Chapter Twenty-Two: The Journey of Cultivation

Qingxia’s features had long since been contorted by pain and terror. She bit down on her own teeth, not daring to utter another word. Even though she knew her death was certain, that she had not a shred of hope left, no one could calmly face their end. In those last fleeting moments, she still prayed for a miracle, still wished not to bow to a destiny of inevitable death. The boundless fear had already buried her courage.

Xia Yan strolled languidly to the seat of the presider and continued, “Afterward, our Human District One apprehended Xibens, who carried out the assassination.” He spread his hands. “You all are aware that, absent enmity, such an assassination contravenes the laws of the Earth Federation. I am neither wanted by the Angelic race, nor am I Xibens’s mortal enemy. For him to attempt my life must mean he was acting on the hidden orders of some high-ranking Angelic.”

The assembly murmured among themselves, but they weren’t surprised. This was an unspoken rule of sorts: to protect their own prodigies, all races followed the Federation’s explicit law—without personal vendetta, an assault on such a talent would be tried, and the guilty executed.

“That concludes the matter,” Xia Yan said slowly. “Following judgment, these are our conclusions: Qingxia, as the mastermind, is guilty and will be executed. Xibens, the assassin, is likewise guilty and will be executed. He Changlou, deceived by Qingxia’s secondary ability, is not guilty to the point of death. His tendons have been severed, his strength vastly diminished—he can no longer serve as a Guardian. His position is revoked, and he is forever forbidden from employing his abilities.”

“As for this judgment, I shall carry out their executions here and now.” Xia Yan’s voice was implacable.

Qingxia was on the verge of madness. Watching Xia Yan approach, terror overwhelmed her to the point of losing control of her own body. She was already weakened nearly unto death from her severed arm, blood still endlessly flowing.

“No, Xia Yan, you devil! You can’t kill me, no—”

With a blood-curdling scream, Xia Yan crushed Qingxia’s head underfoot and brought his blade down.

A final, desperate cry—and then silence. Only a headless corpse remained upright before all.

Xia Yan turned to Xibens. The man’s complexion was still pallid, likely from recent injuries and blood loss. There was little hatred in his eyes, only the resignation of one who knows the victor writes history.

Lost was lost.

“Xia Yan, I never thought I’d die by your hand. That I, Xibens, would be killed by a mere teenager of the human race!” he gritted out, and in the next instant, his head was severed.

Xia Yan’s gaze swept across the hall. He knew full well that, in passing this judgment, he had earned the hatred of certain members of the Angelic race. At that moment, few dared meet his eyes; all turned away.

To the mentors and administrative leaders present, this human was simply too terrifying. He killed without hesitation, wielded overwhelming power, and acted with the recklessness of a madman. Though only sixteen, in their eyes he was more frightening than even the institution’s director or the captain of the Guardians.

If once Xia Yan had not been well-known in the Ninth District, now everything was different. After this incident, nearly all the elite ability users of the district would recognize him. If, after all that, they still couldn’t remember this human prodigy, then truly they were blind.

Thus the meeting ended. Nearly three months passed.

In these months, due to the repercussions of the previous event, Gong Kui did not assign Xia Yan to team missions, but let him hunt mutant species alone—and not too frequently at that.

The rest of the time, Xia Yan remained in the Lan family compound, training under his master, Lan Qing. Now, Lan Qing taught him the martial arts of the Thousand Sects School. From learning one discipline a day at first, Xia Yan now trained in two each day. Time was short, so Lan Qing quickened the pace.

Xia Yan’s rate of progress grew ever faster, his mastery of ancient martial techniques ever deeper. He did not dare slacken for even a moment—every day was spent in diligent practice, never idling. He knew that even a slight delay would render his chances of survival vanishingly small.

He had not forgotten: in three months, he was to face the Demon race and duel the former director Ai You. The gulf in power between them remained; he had to grow ever stronger. It was clear—if he were merely Ai You’s equal, he would have no hope of survival. Only by surpassing Ai You by a considerable margin would he grasp even the faintest chance.

Just a faint chance—nothing more.

That morning, Xia Yan was practicing alone.

“Xia Yan!” Lan Xin jogged over, smiling as she looked at him.

“Miss Lan Xin, what brings you here?” Xia Yan asked.

