Chapter 621: I Am Wronged (11)

Inside Qing’s dantian, all is peaceful today.

The Daoist and Buddhist true-energies with prime seats flit and whorl and tangle, giggling and chasing each other in lively loops.

Around the Ice Crystal set neatly to one side, no fewer than four chill-toned true-energies—Ice Techniques—had already gathered, bundling themselves in thick fur coats of intent to savor the cold.

Why bundle up and huddle by the Ice Crystal? Who knows.

But Ice Techniques are, by nature, a kind of self-imposed hardship—suffering-for-its-own-sake—so their true-energies comport themselves accordingly.

Then the dantian gate banged open, and a pack of demonic energies came scrambling in, breathless—

goose eggs all over their occiputs, hair yanked and mussed, clothes torn and wrinkled—a mess.

No one paid them much mind; it happens all the time.

Because last through the door, beaming with an “ahh, that hits the spot” look, came the drill-sergeant: Joyous true-energy, sliding the bolt.

Joyous true-energy, as always, had spent a fine morning clawing, scratching, and pummeling demonic energies around the ring.

After a lap and a breath, it sauntered to that warm sunlit patch and—plop—lay down with its head pillowed on the thigh of All-Forms-as-One Inner Art, who sat in meditation.

All-Forms-as-One cocked its head, but didn’t shoo it off.

Maybe because both hold the “all-as-one” cast of mind.

Watching that, the demonic energies felt aggrieved.

Those Daoist and Buddhist types aren’t even the same lineage, yet look how tight they cling—eyesore.

And what about the demonic energies?

The moment Joyous true-energy calls for another lap, it’s “You take the Grand Circulation,” all of them palming it off, a battle of glances.

At best, their big-sister figures—Self-Driving Demon-Energy with the golden headband, and the Royal Prajñā Energy—pretend not to see.

So it’s always the juniors getting their hair grabbed, dragged, and beaten into sprinting meridian runs.

If only we had one more violet—one true, dependable eldest sister.

Just one grown-up strong enough to keep that Joyous bully in check.

Right then, the dantian gate flew wide again.

Every longing gaze swung to the threshold—

in strode a little one in fresh kit, leopard pelt draped about—a feral look.

Every demonic energy shot to its feet—fists clenched.

Look at that getup! That one’s ours for sure!

The newcomer, Wanton-Flame true-energy, was bewildered.

Why is this dantian packed with true-energies?

One side glinting with welcome, the other side glowering?

But—

as Wanton-Flame whipped its head at the strange scene, a blue headband flashed on its brow.

The demonic cheer cut off.

Wait—it’s blue? Blue?

Those who’d been most welcoming pouted, lips jutting in a long “tsk.”

Wanton-Flame true-energy only floundered harder.

—

Wanton Flame Art. Blue border.

A commonplace unorthodox art seeded long ago by the unorthodox grandmaster once dubbed the Wanton Flame Immortal—(roughly cobbled together) and spread to grow the Unorthodox Alliance’s reach.

It boosts the body’s yang; side effect: surging blood-heat.

Hence a temper made hasty, angered by trifles, lust stirred—

so it’s classed among demonic arts, a famous basic across the ragtag unorthodox world.

But “fouls the temper” isn’t “remakes the person.”

And so many practice it that though it’s filed under demonic, it’s not treated as a true demonic core method.

—

“Don’t block the way,” growled another true-energy, shouldering through.

A little one in armor clanked in, iron plates rasping, face set, and marched straight into the dantian.

Pangolin true-energy—of the Pangolin Posture—had arrived.

—

Pangolin Posture. Blue border.

A martial art of the army’s carapace troops.

Many veterans, retired home, set up little drill yards; thus it’s one of the commonest basics.

Strength: the name sounds cool!

No relation whatsoever to the Tianshan Sect.

It was modeled on the pangolin beast.

No special side effects; promised benefits: toughens the body, strengthens might—

“promised,” because, true to military arts, it’s learned not by seated breathing but by soldier’s calisthenics.

Since the calisthenics are hard, some ronin claim the “benefits” are just from the workouts themselves.

—

Even with the dantian roiling like a market, Pangolin true-energy cut across without a word and flopped down in an empty corner.

Very soldierly.

A soldier lies down anywhere he can steal a moment.

Wanton-Flame still didn’t know where to put itself, peering around in a panic—when two more true-energies strode in side by side through the gate.

One wore bright-red practice clothes, each step punctuated by a jaunty little squeak—

but its trail was a line of fresh blood-red footprints.

Blood-Cloud true-energy—the product of the wicked Blood-Cloud Divine Art.

Right behind it, a little one in a yellow robe, sky-blue cloud patterns embroidered everywhere—

Heaven-Sea true-energy, of the Heaven-Sea Heart Art from the Yellow Mountain Sect.

They had reason to enter together.

“So the ‘training method’ is bathing in blood? You’re a supreme bastard among bastards. No wonder you’re locked up in here like this.”

“Blood is the very quintessence where human life resides. Absorb that essence, and of course you can bring the world to heel.”

The man was unruffled.

Qing called him the cannibal.

Mm. You don’t land here for eating one or two.

To “cultivate,” he drew blood—

set up an inn on a lonely mountainside, drugged the fare, laced the place with narcotic smoke, and devoured the whole “Death Inn.”

Remote area—food was scarce—so he “took care of” the remains as rations too. He ate till jaded, experimented with recipes, even wrote a book.

