Chapter 13: Crimson Dragon Scar!

Clenching his fist, feeling the heat surging through his body—vastly different from before—Li Guanyi felt dazed.

If before, the sensation had been a speck of qi no bigger than a sesame seed,

now it was at least the size of an egg, tightly coiled, solid and dense.

He clenched his fist, assumed a horse stance, and punched forward—the force was firm, brimming with boundless, inexhaustible power.

He stepped back, drew the short sword his aunt had given him, retreated into stance, swept horizontally, slashed vertically, and slashed upward diagonally.

Sweeping clouds, cleaving mountains, sweeping through clouds, severing waves.

Pushing mountains, repelling ridges, piercing kings, slaying emperors.

These moves, utterly unlike the infamous Eight Breaker Blades circulating outside, poured out in one continuous rush.

As muscle memory surfaced, what began as awkwardness swiftly became fluent.

Eight Breaker Blades, beginner! Eight Breaker Blades, proficient! Eight Breaker Blades, mastered! Eight Breaker Blades—

A chilling, disciplined killing aura surged—even in this confined space, it summoned a pale flash of swordlight, which halted abruptly. Li Guanyi stepped back half a pace, exhaled softly, then brought the short sword down in a sudden, heavy slash, like a crescent moon.

The finishing move: Slashing the Heavenly Wolf! A resonant hum arose from within—his entire musculature and skeleton tensed and exploded in unison.

The final technique ended.

Li Guanyi gripped the short sword with both hands, breathed slowly, feeling his muscles tremble—a strange yet familiar sensation rose in his heart, as if he’d trained this sword art for years, yet his body held no corresponding muscle memory.

The ache and faint tremors from muscle exertion were gently soothed by the warm flow.

Eight Breaker Blades, perfected! Li Guanyi reviewed what had just happened, lost in thought: “This is…”

“The bronze tripod absorbed some kind of power from Yue Qianfeng’s body, then transformed it into that dragon—carrying fragments of Yue Qianfeng’s martial memories, aiding my cultivation…”

Li Guanyi’s thoughts suddenly halted.

A crushing hunger seized his stomach; as he thought, his brain demanded energy, and his stomach churned violently, threatening to erupt—forcing his thoughts to break off. He gripped his belly hard, his reason crumbling under the assault of appetite.

Like the feeling after pulling off a win in a night-long gaming session.

Hungry! Hungry! Hungry! He swallowed saliva, tiptoed quietly out of the room.

First he grabbed a carrot, washed it, and shoved it into his mouth, crunching it down. Lighting a fire to cook was too troublesome and time-consuming. He pulled a large flatbread from a wooden cabinet, moved the stone atop a black jar, used a pair of clean chopsticks to fish out pickled vegetable strips and garlic from inside.

Squatting behind the cabinet, he devoured one bite of flatbread, one chopstick of pickles—soon the entire bread was gone, and the churning hunger in his stomach eased slightly.

Then he licked his lips, pulled out another flatbread, tore it open, and shoved it into his mouth—finally able to think again.

“It’s hunger caused by the body needing massive nutrition—conservation of matter. Martial training reshapes the body and demands nourishment. But the nutrition required to push the Eight Breaker Blades to perfection couldn’t possibly be satisfied by a few flatbreads. The jade liquid inside the tripod must be the key—it can at least serve as… qi.”

Li Guanyi turned his chopsticks around and idly scratched at the ground.

Their rented courtyard had no floor—just packed earth, which made it convenient for Li Guanyi to write things down. He absentmindedly jabbed the end of his chopstick into an ant, killing it, then scratched his chin, doodling randomly to organize his thoughts.

“The tripod can absorb qi or spiritual essence from powerful cultivators.”

“Once full, it can transform into… a crimson dragon, using that essence to aid cultivation…”

Li Guanyi understood its general function, but new questions surfaced.

He rubbed his chin, murmuring to himself: “What are the requirements for the tripod to absorb power? What level of martialist is needed? Are there specific conditions?”

“Second, how strong is the tripod’s feedback? What’s its upper limit?”

“Can it only assist in cultivating the exact art the source possessed?”

Li Guanyi realized his doubts about the tripod were multiplying when he heard faint footsteps. He wolfed down the last bites of flatbread, crouched, turned—and saw his aunt, tense and rigid. She spotted him too. Both jumped back a step in surprise.

Then Murong Qiushui exhaled, extended her pale finger, and tapped his forehead. “You little glutton.”

“I heard noise outside and thought we’d been robbed.”

“Turns out it’s just you, my greedy little cat.”

The boy scratched his head, his serious expression melting into a shy grin. “I’m hungry.”

