Chapter 381: Piercing the Dantian

Zhang Xiaohua strolled slowly into a dimly lit alley nearby, glancing around as if he were a young man sneaking off to relieve himself.

But when he reached the darkness, as usual, he twisted his body—and in a flash, vanished without a trace. The quiet alley seemed as though no one had ever set foot there.

After reappearing elsewhere, Zhang Xiaohua wasted no time. With a light leap, he landed atop a rooftop, moving swiftly as if his feet never touched the ground—well, to be precise, they didn’t touch the ground at all, only the rooftops.

Speaking of Zhang Xiaohua’s divine sense, it was certainly effective, but it had its flaws. It was like standing atop a high place and looking down over Lu Town: everything was visible, but all equally clear, with no sense of priority or importance. Just now, after hearing Madam Wu’s tale, Zhang Xiaohua had unleashed his divine sense to search, but Lu Town was vast. Though his divine sense could barely cover it, if the man in black hadn’t hurried across the rooftops, Zhang Xiaohua might not have been able to track him at all.

By now, after some delay, the man in black had already fled far away, seemingly beyond the reach of Zhang Xiaohua’s divine sense. Zhang Xiaohua dared not be careless—a seven-year-old girl was at the tender age of blossoming, and if anything happened to her, her life would be ruined.

As he chased in the direction the black-clad man had gone, exerting himself to the utmost, Zhang Xiaohua carefully recalled the records on divine sense from the “Carefree Heart Sutra”, hoping to find some technique to overcome the shortcomings of his own crude usage of his divine sense.

Half a cup of tea’s time passed, but Zhang Xiaohua found no answers in the “Carefree Heart Sutra.” It was merely a foundational cultivation manual, teaching only how to draw qi into the body and temper true qi. As for other mystical abilities, it offered only precautions, without a single word on technique. Presumably, the use of divine sense was not governed by any unified standard—perhaps every sect had its own secret methods, which was why the Heart Sutra contained no such records.

Just as Zhang Xiaohua was pondering this, his divine sense detected a shadow leaping out from another location, also clutching something dark under its arm, and fleeing in another direction.

Zhang Xiaohua was startled, but immediately understood. No wonder he hadn’t discovered anything after chasing all this way—he had thought he’d simply misjudged, failing to notice the black-clad man’s extraordinary mastery of lightness skill. It turned out this fellow was actually cunning, hiding himself for a moment before changing direction to avoid being tracked.

Fortunately, this man’s patience wasn’t enough. If he had waited until Zhang Xiaohua had chased out of the city before reappearing, Zhang Xiaohua would have had no way to explain himself and would have lost face before his father for nothing.

Thinking of this, Zhang Xiaohua felt a flicker of anger. Without any visible movement, his figure twisted in midair and instantly changed direction, gliding toward the man like a ghost.

Perhaps Zhang Xiaohua was extremely afraid of death, or perhaps he was simply gifted in the art of lightness skill—whatever the reason, his levitation and evasion techniques improved rapidly every so often. Now, as he deliberately exerted himself, his figure in the night grew almost indistinct; to say he moved as fast as the wind would not be an exaggeration.

Though the black-clad man was cautious and fled with all his might, Zhang Xiaohua had no intention of playing a long game. So, in less than a quarter of an hour, he had already caught up to the man. Since Zhang Xiaohua was using his levitation technique, his toes barely touched the rooftops, so the black-clad man, even with his ears keenly attuned, heard nothing unusual.

It wasn’t until Zhang Xiaohua drew close in the final moment that the black-clad man seemed to sense danger and tried to turn around. But how could Zhang Xiaohua let him see his face? He reached out with his left hand, and, as easily as grabbing a chick, seized the man by the nape of his neck. By his old habits, just a slight squeeze would have snapped the man’s neck. But as Zhang Xiaohua was about to exert force, for some reason, he suddenly recalled the little kitten lying under the carriage in the snow, its four legs twitching. Zhang Xiaohua sighed inwardly, “Who knows where this black-clad man comes from, or whether his hands are stained with blood? Ah, forget it—let the authorities worry about this. Why should I trouble myself with such matters for no reason?”

So, Zhang Xiaohua’s grip loosened just a bit, and the black-clad man immediately fainted. Not daring to be careless, Zhang Xiaohua quickly reached out with his right hand to catch the object about to fall from under the man’s arm—a burlap sack.

Zhang Xiaohua looked around, chose a deserted rooftop, and landed. Bathed in the bright moonlight, he untied the burlap sack. From inside emerged a delicate, pretty little girl, her eyes tightly shut but her breathing steady—clearly, she had either been drugged or had her acupoints sealed by the black-clad man. Zhang Xiaohua frowned; acupoint sealing was a martial technique he’d only ever experienced as a victim, never having cultivated it himself, so he dared not act recklessly. If she’d been fed some drug, he would be even more helpless. After some thought, he decided it was best to leave such matters to the experts—his only job was to return the child safely.