Blood-Cloud Divine Art gleamed gold.

He insisted it had no mind-warping side effects “like other demonic arts”—it was only very, very hard to procure training materials.

A moment where Qing resolved an old doubt.

Even if the art itself doesn’t twist the person, if the process of learning it is depraved, it’s treated as a demonic art.

Back then I wondered: why would that make it demonic?

Look at this cannibal.

He saw humans not as humans but as materials.

To train, he harvested “materials,” and cooked the leftovers for three meals a day.

Of course it doesn’t apply to me.

If you don’t need a depraved method, then it isn’t truly a demonic art, is it?

Qing was ladling out portions to match a gold border—

“When I know another divine art—interested?”

“One more is always better.”

And by the arithmetic of “one plus one,” another inner method rolled in.

Only—its mnemonic?

Listening, something felt off.

It layered Daoist teachings, borrowed the imagery of Master Gongsun Hyunwon, and painted in ink-wash—thick with the tang of soot and brush.

However you heard it, this was orthodox Daoist work.

Not the mnemonic you’d expect from a man who’d just been bragging “tips” for drawing human blood easily.

Then the Martial Arts Window blinked: Heaven-Sea Heart Art, red.

I’ve heard this one. Where?

“This is the Heaven-Sea Heart Art—the famous new art of the Yellow Mountain Sect.”

Right—Heaven-Sea Method. My master mentioned it once in passing.

Along with the Nine Great Sects, he told me to at least know the names of the older schools’ arts.

“Huh? Yellow Mountain Sect? You’re Yellow Mountain? You mean the one in Anhui?”

The Yellow Mountain Sect is orthodox Daoist—

more temple than clan, a true community of Daoist priests.

“Once. Hnh. Filthy hypocrites, all shiny outside and rotten within. I left on my own two feet.”

“‘Hypocrites’?”

“I was once the greatest prodigy of the Yellow Mountain Sect. Not my boast—history had never seen talent like mine. Yet they refused to teach me the new arts, while handing them freely to those far less gifted. Why? Because my birth was base—”

“Hmph. Please.”

Qing snorted.

“Why wouldn’t they refuse to teach a man who eats people every meal? One look and they knew your character was rotten—and they cut you out. In the end, the Yellow Mountain Sect was right.”

His face warped.

His voice shook; he spat out bitter fire.

“What do you know? I—I...”

The cannibal told his story.

Long ago, a cheap harlot climbed to the Yellow Mountain Sect’s gates.

She clutched a baby, claimed it was a disciple’s son, coughed blood, and died.

Thus the harlot’s boy entered the Yellow Mountain Sect—

and there he “learned” that every slight he suffered flowed from his filthy blood.

So he left.

And vowed to make all Yellow Mountain regret it.

Since heaven-sent genius like him was denied the new art, he would create one greater and prove his gift.

Then the Yellow Mountain Sect would lament that they’d driven out heaven’s own genius and thrown away their chance to be the best under heaven—

“So you were expelled. You just said they drove you out.”

“You misheard. Ahem. In any case.”

Thus he “changed” the Heaven-Sea Heart Art—a method of drawing in the sea of clouds cinched at Yellow Mountain’s waist—

“Clouds are only part of nature—mere damp,” he said. “Better to draw in a human’s very life itself. Faster by far!”

Thus was born the Blood-Cloud Divine Art.

A red art remade into a gold art—by a cannibal.

And he’d been only late Super-transcendent at the time.

So maybe it wasn’t a lie—he might truly have been a heaven-sent talent unmatched in Yellow Mountain’s history.

To Qing’s ear, though—

you have to be a supreme bastard to decide to drain blood instead of clouds.

Likely the Yellow Mountain Sect saw that rotten character and cut him out.

Anyway—

as they say, “the green from the blue surpasses the blue”: a derivative true-energy stronger than the original entered the dantian with the original.

Fellow Daoists welcomed Heaven-Sea true-energy warmly—

the Royal Prajñā Energy took one hand, Joyous true-energy took the other, and they led it to a fine seat.

The demonic energies, thrilled at a gold-bordered arrival, waved Blood-Cloud true-energy over with howls of “this way!”

Wanton-Flame true-energy looked ready to cry.

No one welcomed it; it lingered at the threshold, abandoned. Those axe-eyes peculiar to the Exploding-Blood school glistened with tears, growing fatter by the breath.

Then—

SMACK!

A slap for a face that wanted to cry—

a straight knife-hand crashed down on Wanton-Flame’s crown.

Wanton-Flame rolled across the floor.

Over it fell a shadow, shimmered like heat-haze.

The ringing crack drew every gaze.

A little one loomed over the cowering Wanton-Flame, clutching its head—

baring sharp teeth in a wicked grin, the very picture of malice.

Its base robe was white, but dried blood spattered it into a garden of gore-blossoms.

For some reason, a heavy, dark slant ran left-to-right across its face at any angle, like bold ink lines that cast their own shadow.

Within that gloom, in whites rimmed all around, bead-sized pupils flashed, wild light flickering again and again.

The Daoist and Buddhist true-energies, who’d been smirking “kids will be kids,” grew grave, brows arrowing up in unison.

The demonic energies, who’d been chortling, all swallowed hard at once.

One of the Ten Great Demonic Arts—Light-Roaring Murderous Steel Qi—

descended into the dantian.