His gaze flickered to his aunt’s loose brown robe with white trim, her black hair cascading like a waterfall, her eyes like morning stars, her hands pale as jade. Then, as if nothing had happened, she tossed the iron pot—missing a corner—aside with a clang. The boy’s lip twitched.

If it had been a thief, he’d already be dead from a skull-cracking pot swing.

A pot with a chipped corner, swung with full force, was no joke. Thirty-seven petty thieves had already fallen to that move—her skill was flawless. A woman traveling alone with a child, no matter how discreet, inevitably drew trouble.

If he’d turned a moment later, he’d have gotten the same treatment.

Murong Qiushui stepped forward, her eyes scanning Li Guanyi from head to toe, then smiled. “Did my little fox practice today?”

Li Guanyi blinked. “How did you know?”

Murong Qiushui chuckled. “I may not understand martial arts, but I know cultivators’ appetites swell after mastering internal qi. Besides, my little fox has peerless talent. That Crimson Dragon fellow was blind not to teach you.”

She lifted her skirt slightly, skipped lightly to the other side of the cabinet—Li Guanyi’s side—and only then did he notice her bare feet, pale as jade. She must have heard the noise and rushed out without shoes, stepping on the dark earth, smoothing her robe before sitting on the ground beside the cabinet and patting the spot beside her.

Li Guanyi sat down beside her.

Murong Qiushui frowned. “I said, give me a flatbread too.”

The boy blinked. “Didn’t you say you don’t eat after dark?”

Murong Qiushui coughed lightly. “Got up, got hungry.”

Li Guanyi nearly laughed aloud, but shook his head. He’d been careful not to wake her, so he’d settled for cold flatbread—but if she wanted to eat, he might as well cook. He lit the fire, boiled two bowls of noodles, and added two poached eggs.

To win favor with Yue Qianfeng, he’d brought meat and wine every few days. Their own life was simple. Li Guanyi was a fugitive—even if he had things worth selling, he dared not draw attention. Now they had no meat left.

He brought two bowls of plain noodles, placed a stone beside the cabinet, set one bowl before each of them, and placed a small dish of pickled vegetables between them. “We’ve got no meat. Make do.”

Murong Qiushui suddenly grinned, raised an eyebrow. “But I’ve still got a chicken leg. Want some?”

Li Guanyi raised an eyebrow.

She pinched a strand of noodles with her chopsticks, twirled them into a large, wide-bottomed, narrow-top bundle that resembled a chicken leg. Li Guanyi couldn’t help but laugh. She beamed, then pointed to a large piece of pickled vegetable. “If that’s your chicken leg, mine’s a big piece of braised pork.”

“Then mine’s roast goose.”

Murong Qiushui and Li Guanyi sat beneath the wooden cabinet. The courtyard was old and worn.

After her illness, she’d pawned all her jewelry to survive.

This courtyard was bought with her white jade pendant—a piece Li Guanyi could tell was extraordinary: oily as fat, smooth as cream, ringing like gold, fine as silk, white as lard, glutinous as paste, engraved with a thousand-handed Guanyin. It was a token from her late husband. The pawnshop owner, seeing a sickly woman and a child, offered only ten taels.

Li Guanyi had tried to pull her away, but she calmly said, “Sell it.”

Even he was furious—but she stroked his hair and smiled. “A token means less than a person.” Then she used half the silver to rent this courtyard, and saved the rest for daily needs.

Even so, the courtyard was dilapidated. Other rooms leaked. In heavy summer rains, they had to catch water in basins. Sitting before the cabinet, looking up through the broken roof, they saw the ink-black sky and a few stars.

Bowls and chopsticks beside them, Li Guanyi turned his head—and saw his aunt, head bowed, fast asleep.

The twelve-year-old boy clenched the sword at his waist.

The cold, solid touch of blade and sword felt dependable. Li Guanyi whispered, “One day, I’ll make every meal we just ate real.”

Li Guanyi lifted his sleeping aunt, carried her back carefully. She was tall but light, like a dandelion seed—seemingly ready to float away on the wind. Near her, he caught a faint floral scent. He laid her gently in her room.

Her bed was just packed earth and straw, layered with dried grass and quilts—hard to endure in rain or winter.

Li Guanyi tucked the blanket around her, then walked slowly back to his own room.

He exhaled, lowered his head, pulled open his shirt, and looked for the bronze tripod on his chest.

He froze.

The crimson jade liquid had vanished—but something else had changed.

On the bronze tripod’s wall, a crimson dragon’s imprint.

Clearly visible!

(End of Chapter)