“Grandfather sent me,” Lan Xin replied with a laugh. “As for the reason—let’s spar and see how much you’ve improved these past three months!”

“Very well, I was hoping for a challenge,” Xia Yan agreed.

In the training hall of the Lan family, both changed into practice uniforms.

“I’ll use a wooden sword,” Lan Xin said, taking one from the rack and smiling at Xia Yan. “Same rules as always—physical strength limited to the human norm.”

“I won’t use a weapon at the start,” Xia Yan replied. “But during the fight, I may take one from the rack.”

“Agreed. Xia Yan, prepare yourself!”

She thrust her sword toward him. Xia Yan’s hands moved in a flowing, circular style—the posture of the Eight Trigrams.

He focused on defense, neutralizing Lan Xin’s attacks and returning her sword’s force again and again. Their exchange flowed through seven or eight cycles of attack and defense.

“Not bad,” Lan Xin thought, “Your unarmed skills are even better than mine. But my swordsmanship is deep indeed.”

Her blade swept out, and a flurry of sword-light danced before him.

Xia Yan leapt into the air, rolled, and landed at the weapon rack, seizing a wooden sword.

Sword against sword.

Lan Xin’s swordsmanship was swift and precise; Xia Yan’s was agile and ever-changing, defending against her onslaught.

Move for move, they went ten rounds.

“That Floating Crossing technique of yours is well executed,” Lan Xin nodded, shifting her sword to break through Xia Yan’s offense.

Gritting his teeth, Xia Yan abandoned his sword, retreated swiftly, and grabbed a wooden spear from the rack.

He shook the spear, launching an attack like a dragon emerging from the sea—a move from the “Wishful Spear” school called “Soaring Dragon.”

Yet even this move was subtly changed, integrating the essence of other techniques—clearly superior to its original form.

Xia Yan’s spear-work was bold and grand, exuding an air of majesty, while Lan Xin’s sword became cunning and incisive, probing every gap in his defense.

“Your spear technique is remarkable, you truly excel in everything, but your training time is short—you’re not my equal yet,” Lan Xin laughed, thrusting her sword into an opening and striking the spear from his grasp.

Without hesitation, Xia Yan retreated once more, took up a wooden staff, and continued.

His staff was flawless, like an impenetrable wall.

“The Great Buddha Staff Technique,” Lan Xin observed, adjusting her sword-play.

They dueled for over ten minutes, cycling through dozens of techniques and seven or eight weapons, but in the end Xia Yan was brought down, Lan Xin’s sword pointed at his throat.

Throughout the bout, Xia Yan realized that Lan Xin had held back; otherwise, he wouldn’t have lasted so long. Her martial mastery far surpassed Tang Yun’s, and he himself was still some distance from Tang Yun’s level.

“Xia Yan, your skills have just reached the Federation’s certified ‘Level,’ though only barely,” Lan Xin said with a smile, helping him up. “Congratulations. Now, even against Tang Yun, you’d hardly be outmatched.”

Tang Yun, heir to an ancient martial tradition, had trained since childhood for many years, never once slackening. Xia Yan, though fortunate to have an excellent master, had trained in these ancient arts for less than a year, making his progress truly rare.

“I’ve just been lucky that Master is willing to teach me,” Xia Yan replied. “Miss Lan Xin, did Master send you to test me?”

“That’s right. Grandfather thought you were about ready to reach this level, so he had me come,” Lan Xin said. “By the way, Xia Yan, our team will soon welcome new members. After months of solitary training, it’s time for you to join us on missions again.”

“Good, the storm has passed for a while—I’m ready to rejoin the team,” Xia Yan replied with a smile.

Lan Xin came and went quickly, offering a few words of advice before leaving.

Xia Yan resumed his training. Though he had barely reached the Federation’s certified level, this was only the beginning; he was still far from the higher echelons.

But that afternoon, he received an urgent communication from Gong Kui.

It was a special emergency—a Guardian of the Winged Race was under attack from a Level 4 mutant in the wilds near Baihui City.

Gong Kui asked if he was willing to assist.

For Xia Yan, the question was complex.

After all, the person in need was not human, but a member of the Winged Race.

Of course, a Level 4 mutant was stronger than even a veteran Guardian. If he accepted, Xia Yan would be risking his life.

But it was also a chance to test what he had gained in these three months…