Night settled over Qingzhu Mountain like a dark veil, the bamboo groves swaying gently in the wind. Lantern light flickered across the courtyard, casting long shadows that danced with the rustling leaves.
Lin Fei sat beneath the plum tree, the jade slip of the Lin Family's Breath‑Drawing Art resting in his palm.
He placed it against his forehead.
A faint projection appeared — an illusory figure demonstrating slow, gentle breathing patterns.
Lin Fei watched it quietly.
Then he closed his eyes.
And ignored it.
---
Deep within his soul, beneath layers of silence and memory, something ancient stirred.
A shadowed figure appeared in his mind —
his past self, seated on a throne of bones and lotus petals.
A voice echoed through the darkness:
*"Saint Demonic Body…
The path of devouring heaven and earth."*
Lin Fei inhaled slowly.
Not the Lin Family's method.
Not the gentle, orthodox breathing of Return to Yuan Gong.
But the forbidden rhythm of his past life.
A breath that pulled qi like a tide.
A breath that tempered flesh and spirit together.
A breath that belonged to no sect in this world.
The Saint Demonic Body.
His true cultivation.
His true path.
---
Qi surged into his meridians.
Not slow.
Not reluctant.
Not resisted.
It came like a river breaking through a dam.
His ninth‑rank spiritual root trembled —
not from rejection,
but from being forced open.
Lin Fei's expression remained calm.
Inside, his thoughts were cold and steady.
This body is weak.
But the Saint Demonic Body does not bow to talent.
It devours weakness.
It rebuilds the vessel.
It creates its own destiny.
A faint ache spread through his limbs —
the familiar pain of body refinement.
He welcomed it.
---
As the cycle continued, something subtle shifted.
His skin grew a shade clearer.
His jawline sharpened slightly.
His posture straightened without effort.
His eyes gained a faint, cold clarity —
like still water reflecting moonlight.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing supernatural.
Just a quiet refinement.
A natural, effortless handsomeness.
Lin Fei did not react.
But inwardly—
The acquired physique…
I had forgotten how quickly it begins.
In my past life, this technique forged me into a monster among Soul Transformation experts.
My hands were bloody, my path paved with corpses — like every cultivator who reached the peak.
I was feared because I was the strongest.
Not because I was cruel.
Because no one could stop me.
A slow breath.
And I died of old age, not by another's hand.
No one dared to try.
His gaze sharpened.
Let them see the change.
Let them whisper.
Strength commands respect.
---
From the doorway, Shuyin and Shulan watched quietly.
Shuyin blinked.
"…Husband looks different today."
Shulan tilted her head.
"More… refined?"
Mei, standing behind them, lowered her gaze quickly.
Lin Fei continued cultivating, expression calm.
Inside, he thought:
They notice already.
Good.
Let them grow accustomed to it.
---
Lin Bo arrived at dusk, leaning on his bamboo cane.
"You have begun practicing the Breath‑Drawing Art?" he asked.
Lin Fei nodded.
"Yes."
Lin Bo studied him for a long moment.
"…You look well."
Lin Fei bowed slightly.
"Cultivation clears the mind."
Lin Bo nodded, satisfied.
Inside, Lin Fei remained silent.
If only you knew what I was truly cultivating.
---
Later, when the courtyard fell silent, Lin Fei sat alone beneath the moonlight.
The Saint Demonic Body circulated quietly within him.
Slow.
Steady.
Relentless.
No awakening.
No dragon stirring.
Only the quiet strengthening of flesh and bone —
and the subtle refinement of his appearance.
The dragon sleeps, he thought.
But the demon wakes.
And this time… I will climb again.
He opened his eyes.
Cold.
Steady.
Unshaken.
A quiet night.
A forbidden art.
A face growing sharper in the moonlight.
A step forward on the hidden path.