By noon the next day, Gao Han finally stirred from his slumber, having remained unconscious for an entire night. Blinking his eyes open, he glanced about and recognized the tent he shared with Zheng Kong. A gnawing hunger clawed at his stomach; after a night of ferocious fighting without a single bite to eat, he could hardly feel otherwise.
With great effort, he propped himself up and sat cross-legged, assessing the state of his body, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. His condition was dire indeed. Pushing his physical limits far beyond endurance during the previous night's battles had left several of his meridians ruptured and others blocked. Worse still, not a wisp of inner qi remained within him—his dantian lay utterly empty.
He could not even begin to restore his qi. Some might wonder why he could not simply rebuild his energy as he had when first embarking on his cultivation journey. Yet every cultivator began with unbroken meridians; those born with incomplete pathways were fated to live ordinary lives, forever barred from the path of martial arts. For Gao Han to attempt a full cycle of qi circulation in his current state was nothing more than a fool's dream.
Once a cultivator had progressed in their training, replenishing strength required drawing spiritual energy from the air to fortify whatever residual qi remained, forcing open blocked meridians and mending torn pathways in the process. The cruellest blow for Gao Han was that he possessed no inner qi to work with at all.
Just then, footsteps approached from outside the tent, accompanied by Zheng Kong's furious voice. "Those bastards actually dare challenge Brother Han again! Shameless cowards! They were too scared to move a muscle yesterday, and now they're strutting about like roosters!"
Zheng Ling's tone followed, calm and rational. "It is only to be expected. If the Lu imperial clan had produced a prodigy as monstrously talented as Gao Han, we would not let him live either."
The two men lifted the tent flap and froze the moment they laid eyes on Gao Han, who stared back at them steadily. After a moment's shock, unbridled joy washed over their faces. Zheng Kong rushed forward in three quick strides, seized Gao Han by the shoulders, and shook him eagerly. "Brother Han! You're awake! Are you all right?"
Gao Han, completely drained of inner qi, could scarce endure such rough handling, and his brows knitted faintly in pain.
Zheng Ling, older and seasoned by years of military command, saw the expression and understood at once that Gao Han was still far from recovered. He quickly stopped Zheng Kong's roughhousing. Zheng Kong feared Zheng Yunqing second-most and Zheng Ling third; he obediently let go, noticing the cold sweat on Gao Han's forehead and laughing awkwardly. As for who he feared most? That honour went unquestionably to Gao Han, for provoking him meant a sound thrashing.
Zheng Ling spoke to Gao Han with a solemn expression. "Brother Gao, we plan to hunt down the zombie tonight. How fares your injury?"
Gao Han managed another bitter smile, saying only that he might not fully recover in time, without revealing the true severity of his condition. Though he was allied with the Zheng Clan and held the status of an honorary disciple, he would never entrust his life entirely to them—least of all now, when he was at his most vulnerable, defenceless even against an ordinary man.
Gao Han turned to Zheng Kong. "Fetch me something to eat. Can't you hear my stomach growling?"
Zheng Kong scrambled off at once, while Zheng Ling took his leave. His true purpose in visiting had been to gauge Gao Han's injuries and how much strength he had regained. Gao Han's feats of the previous night had been nothing short of earth-shattering: overpowering Situ Jian, defeating Lingze, wounding Gu Yunluan, and cowing two True Essence experts and nearly twenty peak Qi Condensation warriors into submission. With Gao Han's aid, the zombie hunt would be all but assured.
Gao Han's godlike display had come at the cost of wielding power far beyond his body's capacity. To transcend one's limits was to channel force that the physical form could not bear. Even prodigies could only raise their strength to the threshold of their current realm; pushing past it by even a hair was extraordinarily difficult. Yet Gao Han, with his unparalleled talent, had cultivated the Sunset Over the Long River Art to its eighth layer.
This art was famed for amassing immense power; most peak Qi Condensation cultivators could reach no higher than the seventh layer, a feat enough to dominate their peers. Even True Essence experts rarely mastered it beyond the seventh layer's peak. To reach the eighth was to wield power no ordinary first-layer Qi Condensation warrior could hope to match.
Each stage of the art scaled exponentially; the eighth layer held power equal to the sum of the first seven combined, matching the early-stage strength of a second-layer True Essence expert. Combined with Gao Han's profound understanding of the art, he could have unleashed force equivalent to a peak second-layer True Essence cultivator—if only his energy had been true qi, not inner qi. For a Qi Condensation warrior to wield such power, no body could endure the strain. This was the source of his godly strength, and the reason for his crippling injuries.
