Chapter 156: Throw Him Out?

Stepping like a drum, breath stirring like thunder.

He Chang'an felt that he was not practicing martial arts, but risking his life.

With every step forward, a tremendous force would push him back by more than half a step, or even force him right back to his starting point. Yet, this could not dampen his indomitable momentum in the slightest.

Previously, when the sword cultivator A Fei made him temper his physical body repeatedly at the Dragon Gate Waterfall, pairing it with a crude Qi-ingestion formula and this set of ancient fist techniques, he had still managed to grit his teeth and endure.

This time, however, it seemed he could barely hold on.

The matters of cultivation were not as simple as adding two and two together, especially when combining three completely discordant cultivation methods. It was sheer agony, making him want to slump down, exhale a foul breath, and curse out loud: "Damn it!"

Once the bow is drawn, there is no turning back. Stubbornness drove him on.

Thus, after enduring for over an hour, he finally reached a spot a dozen or so zhang away from the city wall. He could now make out the ancient, profound runes carved upon the grayish-white giant boulders, along with the faint, shimmering light flowing across their surface.

Immersing his mind completely, He Chang'an executed the ancient fist technique over and over again, gradually gaining a sense of enlightenment.

He recalled reading about the "Method of Embryonic Breathing" in a certain page of an ancient text, which presumably belonged to Daoist scriptures. It mentioned that if a person could return to the womb and learn the circulatory breathing method of an infant, they could prolong their years.

Perhaps even immortality was within reach.

At this moment, He Chang'an was facing precisely such a predicament.

The surging, churning spiritual energy and vast righteous Qi within his Dantian spiritual ocean and extraordinary meridians desperately needed an outlet, yet he could find no proper method. He was on the verge of bursting apart from the sheer pressure.

A sudden wave of grief and bitterness washed over him.

This world was truly infuriating. To finally be reborn, only to be kept by a malevolent ghost at the very start—that aside, he had subsequently been hunted by assassins and used by others. Just as a turning point seemed within sight, was he really going to be blown to death by spiritual energy right here in front of Sword Gate Pass?

In a fleeting instant, He Chang'an thought of many things, yet seemed to think of nothing at all.

Suddenly, he longed for his mother.

The mother of his past life, and the mother of this life.

That old mother who had carried him in her womb for ten months and suffered countless hardships—if she knew that her son was currently choking to death just to climb a city wall, it would truly be a tragic irony.

He tried to connect his mouth and nose, his seven apertures, his meridians, and even his flesh, blood, and bones, plunging into a state both profound and ethereal—embryonic breathing.

Heaven and earth became the womb; human life was fraught with sorrow and hardship.

The weakest of the weak, the most profound of the profound.

He knew not how much time had passed; it could have been a dozen breaths, or perhaps hundreds. None of that mattered, for he cared not at all.

Turning his gaze inward, He Chang'an discovered that a strand of grayish-white Qi had entered his body, darting wildly through his meridians. After pausing briefly at the dozen or so mysterious apertures he had previously opened, it surged straight toward his Dantian spiritual ocean.

The suffocating sensation gradually vanished.

Replaced by it was an indescribably exquisite feeling—neither painful, itchy, nor numb; in short, thoroughly bizarre.

Of course, it was also possible that because his physical body had undergone repeated "beatings," he had already developed a certain immunity to mild pain.

Just like that, amidst his arduous, step-by-step advance, a crisp "crack" rang out, as if something had shattered.

Before He Chang'an could even figure out which part of his body had produced that crisp sound, the Qi throughout his entire body began to circulate rapidly.

Much like a tiny stream that had been dammed for too long, it had finally found an outlet.

Of course, He Chang'an would much rather have called it passing a kidney stone...

...

"Well, this kid called He Chang'an has decent luck. A vulgar martial artist actually stepping into the Qi-Refining Realm?"

"It really seems so. Quite unbelievable."

"The question is, is he currently a martial artist or a Qi refiner? Brilliant talents throughout history have tried to bridge these two cultivation methods, yet almost none have ever mastered both."

On top of the city wall, the old white ape nodded inwardly while keeping his expression entirely neutral. A glimmer of approval flashed within his bizarre eyes.

However, the old ape felt no great astonishment; on the contrary, he found it perfectly normal.

Because, back in the day, his master had also achieved this feat.

Yet, that old bastard had spent a full fifty years in seclusion just to comprehend the trick, successfully fusing the Daoist, Confucian, and martial cultivation systems into one.

From then on, the world gained a terrestrial sword immortal while losing a scholar with the physical strength of an ox.

He Chang'an's energetic transformation was exceptionally pronounced.

As he walked step by step toward the edge of the city wall, the aura unique to Qi refiners soared higher and higher with every step, truly embodying the saying of attaining a realm with every stride.

If the old scholar had been present, he would surely have given a thumbs-up and gently remarked on "lotus blooming at every step."

