CHAPTER 11
For nearly a year afterward, Yang Feng became a strange sight within the Outer Sect.
He accepted only the kind of missions no one bothered to glance at.
He did not touch high-tier missions.
Did not compete.
Did not display his abilities.
Every two or three days, he went down the mountain once.
Finished the task, returned.
Exchanged all contribution points for time within the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower.
When the time ended, he went down the mountain again.
Then back into the Tower.
And so it continued.
Over and over.
No one understood what he was doing.
Within the sect, many mocked him.
“Coward.”
“Trash.”
“No ambition.”
He never used contribution points to:
exchange for body-tempering resources,
exchange for artifacts,
exchange for martial techniques or sword arts,
enter the Treasure Pavilion,
or the Scripture Pavilion.
Everything went into the Ninefold Tower.
But during those silent shichen within, he began paying attention to a certain current of Qi.
At first, it was only a thread.
After several periods of secluded cultivation, he realized it was not accidental.
Each time his Spiritual Qi was pressed nearly to depletion,
each time his meridians grew fatigued from excessive circulation,
that current became slightly clearer.
It did not replace Spiritual Qi.
Did not compete for pathways.
It simply slipped quietly into the spaces Spiritual Qi could not reach, as though it existed to fill those gaps.
Yang Feng once tried separating it from the circulation flow.
It could not be done.
It clung deeply, like a natural part of his body.
He tried guiding it along the meridians.
It moved slower than Spiritual Qi, heavier than Spiritual Qi — yet strangely stable.
Not violent.
Not resistant.
It merely flowed silently according to his intent.
He did not know what to call it.
It was not like the Spiritual Qi of heaven and earth.
Not like any Qi a cultivator normally generated through cultivation.
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Nor did it bear signs of any foreign force.
In the end, he gave it a simple name:
Not because he understood its essence.
But because he felt that this current belonged to his own origin — not borrowed from spirit veins, not dependent on circumstance, and most importantly… it had never run dry.
Yang Feng once asked fellow disciples about that strange Qi.
But the answers he received were vague.
Some said it was merely impure Qi produced during cultivation.
Some said they had never seen such a thing appear within their own meridians.
Some even said Yang Feng was speaking nonsense.
After that,
he stopped mentioning it to anyone.
Did not boast.
Did not test it before others.
He merely memorized that sensation quietly, little by little, with each breath within the Ninefold Tower.
And so a year passed…
Today, for the first time, Yang Feng stepped into the Treasure Pavilion.
The Treasure Pavilion stood on the eastern side of Heavenly Sword Mountain, backed against a sheer cliff as though cleaved across in ancient times by a primordial blade.
Three stories high, dark green tiles, no hanging bells, no lanterns, no display of ostentation.
Yet merely standing before it, one could sense an ancient weight — as though it had existed longer than the sect itself.
The doors were not locked.
No guards.
Only a stone stele beside the entrance, carved with three characters:
Treasure Pavilion.
Yang Feng walked calmly to the exchange counter.
The steward glanced at him.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you.”
“New disciple?”
“Yes,” Yang Feng replied. “I’ve come to exchange for an elixir.”
The steward smiled faintly.
“For nearly a year you have never set foot here.”
“Could it be… you’re that cultivation maniac Yang Feng?”
Yang Feng paused.
“Senior knows me?”
“How could I not,” the steward laughed loudly.
“You’re quite famous.”
“Others are still in early Qi Refinement… but you…”
He examined him carefully, then laughed again.
“Great Perfection of Qi Refinement.”
“…”
“Let me guess… you wish to exchange for a Mid-Grade Foundation Elixir?”
Yang Feng shook his head.
“No.”
“I wish to ask…”
“Does the Treasure Pavilion have a Low-Grade Foundation Elixir
The air froze.
“…What did you say?”
“A Low-Grade Foundation Elixir,” Yang Feng repeated calmly.
“Do you have some rogue cultivator friend seeking to prolong lifespan?” the steward narrowed his eyes.
“…Yes.”
The steward snorted coldly.
“Our sect does not stock such trash.”
“If you truly need it, go to the market town below the mountain. A few hundred spirit stones will suffice.”
Yang Feng lowered his head.
“Many thanks, Senior.”
He turned and left.
The steward remained where he stood, expression darkening.
“…This one.”
“…Don’t tell me he intends…”
“He’s lost his mind.”
Xiang’an Town was one of the three major towns surrounding Heavenly Sword Sect.
Backed by mountains, facing the river, its market thrived from dawn until dusk; Spiritual Qi and mortal life intertwined, forming a distinct atmosphere found only near sect territories.
Cultivators and mortals came and went without cease.
Vendors of spirit herbs sat beside blacksmith stalls.
Shouts of trade mingled with the clash of artifacts.
The scent of medicine, wood, and spirit liquid drifted through the wind.
Each time Yang Feng descended the mountain for missions, he passed through this town, but mostly only rested briefly before leaving.
Today was different.
Today, he descended not for a mission.
Yang Feng walked once around the marketplace, his gaze sweeping across shops and roadside stalls.
Finally, he stopped before a large wooden sign hanging high:
LIAN AN ALCHEMY HALL
He stepped inside.
A faint medicinal fragrance lingered within; wooden shelves displayed elixir boxes, spirit herbs, jade bottles. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter, smiling with practiced ease upon seeing him.
“Greetings, Immortal,” the shopkeeper cupped his hands. “What elixir does honored sir seek?”
Yang Feng did not circle around the matter.
“Do you sell…”
“A Low-Grade Foundation Elixir?”
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