21: Chapter 21 Leaving the Mountain

Over a month later.

It was late autumn outside the cave.

Pine needles covered the ground, a tapestry of golden yellow and dark red that rustled when stepped upon.

A mountain breeze swept up from below the cliff face, carrying a few withered leaves that swirled in the air before settling back onto the ground.

Jiang Yan sat cross-legged inside the cave, with thirteen gold needles, each about an inch long, hovering before him.

Each one was as thin as a hair, dark gold throughout.

Three Restrictions were inscribed on the needle bodies—Armor Piercing, Sturdy, and Paralysis.

The thirteen gold needles hovered around him, forming a slowly rotating ring with their tips pointing outward, their dark golden luster flickering in the dim cave.

First-tier Low Grade. Thirteen needle-shaped Magical Artifacts.

During this time, he had finished refining all the remaining semi-finished gold essence.

After burning through a thousand taels of gold, the dross was incinerated and the gold essence condensed, providing enough Materials for these thirteen needles.

Refining gold needles was much simpler than a Flying Sword—after forging, the gold essence was drawn into fine wires, cut to inch-long lengths, sharpened at one end, and inscribed with Restriction patterns at the other.

He could finish one in half a day, which was incomparably easier than when he had refined the Flying Sword.

While needle-shaped Magical Artifacts were easy to craft, their combat capability was at the lower end among Magical Artifacts of the same tier; they could only be used for surprise attacks and not for head-on collisions. After all, with so little material, they were extremely prone to damage if used for direct clashes.

Over this past month, Jiang Yan had also mastered the Meteor Style of the Flying Star Sword Technique.

With a thought, the Flying Sword shot out from his knees.

This time, its trajectory was no longer the elusive, shifting path of the Wind Rising Style, but a straight line of dark golden light.

Fast. Extremely fast.

From the moment it was launched until it pierced the cave wall ten zhang away, the sound of the blade piercing the rock had not even reached his ears before the tip had already emerged from the other side.

The core of the Meteor Style lay in "storing"—compressing Spiritual Qi to the limit inside the blade before launching, like a fully drawn bowstring, releasing all kinetic energy in an instant the moment it was released.

The drawback was that it could only travel in a straight line with a predictable trajectory, allowing opponents with fast reflexes to anticipate and dodge in advance.

But its advantage was being so fast that people couldn't dodge in time—provided the distance was close enough.

The Wind Rising Style focused on variation, while the Meteor Style focused on speed.

Having mastered the introductory styles of both sword techniques, his means of controlling the Flying Sword were now more than twice as varied as they had been a month ago.

However, over this month, the growth of his Spiritual Qi had been negligible.

The pale red nebula within his Dantian showed almost no change.

The vortex composed of thirty-six strands of Spiritual Qi continued to rotate slowly, its color remaining that gentle crimson, and its volume had not expanded.

It was not that the Bloodthirsty Demon Scripture was ineffective—it was that the Spiritual Qi in this realm was simply too thin.

Without Spirit Medicine or the vital essence of Martial Artists, relying solely on meditation to absorb the pitiful amount of Spiritual Qi in the air made his cultivation speed as slow as a snail crawling up a mountain.

Jiang Yan had made a rough estimate.

At his current rate of absorption, it would take at least five years to accumulate the total amount of Spiritual Qi needed to advance from Qi Refining Stage 1 to Stage 2.

Five years.

Too long.

However, the growth of his Divine Sense had exceeded his expectations.

The Taixu Nourishing Spirit Art was truly worthy of being a fourth-tier Divine Sense Cultivation Technique.

For over a month, he had focused his cultivation on his Divine Sense, spending much more time practicing the Nourishing Spirit Art each day than cultivating Spiritual Qi.

The results were also obvious—his Divine Sense coverage had expanded from one zhang to one and a half zhang.

One and a half zhang, converted into the attack range of his Flying Sword, was fifteen zhang.

Within fifteen zhang, he could control his Flying Sword as easily as moving his own arm.

Divine Sense was a Cultivator's second pair of eyes. Often, it was even more important than eyes.

Jiang Yan stood up.

The thirteen gold needles flew into his sleeve like birds returning to their nest, lining up against the inside of his forearm with their tips pointing upward.

The Flying Sword turned into a streak of dark golden light and vanished into the scabbard at his waist.

The scabbard was newly made. It had been carved from the old pine wood outside the cave, and after shaping it to the sword's form, he had wrapped it in two layers of animal hide.

As the Flying Sword entered the scabbard, it emitted a very faint hum, like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings, before falling silent.

He walked out of the cave entrance.

The autumn sunlight filtered through the gaps in the pine branches, falling upon his face.

The mountain breeze carried the scent of pine resin and withered leaves, dry and crisp.

