Chapter Three: The Shadow Soul Origami Technique

“It really works,” Lu Qian exclaimed in delight.

Once the gauge was filled to the brim, the pitch-black ring would turn golden, and he should be able to break through. With that in mind, Lu Qian began channeling his energy again.

Four out of ten, five out of ten...

His body brimmed with true energy, every inch of him filled with newfound strength. What had once been as thin as a strand of hair was now as thick as a chopstick.

But as he circulated his energy once more, his vision swam with darkness and a wave of nausea surged up, nearly making him faint.

To refine essence into energy was to transform blood and vitality. Overexertion in practice would instead harm one's fundamental vitality. Generally, one practiced three times a day: morning, noon, and evening, each session lasting half an hour to an hour. With the aid of medicines to replenish energy and blood, the number of sessions could increase somewhat.

“Heaven rewards diligent effort. Hard work brings its own harvest. This golden disk is truly a divine artifact,” Lu Qian sighed in admiration.

Ordinary people who cultivated were hampered by their aptitude, comprehension, and environment. Even those who toiled day after day would only harvest two or three parts for every ten parts of effort. To gain half as much as one put in was already considered extraordinary talent, and should discipline slacken, one would regress instead. Truly, learning is like sailing against the current—advance or be swept back.

Yet this disk ensured that every ounce of effort yielded an equal reward. It was nothing short of miraculous!

Having finished practicing the nameless technique, Lu Qian turned to the Spirit-Folding Paper Art. Focusing his mind on the technique, a stream of information surfaced in his consciousness.

Night fell.

Within the room, candlelight wavered, the flickering shadows casting unpredictable expressions across his face.

“This book—should a sage obtain it, he will ascend upon the clouds; should a worthy obtain it, ghosts and spirits will shrink back in terror; should a commoner obtain it, he will secure peace for his nation. He who possesses this book must guard it well and never take it lightly.”

Of course, the magic was not as wondrous as the preface claimed. Such boasts were the author’s own embellishments, meant to glorify himself.

Next followed the true contents of the art.

Before cultivating this technique, one had to open an altar and offer prayers.

He had spent the past days quietly gathering the needed materials.

...

A dark, damp forest.

It was midday, yet not a single ray of sunlight pierced the dense canopy—the gloom was as deep as night.

Beneath the trees sat a mound of earth, three feet wide, atop which rested a water bowl, hemp string, scissors, and bamboo strips. On either side burned two thick red candles, while a wooden tray offered dates, peanuts, tea leaves, wine, and more—offerings for the unseen spirits.

Fruits and food were for the shades to enjoy.

A paper effigy stood before the altar, three feet tall, bamboo for bones, white paper for skin, dressed in a long blue robe and wearing an indigo cap with flowered patterns. It held a paper blade in its hand, rouge brightened its cheeks, but no eyes were drawn on the face.

Lu Qian stood before the altar, forming ritual gestures with his hands, stepping the sacred dance, chanting incantations under his breath.

Whoosh!

A chilly wind swept by, setting the branches to rustling.

The candle flames danced wildly, burning a ghastly green.

The temperature all around seemed to drop by a dozen degrees.

The atmosphere was eerie in the extreme, as though real ghosts were feasting upon the altar.

“Spirits of the four directions and gods of the five quarters, a touch of the golden elixir prolongs life; the Supreme Lord’s decree is bestowed upon us, passing down the method to aid the Way and perfect the true form... Your disciple solemnly pledges to accept the immortal’s law, to turn misfortune to fortune, to evade the blade of war. By decree!”

With a kitchen knife, Lu Qian slit his middle finger.

He squeezed out a drop of blood from his heart, letting it mix with ink and cinnabar. Dipping a brush into the mixture, he dotted two pupils into the paper child’s eyes.

Swish!

In an instant, more than half his true energy drained away.

A segment on the circle behind the Spirit-Folding Paper Art in his mind lit up.

The paper child quivered slightly, its eyes glowing with red light. Its once crude limbs gained detail, the joints grew supple, the fingers distinct and slender.

Crack, crack!