With this decided, Zhang Xiaohua picked up each of them, just as he was about to leave, a new thought struck him.

“This black-clad man, committing such vile deeds in the dead of night, is certainly no decent person. Even if I don’t know whether he deserves death, I can’t just let him go scot-free. If I hand him over to the authorities, with their corruption, he’ll probably get off with a mere fine—what a bargain for him.”

Suddenly, Zhang Xiaohua recalled how disciples of the Piaomiao Sect had their dantians destroyed and their martial arts crippled.

“I don’t have any inner force, but I do have true qi. While I’ve never trained in striking the lower dantian, I know where it’s located. Since I’ve got this scoundrel in hand, I might as well use him for practice—waste not, want not.”

Smiling, Zhang Xiaohua set the sack down, extended his forefinger, and pressed it against the black-clad man’s lower dantian. The moment his finger touched skin, a surge of true qi shot forth, piercing straight into the dantian acupoint. The inner force the black-clad man had painstakingly cultivated instantly dissipated as his dantian was destroyed.

Zhang Xiaohua didn’t rush to withdraw his true qi. Instead, after shattering the man’s dantian, he let his qi swirl there for a moment, then sent it coursing through the man’s meridians before finally drawing it back into himself.

Sitting in the moonlight, Zhang Xiaohua scratched his chin, pondering to himself: “The lower dantian is where martial artists store their inner force—it’s like a warehouse. Once the wall is broken, everything inside leaks out, and no matter how hard you train, you can’t store any more inner force. That’s what it means to have your martial arts crippled. The meridians of the immortal and martial paths are the same; it’s just that true qi and inner force are different—one is the energy of heaven and earth, the other is cultivated from within. The founder of martial arts must have been a true genius to come up with such an incredible method.”

“What a pity. In the immortal path, whether it’s drawing qi into the body or tempering the meridians, even the middle dantian I’ve cultivated is already as solid as an iron wall—how could it be so easily pierced by someone’s true qi? Moreover, since the martial path doesn’t temper the meridians, natural talent is most important for martial artists. This talent isn’t just comprehension; more crucially, it’s the breadth of the meridians within the body. Given equal comprehension, those with wider meridians and larger dantian capacity will certainly have a brighter future. This simply can’t compare to the immortal path’s techniques, which allow for continual tempering and expansion of the meridians, offering limitless room for advancement.”

In truth, Zhang Xiaohua was still underestimating the martial path. No matter what, martial arts are derived from the immortal path—how could their founders not understand these principles? It’s just that martial techniques differ in quality depending on their creators, and since martial arts have existed for thousands of years, any profound internal skill will inevitably develop various branches, each with its own unique features. Thus, by Zhang Xiaohua’s era, advanced techniques that temper the meridians have become rare, but it’s not as he imagined—that martial arts techniques have no effect on tempering the meridians at all.

Having understood the principle of crippling one’s cultivation by piercing the dantian, Zhang Xiaohua chuckled to himself. Whoever thought up such a vicious method was truly a genius in their own right. Once the dantian is destroyed by internal force, there’s no way to repair it—truly a bloodless form of murder, even more sinister than slitting someone’s throat with a sword.

With that, Zhang Xiaohua glanced at the sky—dawn was approaching, and his father and the others were surely growing anxious. He picked up the burlap sack, used his levitation technique, and hurried back. Before long, he arrived at a corner of the square.

At this moment, the drums and gongs in the square still thundered, and the dragon and lion dances continued unabated. Outside the alley where Madam Wu had run out earlier, a crowd had gathered, including two yamen runners holding lanterns, listening impatiently as Madam Wu sobbed and recounted her tale. Beside her, a rather down-and-out middle-aged scholar squatted, holding his head, sighing, and occasionally slapping himself while muttering under his breath.

Meanwhile, Zhang Xiaohua’s father and his group stood nearby, watching from a distance, scanning the area as if searching for any sign of him.

Seeing this, Zhang Xiaohua tightened his grip with his left hand and hurled the black-clad man toward the crowd. His right hand was not idle either; following the trajectory of the black-clad man, he gently tossed the burlap sack after him.

The two yamen runners, who had been listening impatiently, suddenly found their vision blocked as a dark object landed with a “thud” right in front of them. Immediately after, another dark object followed, landing squarely on top of the first.

Looking closely, they saw that the object on top was an open burlap sack, while beneath it lay a masked man dressed in black.

The faces of the two yamen runners changed drastically. They immediately tossed their lanterns aside, drew their broadswords from their waists with trembling hands, and shouted loudly, “Who… Who’s there…?”

If they hadn’t shouted, it would have been better, but as soon as they did, their fear was plain for all to hear.