Indeed, it was lotus blooming at every step, a realm attained with every single stride. After nine steps, he reached the ninth-layer peak of the Qi-Refining stage. This method of cultivation and speed of advancement left the onlookers on the city ramparts utterly dumbfounded.

Especially Lady A Ran.

She was originally a genuine Daoist disciple, a solid and authentic "Qi refiner," even though she herself only ever wanted to become a sword immortal...

"This He Chang'an has some real tricks up his sleeve. I must ask him to teach me later how to make lotus bloom at every step and reach a new realm with every stride."

"Tsk tsk, how utterly envious!"

He Chang'an himself, however, remained oblivious to all this. He only felt an immense, exhilarating thrill that made him want to let out a long howl.

Within his Dantian spiritual ocean, that small black sword was also leaping with joy, stirring restlessly above the lake of his mind.

*'Is this the method of embryonic breathing?'*

He Chang'an barely needed to breathe anymore; he felt thoroughly comfortable throughout his entire body, as if every gesture could allow him to walk across snow without leaving a trace.

Ah, he was truly getting a bit full of himself.

Gathering his focus, he did not stop his breathing technique, though he had now switched to the internal breathing method, no longer relying on his mouth and nose.

That grayish-white dragon of Qi flowed smoothly and roundly, its movement rumbling like thunder.

Of course, this was merely He Chang'an's own perception.

To outsiders, he currently looked somewhat like a drunken man with a flushed face. Exerting sudden force beneath his feet, he left two shallow footprints before launching himself like a large bird with wings outspread, beginning to scale the Sword Gate Pass.

...

"He Chang'an, you usually look rather slow-witted, but who would have thought you're actually quite capable!" The happiest of all was undoubtedly Lady A Ran.

This carefree girl, pale-faced yet brimming with joy, harbored no complicated thoughts just because He Chang'an had suddenly become stronger than her.

In her heart, she simply felt that seeing her friend achieve a breakthrough was a wonderful thing.

Clambering up to the ramparts, He Chang'an himself was somewhat dazed. He reached out to scratch the back of his head and smiled foolishly, "I was pushed into a corner; I don't even know how I pulled it off."

The old white ape grinned widely and slapped He Chang'an on the shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground.

Several other ragged cultivators gathered around, deploying their respective surveillance techniques to "scan" He Chang'an's body, hoping to unearth some secrets, but they reaped virtually nothing.

This He Chang'an looked every bit a pure, crude martial artist, yet his foundation was laid exceptionally well, rivaling the flawlessness of the eighth-rank martial realm.

Yet at the same time, he possessed the ninth-layer peak cultivation of the Daoist Qi-Refining stage. This left these old monsters completely baffled.

However, everyone present was shrewd. Exchanging a single glance, they reached a consensus—this kid also harbored a rather extraordinary surge of righteous Qi?

Well, that made things easier.

Didn't scholars love nothing more than preaching grand principles to everyone? Ever since that damned Confucius fellow started the trend of never letting anyone have peace of mind, the established rules were supposedly higher and vaster than the heavens themselves?

Fine, at least before anyone could beat the Madman Lü, those principles apparently still held quite a bit of sway...

Several Daoist old monsters swiftly exchanged glances and activated the Daoist secret technique of "Voice Transmission into Secret."

*'What do you say, shall we give him a taste of our medicine?'*

*'We certainly should, but not openly. I sense the aura of the Madman Lü on this kid called He Chang'an.'*

*'Mn, it also seems to carry a hint... of a sword cultivator's flavor.'*

*'Then what should we do? This white-haired old monkey guards the Sword Gate Pass grand array, sending many promising Daoist youths scurrying away in terror, all while thinking he's guarding the gate for the Sword Immortal and selecting promising sword cultivator seedlings. Who would have thought he's actually helping those Confucian blowhards...'*

*'Well, in my view, there's no need to offer him any overt assistance, that's all.'*

*'Mystic Daoist, do you mean... keep him here?'*

*'Not only keep him, but make him stay here forever.'*

...

And so, after painstakingly clawing his way up the Sword Gate Pass wall, He Chang'an was promptly greeted by a group of Daoist old monsters with fine wine and good meat, served with utmost enthusiasm. Every single one of them wore a smile of approval and expectation, looking at him as if he were their own direct descendant...

"Ah, He Chang'an, this all-encompassing cultivation method of yours is truly baffling and uniquely crafted, even taking this poor Daoist somewhat by surprise."

"Indeed, Brother He clearly possesses great fortune, having not only tempered his martial physique to the absolute limit, but also mastered Daoist breathing techniques and sword intent. Truly unprecedented!"

"Quite right, quite right! Truly admirable!"

...

As high praise was heaped upon him one hat after another, He Chang'an wore a peculiar expression and involuntarily glanced toward the old white ape and A Ran.

The old white ape maintained a profound, inscrutable expression, grabbing a flask of wine as he narrowed his bizarre eyes to gaze out across the wilderness beyond the city walls, seemingly lost in memory.

