Long Aotian walked through the clan grounds with his head down and his pace steady. Questions swirled through his mind—how had he sent Xiao Rong flying twice with such ease? What exactly had the Dragon Blood Battle Body done to his physical strength? Why did everyone seem so shocked by something that had felt almost natural to him?
He pushed the confusion aside. More pressing matters demanded his attention.
The jade boxes containing the Moonshade Grass and Crimson Flower rested securely inside his robe. Once he returned to his quarters, Long Aotian set them on the small table in his room and examined the herbs carefully. Both plants retained their spiritual properties—the Moonshade Grass still absorbed ambient light, and the Crimson Flower's petals flickered with inner warmth.
According to the Pill God's memories, the most efficient way to utilize these materials would be to refine them into pills. A proper Yin-Yang Harmony Pill would preserve all their medicinal properties while amplifying their effects tenfold. However, pill refinement required equipment Long Aotian didn't possess—specifically, a pill furnace capable of withstanding intense heat without cracking.
More importantly, it required a stable cultivation base to control the flames and guide the refinement process. Long Aotian's shattered dantian made that impossible.
Medicinal wine would have to suffice.
Long Aotian retrieved two clay jars from the kitchen—one his mother used for storing preserves. He cleaned it thoroughly, then filled them halfway with rice wine from the pantry. The Moonshade Grass went in one, the Crimson Flower went in another. As the herbs sank into the liquid, faint wisps of yin and yang energy began seeping from them, turning the clear wine a pale amber color.
Long Aotian sealed the jar and set it in a corner of his room. The process would take time before the wine absorbed enough spiritual properties to be effective. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but he had no choice.
With that task complete, Long Aotian stepped outside into the small courtyard behind his quarters.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the packed earth. Long Aotian's eyes went immediately to the stone pillar standing near the far wall. It was roughly two meters tall and half a meter wide, carved from solid granite. Deep impressions covered its surface—hundreds of fist marks that had accumulated over years of training.
Nostalgia hit Long Aotian. This pillar had been his constant companion during his years as a rising genius. Every morning before dawn, he would come out here and practice his martial forms, striking the stone over and over until his knuckles bled and his arms trembled from exhaustion.
Long Aotian walked forward slowly, his hand reaching out to touch one of the deeper imprints. His fingers traced the outline—a mark he'd left two weeks before the ambush. Back then, he'd been at the seventh stage of Body Tempering, on the verge of breaking through to the eighth. This particular strike had taken every ounce of his strength and had left his hand swollen for three days afterward.
He pulled his hand back and stepped into position in front of the pillar.
His feet spread shoulder-width apart. His knees bent slightly, lowering his center of gravity. His spine straightened, and his hands came up in a guard position. The horse stance—one of the most fundamental postures in martial arts. Long Aotian had practiced it ten thousand times, until his muscles remembered the position without conscious thought.
He took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. Then he drew his right fist back and drove it forward with all the force his newly transformed body could generate.
Bang!
The sound echoed across the courtyard like a drum strike. The stone pillar trembled from the impact, actually shifting backward several centimeters. Dust and small fragments of rock scattered from the point of contact.
Long Aotian pulled his hand back and stared.
The imprint his fist had left was massive—easily twice the size of any mark he'd made before the ambush. The stone had cratered inward, creating a depression several centimeters deep. Cracks radiated outward from the center like a spider's web.
Long Aotian's breathing quickened. He compared the new mark to the old ones covering the pillar. When he'd been at the peak of the seventh stage of Body Tempering, his strongest strikes had barely managed to create impressions half this deep. And those had required his full cultivation base, channeling spiritual energy through his meridians to enhance the blow.
This time, he'd used nothing but raw physical strength.
This is too exaggerated.
The thought repeated in his mind as he examined his knuckles. They were red from the impact but otherwise uninjured. No broken skin. No bruising. The bones beneath felt solid and strong, as if they'd been forged from iron rather than calcium.
How had he become this strong with just one night of cultivation? The Dragon Blood Battle Body had infused his bones and tendons with Dragon Blood Essence, yes, but this level of improvement seemed impossible. And this was only from cultivating one aspect of the Nine Dragon Tyrant Body Art—the body refinement path. He couldn't even imagine how powerful he would become once he could cultivate the complete technique, energy and body working in harmony.
Long Aotian shook his head. That goal remained distant. His dantian needed to be repaired first, and according to the technique, that would require advancing the Dragon Blood Battle Body to at least the third stage. The path ahead was long and arduous.
No point dwelling on distant possibilities. Focus on what I can do now.
Long Aotian settled back into the horse stance and began practicing his basic martial forms. Punch. Block. Palm strike. Elbow. Each movement flowed into the next, following patterns he'd learned as a child. The forms were simple—any outer disciple could perform them—but simplicity had its own value. Basic techniques built the foundation for advanced skills.
His fists struck the pillar again and again. Each impact created another crater, another web of cracks. Sweat began to pour down Long Aotian's face and soak through his robes. His muscles burned with exertion, but the sensation felt different than before. Stronger. More enduring.
Hours passed. The sun descended toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Long Aotian's movements never slowed. Punch after punch after punch, until the stone pillar resembled something that had been struck by a siege weapon rather than bare fists.
Finally, his body began sending signals of strain. Not pain exactly, but a deep fatigue that settled into his bones. Long Aotian threw one final punch, then stepped back and allowed his arms to fall to his sides.
He was breathing hard but not gasping. Tired but not exhausted. The Dragon Blood Battle Body had increased not just his strength but his endurance as well.
Long Aotian glanced toward his room. The medicinal wine should have absorbed some spiritual properties by now, though probably not enough for full effectiveness. The Pill God's memories suggested letting herbs soak for at least twenty-four hours to achieve optimal results.
He walked over to check anyway, more out of curiosity than actual need.
The jars sat where he'd left them in the corner. Long Aotian unsealed it carefully and inhaled. The scent that wafted up carried traces of both yin and yang energy—cool and refreshing from the Moonshade Grass, warm and invigorating from the Crimson Flower. However, the concentration remained weak. It needed a few more hours at minimum