"Netherworld Body! Shatter the Wood Spirit!"
Fang Han knew he stood at the edge of disaster—one misstep and his body would be consumed by chaos. He focused all his will, driving the blood and qi through his meridians with furious force, battering against the rigid knots of wood energy lodged in his joints. Pain exploded through him—raw, merciless, as though countless serrated blades were carving him apart from the inside out. Every bone, every muscle screamed. He felt as if his body would disintegrate at any moment.
"Aaaaaaah!"
He roared soundlessly, his lips trembling but no voice emerging. The torment was so deep it transcended screaming. So this is what Yan meant... this is worse than being dismembered alive.
Yan's cold, emotionless voice echoed in his mind.
"Each time you invoke the Qing Emperor's Wood Sovereign Art, you walk the brink of inner collapse. This agony—this danger—is your crucible. The stronger your will, the greater your spirit. And the greater your spirit, the stronger your power. This is the path of ascendance—suffering so great that death itself becomes trivial."
Fang Han barely heard him. His focus was consumed by the brutal rhythm of blood and qi hammering through his veins. Crack. Crack. Each surge shattered another joint open. Pain like molten steel flooded his nerves. He knew that if he faltered for even a breath, the wood essence would root itself deeper, turning him into a living statue—stiff, unmoving, a wooden corpse.
Indeed, every attempt to advance the Qing Emperor's Art was a brush with madness. Each success was wrested from the jaws of self-destruction. But Fang Han had long decided: to surpass Hua Tiandu, no price was too high.
For three days and nights, he endured. Each joint burst open one after another, muscles swelling grotesquely before rupturing, as waves of purified wood energy were forcibly expelled and devoured by the twin sigils—Qing Emperor and Wood Sovereign—glowing in his palms.
When the final burst of energy subsided, Fang Han's eyes snapped open.
"I've... survived the backlash!"
He leapt to his feet, his body trembling with power. His muscles coiled and lashed like serpents, releasing shockwaves that sent the withered bamboos around him spinning into the air. The sheer physical force—without any hint of magic—was overwhelming. Within, he could feel the residual wood essence merging with his blood and flesh, reinforcing his frame.
Qi and blood surged like a roaring river, and faint wisps of vital energy flowed upward into his mind, thickening the power of his spirit.
He dispersed the two glowing sigils in his palms and extended a hand. His divine gate opened, releasing a surge of force. This time, the energy was no longer invisible—it shimmered faintly with violet-green light, hazy and ghostly, like an ancient god taking form from incense smoke.
With a sharp cry, Fang Han condensed the power into a massive hand and slammed it down.
Boom!
The ground caved in beneath him, leaving a deep handprint three or four feet thick. Fang Han could feel it—his power had grown again, by the strength of at least one Xuanhuang warhorse.
"At the Mortal Body stage, you'd need endless training and elixirs just to gain the strength of one horse. But now, at the realm of Divine Abilities, power multiplies with every refinement. This is what it means to walk the path of the true cultivator."
He savored the sensation, every fiber of him alive with newfound strength.
Yan's voice intruded again.
"You've barely begun. To fully convert your mana into true qi and step into the True Essence Realm is still far away. You must hasten your cultivation. Now—give me that Heavenly Wood Needle. I'll soak it in the Water of Forgetfulness. Once you've mastered the Qing Emperor's Art, you can absorb the needle's essence. That should push you to the next realm quickly. Otherwise, your power will drain this entire bamboo forest dry—and explaining that to Jialan will be... awkward."
Fang Han chuckled bitterly. "You devoured the Golden Fire Mirror, and your power clearly surged. Pity I never even got to use that treasure. I should've let it refine a few Sky Demons first."
Yan's laugh was eerie. "Pity? You traded a mere pure yang treasure for the Qing Emperor's Wood Sovereign Art! Any of the Ten Great Sects' masters would have slaughtered for such an opportunity."
"Now focus on reaching the True Essence Realm. That is your true task. Oh—and don't neglect alchemy. You have plenty of herbs from the underground ruins. With your current command of wood energy, you should be able to extract their essence directly without fire."
"Let's try," Fang Han said, intrigued.
He retrieved a pile of spiritual herbs—lingzhi, poria, rehmannia, and dozens more—and gathered them in front of him. Activating the Qing Emperor sigil, he drew a deep breath. Instantly, faint streams of herbal essence rose from the pile, swirling into his palm. The herbs themselves turned to withered husks, all vitality drained.
"I am the Qing Emperor, Sovereign of All Growth. I command the wood element; all vitality bends to my will."
As his power revolved, the gathered essence condensed into a sesame-sized green pill—the Wood Spirit Pellet.
Normally, refining such a pill required long hours in a cauldron, burning herbs into vapor, then weaving that vapor into form with mana. But the Qing Emperor's Art was tyrannical—it seized essence directly, like an emperor demanding tribute. Fire was unnecessary. The command itself was law.
Yan's voice carried faint amusement.
"Now you understand the domination of the Qing Emperor's Art. But don't get arrogant—you're far from commanding life and death as the true Wood Sovereign."
"I know," Fang Han replied. "You're the expert. But tell me—how long will it take me to reach the True Essence Realm?"
Yan considered. "At your pace, five years—three if you're fortunate. But once you absorb the Heavenly Wood Needle's spirit, you could advance ten times faster. Perhaps in three to five months."
"Three to five months?" Fang Han blinked in surprise.
"You think that's fast?" Yan sneered. "Many cultivators spend decades just to condense true qi. Those who refine the Great Freedom Sword Qi must meditate inside metallic veins for years, balancing gold essence with their bodies while consuming countless elixirs to resist corrosion. You've taken the Nine-Aperture Golden Pill, tempered yourself in the Water of Forgetfulness, forged the Netherworld Body, and now practice a primordial art. Without these advantages, even thirty years wouldn't suffice."
He paused, then added with pride, "Thousands of years ago, many independent cultivators spent fifty or sixty years trying and still failed—aging, dying, forgotten. That's why now everyone clings to great sects—for resources, protection, and a chance to rise."
Fang Han smirked. "You talk as if you've seen it all. Tell me, do you really know the Great Freedom Sword Qi? Or the Instant Kill Technique?"
Yan chuckled. "Of course. I also know the Purple Lightning Infernal Blade, the Sevenfold Azure Flame, and the Cold Abyss Force. The Eight Divine Arts of Yuhua Sect—I've mastered them all. But those are merely mid-tier techniques. The supreme arts are hidden within the Yuhua Ascension Scripture, and that I do not possess. Even Panwu's Titan Force, used by Hua Tiandu—that, too, I lack."
"Then how many divine arts do you actually command?" Fang Han asked, wary but awed.
"Thirty-six," Yan said coldly. "But the Yellow Springs Emperor—he wielded ninety-nine ancient divine powers. That," he added with a trace of pride, "is what made our Yellow Springs Sect the mightiest of the demonic paths—surpassing even Taiyi Sect, the foremost of the Immortal Dao."
Fang Han's eyes gleamed. Thirty-six divine arts... ninety-nine divine arts... One day, I'll master them all.