After finally understanding how Death Qi worked, Ming could feel it surging within him—
a deep, strange power awakening in a way he had never experienced before.
He could sense himself growing stronger, the faint tremor of new strength rolling through every muscle, every bone.
He had been born human.
Humans could naturally manipulate only Vitality Qi.
Death Qi was foreign, alien, impossible to master without breaking the limits of flesh and spirit.
Even after becoming half-abyssal, even after his body had changed, his control over Death Qi had been weak, crude, like a river refusing to bend to its banks.
But now…
Ming felt it finally responding.
Not fully tamed, not yet perfected—but bending, flowing, alive within him.
For the first time, he knew that he was no longer entirely human.
something powerful had awoken in him.
After mastering the basics of Death Qi, Ming began observing other monsters—not to fight, but to create his own techniques.
He ventured farther into the forest than he never done before, moving cautiously, aware of the dangers lurking in every shadow.
Then he saw it.
A lizard unlike any he had ever encountered.
Its body was massive—about the size of a horse—but something was… wrong.
He could see it with his eyes, but he could not sense its.
No matter how hard he focused, it was as if the creature had no presence at all.
It was then that Ming realized the truth: this monster was suppressing its Qi.
It could hide itself completely, becoming invisible to those who tried to sense it.
Intrigued, Ming spent a month watching the creature, studying its movements, its behavior, the way it merged seamlessly with its environment.
He learned how it could vanish, not through speed or shadow, but through suppressing its very essence.
From these observations, Ming created a new martial art—one that allowed him to blend into his surroundings.
A technique that made him nearly invisible, a shadow in the forest, a predator unseen by any who passed by.
After perfecting the invisibility technique, Ming's curiosity drove him deeper into the forest.
There, he spotted a creature unlike any he had seen before—a lion-like monster, sleek and powerful, its movements as fluid and unstoppable as the wind itself.
Ming crouched in the shadows, studying every step it took, every muscle movement, every subtle shift in its balance.
The monster ran like a living gale, moving faster than the eye could follow, yet never losing control or precision.
For days, Ming observed, analyzing the rhythm of its speed, the way it propelled itself with minimal effort, the flow of energy that seemed to surge from its limbs.
Finally, he understood.
He began to experiment, blending what he had learned from the creature with his own mastery of Death Qi and his invisibility techniques.
Step by step, he developed a new footwork—a technique that let him move as swiftly and silently as the wind itself.
With this, he could strike and vanish before his enemies even realized he had moved, a living shadow flowing like a storm across the battlefield.
After perfecting all his techniques, Ming ran tirelessly through the forest, searching for any creature that might inspire a new sword technique.
Days passed like a blur.
He saw nothing. Not a single monster sparked an idea.
No movement, no aura, no insight.
Frustration gnawed at him, deep and relentless.
Ming felt devastated. He knew that without a sword technique, his martial art would remain incomplete—a body without a soul.
Then, as if by instinct—or perhaps by some coincidence—he drew his sword from the shadow at his side.
He swung it once, twice, three times. Again and again, the motion becoming rhythmic, almost meditative.
Days passed in this relentless practice, yet understanding remained just out of reach.
Even though Ming had reached the peak of the Inner Meridian Realm—his body no longer needing daily sustenance—his mind hungered for insight that did not come.
After one particularly long session, he sank to the ground, exhausted, and let his eyes rest on the sword.
The sunlight glinted along its edge, and in that quiet moment, a question arose in his mind.
A simple question, yet one that carried weight heavier than any battle:
"What is a sword?"
Ming sat cross-legged, eyes closed, letting the question echo in his mind:
"What is a sword?"
Thoughts and ideas began to swirl. A sword is a weapon to kill, yes… but it is more than that.
It is thin, precise, a path that opens the way for martial arts.
If he could not find inspiration from monsters—if the movements of beasts could not teach him—then perhaps the answer lay in humans themselves.
Ming thought carefully. The sword did not come from the wild. It came from the heart of humans.
And what is a human heart, if not desire and will?
His eyes snapped open. A spark of clarity ignited in his mind:
"My sword is me. My sword technique is my desire."
With that realization, Ming stood.
He took a deep breath, and in a single, fluid motion, performed five consecutive moves.
Each movement flowed naturally, as if guided by instinct and understanding rather than thought.
After finishing, he felt his understanding of the sword deepen—but he knew it was still not enough.
He channeled Vitality Qi into his blade.
White Qi swirled along the edge, smooth and calm, like water falling from a cliff—watching it filled the heart with peace.
Satisfied, he then did the same with Death Qi.
Black Qi flowed along the blade, movements sharp and fierce, like blood streaming in reverse—a terrifying, hellish beauty.
He tried to combine both Qi at once.
But the two forces clashed inside him, and his body could not yet handle them.
At that moment, a breakthrough came.
His cultivation soared, and he pushed past the Inner Meridian Realm, entering the Martial Artist Gate Realm.
He held his blade, admiring its flow and weight.
It still needed refinement—but the foundation was set.
He thought of a name for this art, separating the Qi of Vitality from the Qi of Death:
For Vitality Qi, he named it Heavenly Art.
For Death Qi, he named it Demonic Art.
Ming smiled. At last, his sword technique was born—a reflection of himself, his desire, and his strength.
What Ming had just done was impossible.
Not simply that he had created a new technique—but that he had coated his blade with Qi.
Such a feat could only be performed by someone at least at the Peak of the Martial Artist Realm.
Yet Ming had done it while still in the Inner Meridian Realm.
It was a feat of pure talent, will, and desire—a testament to his own strength.
He looked at his blade, its edge shimmering with both white and black Qi.
"I… I think my art can still perform thirteen consecutive moves," he whispered to himself.
But to reach that stage, to truly perfect it, he would need the right opportunity—a real battle, a real test.
Ming emerged from the waterfall, water dripping from his hair, and blinked at the changing scenery.
The snow around him was melting, dripping into the river below.
He had no sense of how long he had been in meditation, refining his sword technique in silence.
Now, the time had come.
It was time to fulfill his master's wish—to hunt monsters, to test his new art, and to see if his blade could survive the fury of the Red Line's beasts.