Chapter Twenty: Transformation of the Meridians

The fine, white meridians within his body were now completely restored, even broader than before, filled with countless red, web-like substances—strange and crimson as blood.

“What in the world are these things?” Lin Feng was utterly astonished. Once he’d calmed himself, a possibility dawned on him. “Manjusha flower! Yes, it must be its doing!”

The sacred blossom was not as docile as it seemed. Yet, it appeared to have repaired his damaged meridians. This treasure not only healed wounds swiftly and resisted poisons—it possessed other mysterious effects as well.

Had he reached the limit now? After some thought, Lin Feng denied this conclusion. Though his meridians had expanded to more than twice their previous size, he did not experience the kind of grand clarity and rebirth that marked breaking through an internal force bottleneck. Perhaps this was merely equivalent to having just broken through the first stage of the Longevity Technique.

“Let’s try again!” Lin Feng made up his mind, rummaged through his bundle on the table for some dried food, and tossed it into Black Steed’s feeding bowl. “Bear with it for now. Once I finish cultivating, I’ll take you to try something fresh.”

The wolf cub whined twice, lying beside its food box and devouring hungrily. It hadn’t eaten for two days and had nearly starved at its master’s feet.

Spiritual energy surged in. This time, after less than a day of training, Lin Feng’s meridians showed signs of tearing. He was secretly delighted—indeed, the broader the meridians, the faster the cultivation.

“Hah—” Starting from his lungs, his meridians continuously tore, cracks widening and extending throughout his body.

Such agony was beyond ordinary endurance. Yet, Lin Feng, his face deathly pale, did not immediately faint. Having endured this once before, his tolerance had increased. Still, to withstand such pain while conscious was a terrifying ordeal—it was as though he’d died once already!

Every inch of his body was challenged to the extreme; wherever his meridians reached, agony reigned. A pool of sweat spread beneath him, soaking his clothes through, leaving him pallid.

“I’m courting death…” Before he lost consciousness from the pain, this was the only thought left in his mind.

His meridians ruptured inch by inch. This method of cultivation—utterly beyond imagination—not even the monks of Futu Temple, famed for practicing the King’s Shattering Fist, had ever attempted it. How could ordinary people bear such torment?

This time, he lay unconscious for half a day before slowly awakening.

“Hmm, there are indeed many changes. If I keep at this, perhaps my external skills will see some progress as well.” Lin Feng muttered, his eyes flashing bright.

“Let’s go test the fruits of these days’ training—and fill my stomach. Move, Black Steed!” He gripped his spear and strode toward the mountain’s base.

Along the mountain path, villagers from Apricot Blossom Village had set up tea stalls and rustic shops. Though simple, they attracted many visitors. It was the afternoon, and several idle disciples sat together, drinking and chatting.

“Uncle Wang, a bowl of knife-cut noodles—no, two bowls.” Lin Feng found an empty table and sat, resting his head in his hands, thinking of the long-awaited entrance to the Hidden Pavilion, feeling a surge of anticipation.

“Alright!” The stall owner responded cheerfully and went to work. The late autumn sunlight filtered through the dense branches and leaves, scattering lazily across their faces.

“Brother Lin!” A warm call sounded behind him.

Lin Feng started, turned, and his brows relaxed into a smile. “What a coincidence, Brother Zhuang!”

It was Zhuang Bufan, who had sought help on the mountain days earlier. Before him sat a pot of spirits, two small dishes, and a bundle wrapped in lotus leaves.

“Brother Lin, come share a table. Drinking alone is nothing compared to sharing. Here, here—last time, thanks to you, my junior sister and I might have been separated forever.” Zhuang Bufan rose, radiating warmth, and beckoned him over.

Lin Feng walked over with a smile. “You’re too polite, Brother Zhuang.”

They sat together. The quick-witted waiter brought bowls and cups, filling their glasses.

“Brother Lin, let’s toast—the first cup is my sister’s thanks for saving our lives.” Zhuang Bufan drained his cup, smacking his lips with satisfaction.

“The second cup is my thanks for your righteous aid.” Another cup down, Lin Feng gaped at his drinking prowess.

“Haha, Brother Lin, shall we share the third cup?”

“Well…” Lin Feng hesitated. He rarely had money for wine; filling his belly was hard enough. He’d often heard of Uncle Wang’s famed Immortal’s Intoxication, rich and potent, but had never tasted it.

Unable to refuse, the aroma of the wine was tempting. Lin Feng gritted his teeth and drained it in one go. Instantly, his stomach burned like fire, and a nameless heat rushed to his face.

“Excellent! Another cup.” Zhuang Bufan refilled him.

After three cups, Zhuang Bufan finally relented. The two ate some food and began to chat. “Brother Zhuang, you often travel outside the mountain. Can you tell me about any strange tales from outside?”

“Haha, of course.” Zhuang Bufan put down his chopsticks, rubbed his chin, eyes brightening. “I have it! Let me tell you two strange events from the cultivation world in recent years.”

Lin Feng perked up, his face flushed from the spirits, a bit dizzy.

