force, aiming to obliterate the faint flickers of protective flame around Chen Hang, driving the phantom mist fully into his body, dragging him into endless illusion!

Almost the instant Yan Jia, triumphant, drew within ten zhang of Chen Hang—

The man on the stone pillar’s eyes flashed with sudden brilliant light, like twin blades of frost, illuminating everything with piercing clarity!

“No!”

Yan Jia’s heart jolted—he sensed disaster.

In an instant, a streak of green light shot from Chen Hang’s sleeve, swift as lightning!

At this distance, Yan Jia had no time to dodge.

He cursed inwardly, instinctively reaching again for the demonic treasure in his sleeve.

*Plop!* The water wave formed by the “Floating Mist Pearl” was cleaved in one stroke; Yan Jia screamed in agony as his limbs were severed by the Green Law Sword, tumbling from midair, head and body bleeding.

“You—”

He was still resolute; even half-dead, he twisted his body, struggling to crawl away, yet his eyes remained filled with terrified confusion.

In his spiritual sense, Chen Hang’s qi was chaotic, his blood flow stagnant—he clearly appeared bewitched by the phantom mist.

He had carefully confirmed this multiple times.

Yet when he drew near, how could it be—

Just then, a sharp wind brushed his ear; Yan Jia turned in terror—and saw Chen Hang calmly reaching down to pick up the Blood River Cart Wheel that had fallen from his sleeve.

Then, with another gesture, he summoned Yan Jia through the air, gripping his throat like a chicken.

“You were clearly bewitched by my phantom mist—how are you unharmed?!”

Seeing Chen Hang’s cold expression, Yan Jia struggled and screamed: “You tricked me?!”

“The Blood River Cart Wheel—I’ve long heard of it. Never expected to meet it here… Had I not wanted it, I’d never have played this farce with you.”

Chen Hang smiled faintly, gently squeezing his fingers—and crushed Yan Jia to death.

This entire sequence unfolded with lightning speed.

Yan Ping and the others saw Yan Jia approach with a smug grin—then suddenly, his limbs were severed, and he tumbled into Chen Hang’s grasp.

And then, as they watched Chen Hang’s lips move slightly, he crushed Yan Jia to death with his bare hand.

This brutal, bloody scene left them all speechless.

“We can’t fight him directly! Forget using spirits to kill him—everyone, attack together! Kill him!”

Yan Ping gritted his teeth, summoned his White Pavilion Dao Sword, and whipped up a storm of dark mist and foul wind, slashing fiercely toward Chen Hang’s head!

The surrounding Yan clan members all unleashed their techniques—colors of light flared, spells and talismans flew through the air.

Chen Hang glanced once, pointed at the Green Law Sword, and directed it with his spirit—its blade pierced the air repeatedly, blocking every attack like an iron wall, impervious to any intrusion.

*Bang!*

Cold light gleamed in the air.

After several clashes, the Yan clan members were shaken to their cores; Yan Ping’s face darkened.

His White Pavilion Dao Sword was Yan Zhen’s former weapon, of high rank—even among mid-tier talismans, it was excellent.

But Chen Hang’s Green Law Sword was even higher in rank.

In their clash, the White Pavilion Dao Sword had leaked faint spiritual light, emitting a mournful cry.

“Where did this peasant get such terrifying embryonic breath—and where did he acquire this superior flying sword?!”

As Yan Ping hastily recalled his White Pavilion Dao Sword, he didn’t even have time to mourn it—he witnessed a scene that nearly stole his soul.

“You… what kind of dark art have you cultivated? Are you even human?!”

Yan Ping staggered backward.

“No! You’re not Chen Hang! That timid, foolish fool—even if he’d gained such power, he’d never have this courage! What demonic spirit has possessed him?!”

His eyes glared fiercely ahead, veins bulging red.

Not far away, Chen Hang pressed his hand on the dead Yan Jia’s crown, and faint threads of true qi slowly seeped from Yan Jia’s corpse into his body.

After dozens of breaths, he calmly withdrew his hand—Yan Jia’s body was now nothing but skin stretched over bone, unrecognizable from his former self.

“True qi… With my current embryonic breath capacity, absorbing the residual true qi from a Foundation Establishment cultivator isn’t difficult at all.”

Chen Hang felt a warm spring churning in his chest and abdomen, bringing his spirit profound ease and clarity.

He took a white silk cloth from his sleeve and meticulously wiped the dust from his fingers, then smiled faintly.

After a cultivator dies, their spiritual essence instantly returns to heaven and earth; what remains in the body is merely a trace.

He had already confirmed this phenomenon on the body of Tong Gaolu of Rong State.

But Yan Jia was ultimately a Foundation Establishment cultivator, his scale far beyond that of Tong Gaolu; even the residual true qi left behind granted Chen Hang a slight improvement.

“I know this technique must never be revealed before others—I cannot leave any living witness to this scene, or else, if word leaks, it will draw the wrath of certain Xuanmen sectarians…”

“In Huaiwu Cave, I killed many, several Foundation Establishment cultivators—I held back and never unleashed it.”

Chen Hang looked at the Yan clan members, all on edge, and spoke softly:

“Now, in this place without heaven or sun, I may finally let loose and make a full-scale strike.”

“Chen Hang! You wield evil arts… do you not fear heavenly retribution?!”

Seeing him smile as he gazed upon them, the group involuntarily stepped back one pace.

A Yan clan member with dark-gold skin cried out, his voice loud but his spirit weak.

“Evil arts? Compared to this man’s Blood River Cart, what is mine but righteous?”

Chen Hang gestured with his hand, drawing the Qinglü Sword back into his sleeve, then stepped forward slowly.

“Also, thank you all for aiding my cultivation with your lives. I offer my respects.”

He gave a slight bow, smiled faintly, gathered his fetal breath, and unleashed with full force the Primordial Great Sun Divine Light—the only supreme Dao art he had mastered, and the most lethal weapon on his person!

In an instant, a thunderous boom echoed through the air, as if a cosmic furnace had overflowed and exploded.

From behind him surged a curtain of golden fire, vast and overwhelming, layer upon layer shattering the void with thunderous force, as if a sun had plummeted from the very zenith of the heavens, sweeping all before it in annihilation, blindingly brilliant, turning miles around crimson.

In the blink of an eye, the Yan clan’s hastily deployed defenses were swept away like sand.

Figures were severed and burned through as easily as paper.

Their agonized screams had barely begun when they vanished utterly into silence…

Half a cup of tea later.

After sweeping clean the remains and true qi of the Yan clan members, and restoring his dwindling fetal breath,

he showed no hesitation, rose into the air, and pursued the direction in which Yan Ping had fled.

This man had already been struck by the Primordial Great Sun Divine Light; even if he used several protective secret artifacts to escape death, the inflamed essence within his body meant he had no more than a few months to live.

But unless he saw Yan Ping’s death with his own eyes, Chen Hang could not find peace.

Soon.

Three days passed.

After a prolonged chase and escape, Chen Hang had no idea how deep into the Earth’s Abyss he had gone, nor how many subterranean caverns he had plunged into.

Finally, he slowed his flight above a small hill dotted with mounds of graves, gazing ahead.

Far off, Yan Ping lay bound like a slaughtered pig upon a meat slab, all four limbs severed and nailed to iron hooks.

Around him, as if at a village market, people came and went, bustling and crowded.

…

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