Chapter Forty-Five: Only Those with Openings May Attain the Way

A fish-dragon with golden scales and a tuft of grass growing on its head leapt and writhed energetically on the ground. The fish-dragon grass burrowed into the earth once again, only to be seized by Lu Qian. It snapped open its mouth, bristling with sharp teeth, and turned to bite him. An overwhelming aura erupted from the fish-dragon grass, freezing Lu Qian in place, leaving him unable to move. In his mind-sea, the flood dragon roared, and the bindings on Lu Qian instantly dissolved.

“Well now, you’re almost a flood dragon already,” Lu Qian marveled inwardly.

He noticed the grass on the creature’s head was on the verge of falling off. With every passing year, the grass withers and flourishes; if it survives nine years, it becomes fish-dragon grass. After enduring another ninety-nine years, the grass atop its head will be shed, and it will transform into a true fish-dragon—a living, conscious being, a kind of natural spirit.

Among animals, trees, and grasses, the difficulty of attaining sentience increases in that order. In ancient times, sages held this theory: only those with apertures can achieve the Way. Humans possess the most complete set of apertures, so it’s comparatively easier for them to embark on cultivation. Animals have some apertures, trees require great age, but for grasses, shedding their mundane nature is exceedingly arduous—even this fish-dragon grass, with nearly a century of cultivation, was barely at the threshold.

Without sufficient transformation, it could never unleash its true power. Only after becoming a fish-dragon would it gain the ability to summon wind and rain. By then, capturing it would demand a heavy price, considering its hundred years of cultivation. Furthermore, the fish-dragon ranked forty-ninth on the list of the Seventy-Two Fiendish Beasts.

Sensing danger, the fish-dragon grass struggled desperately in his hand, thrashing so violently that blood oozed from its body, a pitiful sight. Its large golden eyes gleamed with a plea for life, stirring compassion in anyone who saw it. Cultivation was truly harsh for grasses—a hundred years of effort could be lost in an instant. If not for the true intent of the flood dragon within him, Lu Qian would never have caught such a creature. To reach this stage of transformation was proof of extraordinary fortune; in time, it might become a fish-dragon, a flood dragon, or even a true dragon.

Suddenly, inspiration struck Lu Qian. Before descending the mountain, he had sought a rare and remarkable beast to complete his body-forging technique. But all he found were either flawed or unimpressive creatures, their bloodlines lacking potential.

Better to remain human than to cultivate with an inferior bloodline. Yet this half-formed fish-dragon was a prime specimen. Its transformation was incomplete, not quite a true fish-dragon, with bloodline quality just brushing the threshold of the Fiendish Beasts ranking. The fish-dragon grass’s advantage lay in its limitless potential—it would continue to evolve as long as resources sufficed. Its current abilities looked meager, but its future prospects were immense. With luck, its upper limit could reach the ranks of the Thirty-Six Celestial Beasts.

At this thought, Lu Qian could hardly contain his excitement. He longed to absorb the fish-dragon grass’s bloodline essence and complete the infusion. But as he pondered, a chill doused his ardor.

Infusing one’s body with a new bloodline was fraught with mortal peril—nine deaths out of ten. Even Daoists of illustrious lineage and abundant resources failed seven or eight times out of ten; the survivors often bore lasting afflictions. Were it otherwise, the world would be full of cultivators with mighty bloodlines.

Jin Yang had prepared for decades, using a ten-thousand-year-old Ghost-Faced Flower and the most supreme formation to attempt his infusion.

“Of course, I have an advantage too,” Lu Qian mused. “The fire jujube is a supreme tonic, able to sustain the enormous consumption of a bloodline infusion.” However, using the fire jujube for this would mean it was no longer available to aid his spiritual breakthrough. That path would have to wait. Yet, the advantage was clear: he would gain a body-forging technique, supplemented by the ever-purifying pitch-black true water. By then, his physical strength would be his greatest asset—enemies would only realize this as they were shattered by a single punch.

“I’ll return to my cave and prepare thoroughly,” Lu Qian resolved.

...

“Ah! Lu Qian, I’ll kill your whole family!” In a secret chamber, Li Lin lay on a bed, wailing in agony, his body covered in wounds. One of his arms was broken, his face disfigured by poison, and not a single part of him remained unscathed.

His uncle stood at his side, his face dark as ink, anger simmering in his heart. He was furious that Li Lin had ignored his advice and sought revenge on the Daoist. Even more infuriating was that, instead of success, he had been outmaneuvered and beaten to such a state. In the end, Li Lin had emerged victorious, annihilating his foes, but only after suffering grievously.

Yet, with their dying breath, his enemies revealed that everything had been a misunderstanding. Both parties had been after the same target.

“Haha, Brother Li Lin, what have you gotten yourself into?” Pu An’s hearty laughter echoed from outside the door.

“You make light of my plight, Young Master Pu,” Li Mingyou replied respectfully. Even though Pu An held a similar position, his father was one of the Eight Great Stewards, wielding immense power.

“Brother Li, I told you before, Lu Qian is no pushover, but young Li Lin wouldn’t believe me.” Pu An bore no real grudge against Lu Qian. His earlier provocation was only a favor to Li Lin. He hadn’t given the matter much thought, and was merely dropping by out of idle curiosity.

“Still, you’d best not make any big moves lately. The higher-ups are watching closely,” Pu An advised.

“Are you talking about the Netherworld?” Li Mingyou’s pupils contracted.

“Exactly. The Netherworld opens every sixty years. The sect must preserve its strength—no internal conflicts are permitted during this period,” Pu An said, sipping his tea with practiced leisure.

“It’s just a minor Daoist. If we proceed discreetly, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Li Mingyou replied, a hint of malice flickering in his heart. Li Lin’s injuries would require a lengthy recovery, possibly delaying their plans. He yearned to teach Lu Qian a harsh lesson, but the timing was off.

“Ordinary Daoists are no issue, but Lu Qian is Li Du’s disciple. Go too far, and you’ll draw attention from above.”

“Does Li Du really have the powerful backing people say?” Li Mingyou asked, skeptical. He’d heard the rumors, but seeing Li Du’s current state, he’d dismissed them as exaggerations.

“Yes and no,” Pu An replied mysteriously. “When I returned home, my father told me a shocking secret…”

The atmosphere grew tense; even the suffering Li Lin strained to listen.

“Li Du was once a disciple of the ‘Miao’ generation at the Temple of Profound Communion, a rank higher than my father’s ‘Dian’ generation,” Pu An revealed.

The generations of the Profound Communion Temple were ranked Tong, Ming, Miao, Dian—each more profound than the last. Upon hearing Li Du’s exalted standing, both men were taken aback.

“You must think Li Du was demoted because of poor talent, unable to advance in his cultivation,” Pu An continued.

“Wasn’t that the case?” Li Mingyou interjected. If Li Du were truly gifted, he should at least be one of the Eight Great Stewards by now.

“Wrong! Li Du’s talent was extraordinary. He and his wife joined the sect together, deeply in love and admired by all—a golden couple, both exceptionally gifted. They were celebrated as the Twin Walls of Profound Communion. But later on…”