“Well… About twenty years ago, a mysterious organization emerged in the martial world. They called themselves the ‘Seven Kill Pavilion’, specializing in assassinations—royalty, nobility, even top cultivators. They stirred all of the Divine Land. The most sensational event happened ten years ago: they successfully assassinated the hidden demonic master, the Blood Fiend Ancestor, and hung his head on the flagpole of Dream Liang’s capital…”

“Was the Blood Fiend Ancestor really that powerful?” Lin Feng wondered.

“Powerful? More than powerful—terrifying! It’s said he survived three stages of the scattered immortal tribulation, and even the heads of the great sects might not be his match.” Zhuang Bufan drank again, growing more enthusiastic. “Think about it—how long did he live? Nearly a thousand years! With a flick of his finger, we’d be dust. For someone like him to be beheaded—it’s terrifying, absolutely terrifying!”

“And then?”

“Afterward, the Seven Kill Pavilion vanished. I suspect they paid a heavy price and were too weakened to act. Yes, it must have been that.” Zhuang Bufan nodded to himself, then continued, “The second event is something I heard. You know the three great sects, right?”

Lin Feng gave him a curious look and nodded. “Of course. Besides our Baihua Sect of Mount Qiyun, there’s Eastern Lotus Island and Futu Temple—recognized as the three great sects of Divine Land.”

“Right. The second story is even stranger. Lotus Island is famous for its formations and talismans; the island is full of mysterious arrays. Outsiders need a guide to enter safely. Usually, the island is open for exchanges among cultivators. But for some reason—also starting about ten years ago—Lotus Island sealed itself off, no longer welcoming outsiders. Isn’t that odd?”

“Sealed off?” Lin Feng was taken aback.

“Here you are, two bowls of knife-cut noodles!” The waiter delivered the noodles to Lin Feng.

“Ha, Brother Lin, you’re eating so much?” Zhuang Bufan eyed him with a peculiar smile.

“Oh, no, one for me, one for it. We haven’t had a hot meal in days.” Lin Feng was embarrassed; Zhuang Bufan must think him a glutton.

“Haha, I see. Enjoy. I’ll take some food to my sister. Let’s chat again soon.” Zhuang Bufan glanced at the mongrel, settled the bill, picked up his lotus-wrapped bundle, and strode down the mountain.

“Brother Zhuang is a true man of character, worth befriending.” Lin Feng asked the proprietor for a piece of lotus leaf, poured a bowl of noodles onto it, and added several pieces of beef. “Black Steed, this is your reward—try something fresh.”

The wolf cub, impatient for ages, had been crying for the scent of meat; now, it fell upon the treat with gusto.

“Tsk tsk, look—the pauper even keeps a pet, eating noodles together!” At the neighboring table, two disciples deliberately whispered loudly.

“Exactly. He probably traded contribution points for silver and spent it on wine. As if the Hidden Pavilion would let pigs and dogs in.” Another youth in blue sneered.

“Heh, these days, all sorts of monsters exist. Come, let’s drink…”

Every harsh word reached Lin Feng’s ears. He smiled coldly to himself and ate in silence.

After packing up the leftover dishes, he turned toward the martial training hall at the mountain’s summit. Next to the Treasure Hall was the training hall, free for sect disciples, ideal for those practicing external arts. Usually crowded, Lin Feng rarely visited.

But with the Hidden Pavilion’s opening imminent, the training hall was almost deserted. In its vast courtyard, only a handful of people practiced alone.

“I wonder how much weight I can lift now.” Lin Feng approached a row of training stones, pondering.

These carefully weighed stones were categorized: single-handed kettles, two-handed blocks, even stones for strapping onto the back or legs.

“Let’s try this one—one hundred pounds.” Lin Feng grasped the stone, lifting it easily.

“Whew! So light—let’s try two hundred.” He was secretly delighted, moved over three spots, and tried again.

“Hmm, heavier, but not my limit…”

He kept adding weight—two hundred fifty, two hundred eighty, three hundred pounds. Now he felt the strain; veins bulged on his arms, muscles rose high.

“Impressive skill, brother!” came a voice from behind. Lin Feng turned quickly.

A boy his own age, finely dressed, hair tied in a topknot, two silk ribbons dangling from his hairpin, cheeks touched with powder, stood smiling nearby.

“It’s nothing,” Lin Feng replied coolly. Such a privileged youth was not the type he liked to associate with.

“Haha, don’t be modest. I bet you’ve not used your full strength, have you? Not many can lift three hundred pounds one-handed.” The youth strode over, grabbed a five-hundred-pound stone, and lifted it with ease.

Lin Feng, surprised, turned to leave.

“Hey, brother, why are you leaving?” the youth called urgently.

“If I stay, you’ll just make fun of me, won’t you?” Lin Feng snorted, quickening his pace.

“No, I didn’t mean that—how about we be friends? What’s your name?” The youth blinked, and with a step, appeared in front of Lin Feng.

“What do you want? I am Lin Feng.”

“Oh, so you’re Lin Feng. I am Hong Yang—pleased to meet you!” The noble youth extended his hand, smiling warmly.