The distant mountains were layered and overlapping, dyed in vast swathes of ochre red and golden yellow by the autumn colors, like a painting splashed across the mountain range.

He took one last look at the cave where he had lived for nearly two months.

The old pine tree at the entrance was still there, and the grey-brown squirrel on the branch was perched there gnawing on a freshly picked pinecone, its cheeks bulging.

Seeing Jiang Yan emerge from the cave, it twitched its ears, glanced over with eyes like black beans, then lowered its head to continue gnawing.

The dense array of sword holes on the rock wall remained. They were of varying depths and arranged chaotically, as if clawed by some giant beast.

The wooden chest in the corner, brought from the Zhou Family secret chamber, was now empty, its lid open, with only a few withered pine needles left inside.

Jiang Yan withdrew his gaze.

Activating the Wind Control Technique, he lightly tapped his toes against the gravel and withered leaves, his body drifting forward several zhang.

Half an hour later, he stopped beside a mountain stream.

The stream was shallow, barely covering his ankles, and the pebbles at the bottom had been washed smooth and round.

He crouched down and scooped up a handful of water to splash on his face.

The water was very cold, and the chill seeped into his skin from his cheeks, creeping along his blood vessels toward his temples.

The water surface calmed, reflecting a face.

Skin as white as porcelain, delicate features, high brow bones, a straight nose bridge, and thin, well-defined lips.

Eyes as black as deep pools, lacking the evasion and awkwardness typical of a seventeen or eighteen-year-old youth when looking at others.

This face was too conspicuous.

The authorities must be hunting him.

To avoid trouble, he decided to change his face.

Jiang Yan closed his eyes, and Spiritual Qi flowed along specific Meridians to his jaw, cheekbones, nose bridge, and Adam's apple.

"Thousand Illusion Demon Mask."

A third-tier disguise technique, originally a niche Spell used by demonic Cultivators to infiltrate Sects of the Righteous Path.

The principle was to use Spiritual Qi to fine-tune the facial muscles, bones, and skin tone—it was not an illusion, but a real physiological change.

Illusions deceived others' eyes, but the Thousand Illusion Demon Mask changed one's own appearance.

Therefore, it was extremely difficult to see through with Divine Sense, because when you looked at it, the face itself was "real."

His bones made a faint clicking sound.

His cheekbones lowered by half a fraction. His jaw narrowed by a sliver.

The cartilage of his nose bridge was compressed by Spiritual Qi, collapsing by about the height of a grain of rice compared to before.

His skin tone changed from porcelain white to a slightly yellowish hue from long-term sun exposure—not a sickly sallow, but the natural skin tone of someone who had been traveling outdoors for a long time: even, dull, and carrying the roughness of wind and sun exposure.

The muscles at his Adam's apple twitched. His vocal cords were elongated slightly.

When he opened his eyes again, the reflection on the water showed a youth in his early twenties.

His features were regular but unremarkable. His skin was slightly yellowish, and between his brows lay a sense of weariness from years of traveling.

His lips were a bit thicker than before, with a shallow, cracked line on the lower lip.

The lines of his jaw were softer than before, lacking that blade-like coldness.

The entire face looked like the kind—that you couldn't pick out if thrown into a crowd.

Jiang Yan looked at the reflection on the water and remained silent for a moment.

Then he stood up and brushed the dust off his hem.

One hour later, he stepped onto the main road.

The road surface was made of compacted rammed earth, with deep ruts worn by passing carriages and horses.

The ruts were filled with rainwater from two days ago, murky, with a few withered leaves floating on the surface.

The poplar trees on both sides of the road had shed most of their leaves, and their bare branches swayed in the wind, making creaking sounds.

There were a few farmhouses in the distance. Thin wisps of cooking smoke drifted from the grey-blue tiled roofs, dispersing in the wind, then gathering again, only to be dispersed once more.

A yellow dog squatted on a ridge of the field; seeing the figure walking on the main road, it perked up its ears and barked once.

Jiang Yan ignored it.

He walked south along the main road.

Tucked at his waist was the pine wood scabbard wrapped in animal hide, and hidden within his sleeves were the thirteen gold needles.

He was still wearing the same green robe; having emerged from the mountains, his hem was stained with grass juice and mud, and the cuffs were frayed.

This attire made him look like a down-and-out traveling scholar, or perhaps a lone Jianghu traveler.

The sun was slanting west, with about two hours left before dark.

Jiang Yan stopped before a boundary marker by the road. The marker was chiseled from bluestone, its surface mottled by wind and rain, but the characters carved on it were still faintly legible—"Qingyang County Boundary" in four large characters, with a line of small characters below indicating the distance.

To the west was the direction of Qingyang County. To the north was the main road leading to the hinterland of the Jin Kingdom.

There was nothing he needed left in Qingyang County.

Returning there was meaningless.