As for the sword qi he had manifested, it stemmed from the frigid nature of his inner qi. Cold energy was inherently sharp and unyielding, making his projected attacks no less formidable than sword qi forged from true qi.
Realizing the full cost of his gamble, Gao Han smiled grimly. Transcending his limits was a lethal trump card, yet it left him completely defenceless afterward. He would have to avoid using it at all costs in the future.
Zheng Kong returned before long with an ample spread of food, and Gao Han ate ravenously for nearly half an hour before finally sating his hunger. By then, Zheng Kong had long since vanished. Gao Han rubbed his stomach and muttered angrily, "That damned bald monk Lingze! Why did he have to pull out that Six Snow Plums technique? If I hadn't unleashed those six sword qi blasts, I wouldn't be in this state! Once I grow stronger, I'll make him regret it!" He conveniently forgot that he had been the one to insist on duelling Lingze in the first place.
Back in Situ Jian's tent, Lingze sat sipping tea with Situ Jian and his two junior brothers when he suddenly shivered violently. He pulled his tattered grey monk's robe tighter around his rotund frame in confusion. "It is not even cold. Why am I trembling? Could Zheng Kong be talking about me again?"
As the saying went, ill words invited misfortune. Barely had Lingze spoken when Zheng Kong's loud, crass voice boomed from outside the tent. "Master Lingze! Little Zeze! Your elegant hairstyle and sturdy figure fill me with awe! Please teach me the Buddhist Temple's staff skills! I'll even build you a temple—"
Situ Jian, cup halfway to his lips, turned to stare at Lingze's completely bald, shiny head and his mountainous, plump frame. He could not hold back and spat a mouthful of tea straight onto Lingze's broad, round face.
Lingze paid the mess no mind, scrambling to say to Situ Jian in a panic, "Brother Situ, if Zheng Kong enters, tell him I am not here!" He wriggled his bulky body under the table.
Situ Jian sighed helplessly. Zheng Kong was more formidable than Gao Han. A single word from him had struck terror into three monks. He glanced over at Lingyin and Lingdu's seats, only to find them empty. Voices from under the tables murmured in unison, "We are not here either!"
After witnessing the previous night's battles, Zheng Kong had become obsessed with the monks' staff techniques. He had pestered them relentlessly all morning, showering them with crude flattery in a desperate bid to learn their art. The three revered monks had been reduced to frightened rabbits, fleeing at the mere sound of his voice.
Zheng Kong strode into the tent, and Situ Jian greeted him with a warm smile. "Cousin! What brings you here? Come, sit and chat."
Zheng Kong glanced about, then pointed at the three empty tables. "Cousin, are Lingze and the others here?"
Situ Jian's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained calm. "They left just a moment ago." He had expected Zheng Kong's impatience to drive him away at once, but instead the younger man plopped down in Lingze's seat and spoke to him earnestly. "Cousin, you overreacted last night. Brother Han and Sister Yan had done nothing wrong. You caused a scene, and now how will you mend things? Because of you, Brother Han was gravely injured and still hasn't recovered—"
Situ Jian's patience wore thinner by the second. He had never realized before what a loud, obnoxious chatterbox his cousin was. Just as he was about to snap, a saviour arrived. A Zheng clan disciple called from outside, "Young Master Situ, is our second young master here?"
Zheng Kong perked up at once. "Your master is right here!"
The voice continued, "Young Master Gao has asked for you at once!"
To Situ Jian, the words sounded like heavenly music. Even more relieved was Lingze, hiding under the table—Zheng Kong had accidentally stepped on his hand.
Zheng Kong scrambled to his feet. "Cousin, I must take my leave! We'll chat another time!"
Situ Jian nearly wept with relief. Another chat? Never. No wonder Lingze and the others were hiding from his cousin. He was utterly insufferable.
Gao Han had summoned Zheng Kong for a dangerous, desperate plan. He hoped to trigger the same miracle that had saved him from the Crimson Wind Wolf—to gamble with his life. If he could not restore his inner qi, he would be a cripple forever.
Zheng Kong hurried back into the tent and asked eagerly, "Brother Han, what did you need me for?"
Gao Han fixed him with a serious gaze. "I need your help with something. Will you do it?"
Seeing Gao Han's solemn expression, Zheng Kong dropped his playful demeanour and replied earnestly, "Anything you ask, Brother Han."
Gao Han stood and pointed to his dantian. "Channel thirty percent of your power and strike me right here."
