Chapter 25: Strangulation

“Damn, I almost forgot this mongrel is skilled in illusions.” Ling Chi bit down hard on his tongue, the sharp pain dragging him back to reality.

No sooner had he escaped the illusion than he saw a foul, blood-reeking maw lunging for his throat. His left-hand dagger was already lost, while his right-hand saber was wedged deep in a nearby tree.

“That beast’s illusions are vicious. I thought it was but a fleeting moment, but even my weapons are gone. If I’d lingered a second longer, I’d have become its meal.” Ling Chi shuddered at the thought.

There was no time to retrieve his blade. Bracing himself, Ling Chi’s left hand shot out like an iron claw, seizing for the yellow marten’s throat, while his right swung like a hammer toward its waist. If the beast wouldn’t defend, neither would he—he was ready to risk everything.

The marten’s yellow-glowing claws scored deep across his upper arm, but Ling Chi’s fist crashed mercilessly into its liver. The creature’s body curled protectively around its wounded side; Ling Chi was certain he’d shattered its liver. Blunt force was nothing like a blade, and with his current strength, no fur or hide could shield against the impact.

Ling Chi abandoned his blades altogether, determined to let the beast taste the Eight Extremes Iron Fist.

The yellow marten recovered, spat a mouthful of blood, and was finally driven into a frenzy. Its face twisted into an even more terrifying mask, savage light burning in its pupils, and once more its fangs darted for Ling Chi’s throat.

Ling Chi’s gaze locked onto the beast, unblinking as it closed in. He sprang into action.

Planting his left foot, his right leg surged forward. Power rose from his foot, coursing through his body as if lightning threaded his meridians, granting him explosive strength. The stone beneath his feet shattered to dust as he darted several yards in a flash, his body arching backward, left hip twisting, right leg whipping up from the ground, shin slicing through the air like a blade, and his toes stabbed hard into the marten’s ribs.

A sickening crack rang out.

The beast’s ribs caved in; it howled in agony.

Strike while it’s down—take its life.

“Demon, you’ll help me advance my cultivation.”

A gust of wind split the air. Ling Chi’s shadow loomed above the yellow marten; his iron fist hammered down on the beast’s brow.

Darkness swam before the marten’s eyes as it spewed out a reeking gush of black blood.

Before it could react, Ling Chi pounced, pinning it with one hand like a tiger capturing its prey. His palm clamped the beast’s thrashing head, knee pressed its claws to the earth, while his right fist rose high.

“Eight Extremes—Heaven-Piercing Cannon!”

A thunderous boom.

“Now, you look more like a sick housecat!”

Another blow.

“I think you look more like a victim!”

Another crash.

“I’ll beat you to death, you damned beast!”

Ling Chi’s fists fell like hammers, pounding the beast a dozen times over. In one swift motion, he flipped the marten over, hooked his arm around its throat, and squeezed with all his might.

“Grappling technique—Death Choke.”

The veins bulged on his arm like writhing serpents beneath the skin, his eyes flashing with deadly intent.

The marten’s eyes rolled back, its body growing limp as dozens of threads of lightning-infused spiritual energy were drawn into Ling Chi’s core.

The heat of sudden battle left Ling Chi almost giddy, but as soon as he stopped, exhaustion swept over him. He couldn’t linger here—should another creature appear, he might not be so lucky.

He left the marten’s corpse untouched—such a sinister thing was better left alone.

After retrieving his weapons, Ling Chi followed the path back, untied his horse, and mounted up with a heavy exhale.

With dozens of streams of spiritual energy absorbed, he could now attempt to break through the Yang Heel Meridian, bringing him one step closer to the Spirit-Refining stage. Once there, he could temper his divine sense—a power he’d yearned for, who wouldn’t want a god’s-eye view?

Within him, the energy vortex spun rapidly, crackling with lightning as the world’s spiritual energy surged into his body, battering against the Yang Heel Meridian. Backed by this flood of energy, he broke through the sixth meridian of the Qi Opening stage.

His injured arm was laid open to the bone; he wrapped it hastily with cloth, planning to seek a proper doctor in Great Yellow Village.

Urging his horse onward, Ling Chi left the forest, realizing dusk was near. Glancing back, he promised himself that once his energy sea broke through, he’d return and clear out the place completely.

Back at Gold’s courtyard, Ling Chi found Huang Feibao roasting a wild piglet. Seeing Ling Chi return, Feibao hurried over to greet him.

With no one else around, Ling Chi asked Feibao to fetch a doctor.

Feibao was alarmed—after witnessing Ling Chi’s ferocity against the zombies last night, he could scarcely believe he’d been injured in the woods. He quickly asked what had happened.

Ling Chi recounted the events, advising him to warn the villagers not to hunt too deep into the mountains—who knew what else lurked within.

Huang Feihong listened with a pounding heart and, abandoning his piglet, rushed to summon the doctor. With nothing better to do, Ling Chi continued preparing the pig.

His Shadowless Hand made short work of the bristles. Wounds? Mere flesh wounds—what of it? Infection was no concern for one of his martial caliber; who would believe a cultivator would succumb to such trivialities?

Once the bristles were gone, he fetched ginger, scallions, and salt from the kitchen, crushed them, and mixed them with water to marinate the piglet, kindling the charcoal in the meantime.

Whatever plans they’d had for the piglet, the moment Ling Chi laid eyes on it, its fate was sealed—it was destined to become roast pig.

A true roast piglet mustn’t be exposed to open flame, only slow-roasted over coals. Once marinated, the piglet was skewered with a stout rod, the ends supported by forked stakes over the fire.

As the piglet began to sizzle, Huang Feibao returned with the doctor.

Ling Chi shed his brocade robe, revealing a gruesome wound that startled Feibao—how could a man so gravely wounded move with such composure? Truly a man of iron.

Once bandaged, Ling Chi urged Feibao to fetch honey. Though he couldn’t make true crispy skin glaze, a mixture would suffice.

With white liquor, vinegar, honey, and salt, they concocted a semi-crisp glaze—better than nothing.

The wild pig roasted, fat dripping and aroma wafting. Huang Ermao, Feibao’s son, drooled hungrily nearby. Amused, Ling Chi sliced off a piece of crispy, tender skin for the boy, who devoured it, smearing oil across his face.

By the time the pig was ready, night had fallen. Gold’s whole family, with Ling Chi as their guest, gathered around the table, raising cups and making merry. Before long, Huang Feihu arrived with his son, Huang Sanshui, making the courtyard even livelier.

Huang Feihu’s father was Gold’s brother, and he and Feibao had grown up together. In their youth, they’d dreamed of roaming the world with swords in hand, but he’d married early, and now, with wife and children and a warm hearth, the dreams of the martial world seemed far away.

A lifetime spent rooted in the earth. Hearing Ling Chi recount his recent battles against demons and monsters, he too felt a stir of longing.

The two young boys clung to their fathers’ legs, clamoring to learn martial arts. Their mothers could only frown, hoping their men and children would live safe, ordinary lives.

Gold himself was tempted. Having endured hardship, he understood the need to plan ahead—martial skill was essential in troubled times. The villagers knew only a bit of hunting and farming; sending the children to learn martial arts might be a wise move.

Huang Ermao and Huang Sanshui were just eight or nine—the perfect age to begin training.

Within several counties, the most renowned was Seven Stars Martial Hall. Upon learning Ling Chi was a personal disciple of the headmaster, Gold implored him to write a letter of recommendation.