A Ran hadn't noticed He Chang'an's thoughts either; she was currently pestering a white-haired, ragged-robed Daoist priest, badgering him for news of her parents. Her face bore a look of wistful loss, clearly yielding no useful harvest.

Left with no other choice, He Chang'an could only rely on himself.

He acutely realized that these "Daoist seniors" were being overly enthusiastic toward him—so much so that it was obviously fake.

However, he remained silent.

These old fellows didn't look like much—raggedly dressed and disheveled—bearing no resemblance whatsoever to otherworldly masters.

Yet, once He Chang'an had skyrocketed his Daoist Qi-Refining cultivation straight to the "ninth-layer peak of the Qi-Refining stage," many of his previous doubts regarding cultivation suddenly cleared up. At the very least, he was no longer an utter novice.

*'Golden Core True Persons?'*

Facing the group of elderly Daoists, He Chang'an cupped his fists in a salute, his expression mild, modest, and bearing a slightly self-deprecating smile as he warmly said, "Respected seniors, this junior He Chang'an has managed by sheer luck to enter Sword Gate Pass, and I shall look forward to troubling you all in the future..."

He silently observed them. Among the dozen or so ragged Daoists, upon hearing the word "True Person," one of them curled his lips in disdain, while the others maintained calm expressions, accepting the title with equanimity.

*'So they truly are in the Golden Core True Person realm...'*

*'And that disdainful one must be a so-called Nascent Soul Old Monster?'*

He Chang'an calculated inwardly, roughly establishing a baseline.

According to secret manuals from the Slaying Demon Bureau and other miscellaneous books, He Chang'an roughly knew that in the Daoist cultivation system, the Qi-Refining stage, Foundation Establishment stage, Golden Core True Person realm, and Nascent Soul Old Monster realm roughly represented the pinnacle of this world.

Among them, Golden Core True Persons were roughly comparable to the "third-rank" of the martial artist cultivation system. Furthermore, because Daoist techniques generally emphasized self-cultivation and pursued longevity and immortality, they naturally gained a bonus to their lifespans regardless of which realm they reached.

In the eyes of ordinary mortals, Golden Core True Persons who could live for three to five hundred years were essentially no different from the so-called "immortal families."

Of course, that was merely the secular view.

In the cultivation world, a lifespan of three to five hundred years might just be a baseline figure. Compared to Nascent Soul Old Monsters who could live for seven to eight hundred years, what truly intoxicated and yearned for by Daoist practitioners was the realm of the [Terrestrial Immortal].

It was said that once one cultivated to the realm of the Terrestrial Immortal, barring death by sword or blade, they could theoretically live for a very, very long time, practically indistinguishable from true immortality...

These were all things He Chang'an had learned from books; as for the actual truth, he had no way of knowing. In any case, to use the old scholar's words, these scruffy old men had no particular talent other than living exceptionally long lives.

Living stubbornly, surviving stealthily—they were simply a bunch of old turtles.

"Ahem, respected seniors, this junior is just a greenhorn who accidentally stumbled into Sword Gate Pass. Please offer your kind guidance." He Chang'an put on a naive and clueless facade, holding half a bowl of wine while swaying unsteadily on his feet.

He looked thoroughly drunk.

The group of old Daoists remained calm and unexpressive, stroking their beards in silence.

The atmosphere became somewhat awkward.

He Chang'an downed the remaining wine in his bowl, simply feigned complete intoxication, and pitched forward onto the city wall, collapsing in a heap.

He had seen through it now. These old scruffy bastards simply didn't welcome him. The reason they had crowned him with so many high hats was none other than to lift him up high, only to watch him take a catastrophic fall.

There was no genuine malice.

It was purely a case of incompatible dispositions.

Well then, time to play dead.

As long as he wasn't the one feeling embarrassed, someone would eventually clean up the mess. Besides, he wasn't entirely without backing here—the white-haired old monkey might be weaker than these old monsters, but its seniority seemed remarkably high, so these people shouldn't suddenly flip out on him, right?

*'Given the disparity in strength, I can't beat these old monsters anyway. Might as well... act like a shameless rogue.'*

With that thought, He Chang'an first faked drunkenness, and then smoothly transitioned into a genuine sleep...

...

Staring at the thunderous snoring and utterly naive expression of He Chang'an, the ragged Daoists exchanged glances in silence, none of them speaking.

This kid had truly massive nerve...

Weren't they afraid that some "senior" might casually stride over and poke him to death with a couple of sword strokes?

With that, everyone shifted their gazes toward a middle-aged Daoist.

That middle-aged Daoist was likewise clad in a ragged Daoist robe and looked disheveled. He squatted behind the battlement, gnawing earnestly on half a roasted, golden-brown and crispy hare with his dark, lean hands, seemingly far too lazy to bother with the messy affairs around him.

*'Grand Uncle-Master, what should we do?'* an old Daoist transmitted his voice secretly.

"Throw him out."