The paper effigy stood up, its movement uncanny in the dim night.

Suddenly, a figure clad in indigo burial robes, face pale as paper, cheeks blood-red—a “person” like that appearing would scare the wits out of any faint-hearted soul.

But Lu Qian felt no fear, for this was his own creation.

“Huff, huff, huff...”

A wild boar burst from the undergrowth.

“Good timing. Kill!”

Lu Qian pointed at the boar.

The paper child stepped forward, swayed, and its form appeared three meters away.

With two or three flickers, it was behind the wild boar.

The blade rose and fell!

Slash!

The boar’s neck split open, blood spraying as it collapsed with a wail.

Though only three feet tall, the paper child was surprisingly strong and swift, vanishing like a shadow.

Such was the result of mastering the Spirit-Folding Paper Art.

By opening the altar and inviting the spirits, he had established a connection; next time, he wouldn’t need to set up the altar anew.

Half an hour later, the pupils of the paper child faded, and it burst into flames without a spark.

“Only half an hour of endurance?” Lu Qian mused.

His true energy could sustain a paper figure three feet tall for only about half an hour.

To create larger effigies, he would need to further his mastery of the art and cultivate his internal power.

His proficiency in the nameless technique had reached fifty percent, but he was only at ten percent with the paper art.

Only seven days remained until the assessment.

Before then, he must perfect more powerful skills if he was to descend the mountain with confidence.

Seven days would surely be enough.

Six days later, deep in the woods.

A young man in blue sat cross-legged beneath a tree. His brows were clear, his features refined, his complexion rosy, his eyes half-lidded in meditation.

Beside him stood a seven-foot-high paper general, clad in golden armor, wielding a long blade, and wearing a beast-headed helmet. Though made of paper, its visage was commanding—a veritable guardian deity.

After a long while, Lu Qian opened his eyes, a gleam flashing within, his pupils shining like obsidian.

Hah!

A white mist shot from his nose and mouth like an arrow.

Lu Qian surveyed the information from the golden disk in his mind.

Nameless Technique (Minor Mastery: 16/100)
Spirit-Folding Paper Art (Minor Mastery: 10/100)

He had broken through the nameless technique; his true energy was now the thickness of a pinky finger. His physical strength far surpassed his former self—he could leap over ten feet on the spot, his power rivaling that of tigers and leopards.

Over these days, he had folded more than a dozen paper men, reaching the level of minor mastery. He could now command seven-foot-tall paper generals.

These figures were as strong as oxen, as swift as panthers, impervious to blades and spears—but vulnerable to fire and water.

After this breakthrough, there was even a slight effect of muddling an opponent’s senses.

“It’s time to descend the mountain,” Lu Qian’s gaze sharpened, a hint of killing intent flickering in his eyes.

Truly, as the saying goes: “With a blade in hand, the heart is drawn to blood.”

Now that his strength was unparalleled, he was no longer willing to slink away in defeat.

But what would he do after leaving the mountain?

He possessed a rare treasure, yet had not entered an immortal sect.

Countless nobles throughout history had pursued immortality and failed; fate could not be forced.

Would he spend his life like his grandfather, relying on paper arts?

With destiny so close at hand, Lu Qian refused to stake his hopes on some chance encounter after leaving the mountain.

Mo Liang surely possessed the next level of cultivation methods.

“What if I killed Mo Liang...” A dangerous thought flared in Lu Qian’s heart, growing hotter with each passing moment.

He remembered how, when Mo Liang had patted his shoulder, he’d glimpsed an odd pallor to the man’s skin—as though it were dusted with powder.

There was also a faint, nearly undetectable hint of decay beneath the fragrance Mo Liang wore.

Mo Liang was very old; the powder likely concealed age spots, the scent masked the odor of decay.

“This plan will work!” Lu Qian steeled himself.

“Well, well! You treacherous dog! So you’ve been hiding here!” A sharp, feminine voice rang out, as sudden as a bolt from a clear sky.

Lu Qian reacted like a startled cat, every hair standing on end, a wave of imminent danger washing over his heart.