Zheng Kong paled. "Brother Han! What are you doing? Trying to ruin your own cultivation? If I've angered you, tell me straight—what is the meaning of this?"
"I told you to control your strength precisely—thirty percent, no more, no less. Too much, and I die. Too little, and it will do no good," Gao Han cut him off, his eyes cold and sharp. He quickly added, "I am cultivating a secret art that requires external force to strike my dantian. Hurry!"
Under Gao Han's stern command and flimsy explanation, Zheng Kong hesitantly raised his right palm, channeled thirty percent of his inner qi, and struck Gao Han's dantian.
Agonizing pain exploded from Gao Han's dantian and shot straight to his brain. He was sent flying three meters, crashing into the tent's support pole. Yet he paid the physical injury no mind; the torment within his dantian was incomparably worse. Zheng Kong's inner qi raged wildly inside him, stabbing at his dantian with each surge until cold sweat drenched his body. He gritted his teeth fiercely, refusing to make a single sound.
The foreign qi rampaged through his dantian, damaging it further, yet the ice pearl within him remained motionless. Gao Han despaired—had the mysterious power vanished? Was he doomed to die?
Zheng Kong stood by helplessly, pounding his head in panic. "What do I do? What do I do?" He could only mutter uselessly, watching Gao Han lie trembling on the ground, his teeth clenched so hard they ground together.
Just as Gao Han's dantian neared its breaking point, the rampaging qi accidentally struck the ice pearl. The pearl stirred angrily, spinning rapidly and sending waves of frigid energy pouring forth. A single wisp of cold qi shattered, froze, and dissolved Zheng Kong's foreign energy, converting it into power Gao Han could wield. The rest of the cold energy surged through his meridians, circulating ceaselessly.
Zheng Kong watched in astonishment as Gao Han's trembling ceased. He sat cross-legged once more, and spiritual energy from the air flooded toward him in a violent vortex. Gao Han felt indescribable relief; the icy energy pouring from his dantian mended his meridians, clearing blockages as easily as taming a docile cat.
The cold energy raced through his pathways, drawing staggering amounts of heavenly spiritual energy into his body, swirling faster and faster. Where his inner qi had once flowed like a steady river, it now raged like a torrential rapid.
His body, starved of energy after the previous night's battles, drank in spiritual energy greedily, adding to the swirling current until a small whirlwind formed within the enclosed tent.
Zheng Ling, watching nearby, was dumbfounded. Even for a prodigy, drawing in spiritual energy so fiercely that it stirred a wind within a closed tent was unheard of. Could this truly be a Qi Condensation cultivator? What divine art was he practicing to command such a phenomenon?
Gao Han reveled in the sensation, thinking to himself that the gamble had not been in vain. Yet he wondered how long the power would last, and if it would one day disappear.
His quiet contemplation was shattered by a searing jolt of pain. The inner qi within him spun faster and faster, reaching its breaking point and beginning to expand violently. His meridians were stretched thin until they cracked, only to be mended instantly by the onrushing current—then cracked again, and mended once more.
Gao Han was trapped between agony and ecstasy. Each rupture sent white-hot pain lancing through him, wracking his body with convulsions, yet each mending brought a warm, tingling relief as his strength grew steadily. In a flash of inspiration, he decided to use this chance to break through to the ninth layer of his art.
He focused his will to guide the streams of cold energy along the Sunset Over the Long River Art's circulation path. At first, the icy energy resisted his control, but with relentless effort, it gradually shifted, following the route he willed.
Just as his concentration neared its limit, the cold energy finally obeyed, cycling in perfect accordance with the art's structure. It spun faster and faster as Gao Han closed his eyes, continuing to absorb spiritual energy and endure the cycle of pain and renewal.
Zheng Kong jumped in fright as Gao Han's body twitched violently, as if suffering a fit. He shuddered to himself, relieved he had abandoned the idea of learning the "divine art." If mastering it meant convulsing uncontrollably, he wanted no part of it. He patted his chest, his heart pounding wildly.
Gao Han poured every ounce of focus into his breakthrough. He had already reached the peak of the eighth layer, standing at the very threshold of the ninth—only this final push remained.
An hour later, a thunderous surge erupted within Gao Han. His inner qi roared through his meridians like a bursting dam. The eighth layer of the Sunset Over the Long River Art had been surpassed.
With his art elevated, his cultivation naturally rose. Gao Han now stood at the peak of the Ninth Layer of Qi Condensation, a single step away from the True Essence Realm. Once he crossed that threshold, he would strike from afar without relying on his unique physique. He would also unlock the ninth-layer technique of his art: Raging Waves.