For the sake of the jasper, Zhou Man trained with relentless focus.
The Yi Shen Jue was not just a mental cultivation method — it also contained archery techniques. Compared to texts like the Shen Zhao Jing, which emphasized inner energy flow, this one demanded harmony of the eyes, hands, and heart.
A true archer had three obstacles to overcome: unclear eyes, unsteady hands, and an unsettled heart.
So, the very next morning after returning from Xiaojian Ancient City, Zhou Man rose before dawn and entered the mountains. She sat at a high vantage point, facing the east, drawing in the faint violet energy that descended with the sunrise to cultivate her “Purple Wisdom Eyes.”
Deep in the forest, among ancient trees and tangled vines, she trained her “Heaven-Stealing Hands,” striking at drifting leaves with her palms and flicking them with her fingers until they shredded midair.
At dusk, she returned home, sat cross-legged, cleared her mind, and refined her “Acala Heart.”
Ten days passed like this — rising early, sleeping late, never once faltering.
By the morning of the eleventh day, the apricot blossoms had fallen from the mountain slopes, and the forest was thick with new green.
A single leaf on a gnarled old tree trembled, releasing a drop of dew that reflected the whole forest within its tiny world.
Before it could touch the earth, an eagle-feather arrow sliced through the air and split it apart. The dewdrop world shattered into a spray of light.
The arrow, still spinning, pierced two fallen leaves in flight before burying itself deep into the rock ahead.
The forest exploded with sound — birds took flight in panic, and a fat squirrel dropped its pinecone in terror before scurrying into a hollow.
Moments later, footsteps approached.
Zhou Man stepped out of the mist, bow in hand. She reached the rock and tugged the arrow free. The black iron shaft remained unbroken, though the hole it left behind crumbled like powdered ash.
Even she hadn’t imagined this outcome.
In just ten days, she had drawn Qi into her body, tempered her meridians with the world’s spiritual energy, opened the Eight Extraordinary Channels — and broken through from the Acquired Realm to the Innate Realm.
Her progress owed much to her memories from her previous life, but the natural sword bone she now possessed made all the difference. Its power was terrifying.
“A person may be innocent,” she murmured, “but the possession of a treasure makes them guilty.”
The more she practiced, the more she understood why the Wang family of Shendu had once sought her sword bone. If she were them, she might have done the same.
She exhaled slowly, eyes filled with conflicting emotions.
But the half-month agreement with Wei Xuan was drawing near, and according to the rumors she had gathered, the jade marrow in Jiajin Valley would ripen tonight.
She packed her bow and arrows, hid them in a hollow tree, and began descending the mountain, intending to restock before heading out again.
As she neared the riverbank, she caught sight of a familiar scene — the burly son of Butcher Sun bullying someone once again.
The victim was none other than Cheng Fangzhai.
His cloth bag lay trampled in the mud, his pale face smeared with ink. Several boys held him down, fists flying.
Zhou Man sighed inwardly.
For ten days she had kept to herself, training in the mountains, leaving early and returning late. The villagers assumed she was mourning her late mother — some whispered she’d gone half-mad like her. Only Cheng Fangzhai had ever dared to glance at her. But whenever she turned his way, he would bolt like a frightened rabbit.
Still, she couldn’t forget the small basket of loquats, the rice dumplings, and the sweet preserves she’d found at her door a few nights ago — quiet offerings she knew were from him.
And she had eaten them all.
Last time, she had intervened only because the boys’ noise annoyed her. But after accepting those gifts, things felt... different.
Zhou Man rubbed her temple. Should she interfere or not?
The butcher’s son stomped on Cheng Fangzhai’s head, shouting, “You dare hide from us again? Let’s see who saves you this time!”
Cheng Fangzhai said nothing, jaw tight.
Zhou Man cleared her throat under a nearby apricot tree — just a light cough.
The boys froze. One turned, saw her, and screamed, “Zhou Man! Zhou Man’s here again!”
In an instant, they scattered like startled birds. The butcher’s son went pale, remembering her knife, remembering the rumors. He fled faster than the rest.
Zhou Man blinked. “...”
Cheng Fangzhai slowly lifted his head, dazed. When he saw her, relief flickered in his eyes, followed by shyness. He got up, gathered his muddy books, and looked at her with silent gratitude.
She ignored it and turned away. His gaze dimmed.
Zhou Man walked a few steps before pausing. His small, stubborn figure and the ruined books tugged at something in her chest.
When she turned back, he panicked, stammering, “I—I’ll go cry somewhere else.”
Zhou Man: “...”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh.
“Hey,” she called out finally.
Cheng Fangzhai froze.
“Why don’t you fight back?” she asked.
He replied honestly, “Because I can’t beat them.”
Zhou Man raised an eyebrow. “If you can’t beat them, that’s exactly why you should fight.”
He looked confused. “The sages said—‘Do not do to others what you do not wish done to yourself. Compassion is the beginning of benevolence—’”
“Bullshit sages,” Zhou Man cut in flatly.
Cheng Fangzhai’s eyes widened in horror. No one had ever spoken so crudely of the classics before.
Zhou Man smirked, pulled the first volume of Shen Zhao Jing from her sleeve, rolled it in her palm, and tapped it against her hand. “How many characters do you know?”
“I’ve learned the Thousand Character Classic, read the Three Hundred Poems, and just started the Four Books...” he said hesitantly.
“So you’re not entirely useless.” She muttered, “Didn’t think Master Cheng was so serious about teaching.”
Master Cheng, the only teacher in their village, had always refused to teach girls. Zhou Man had once tried — even paid tuition — but he’d turned her away. In the end, her mother had taught her to read.
That act of defiance was how she’d met Cheng Fangzhai — and how she’d earned Master Cheng’s lifelong fury.
Zhou Man tossed the rolled-up book toward him. “Take it.”
He barely caught it, startled. The title read Shen Zhao Jing — Volume One.
“Take a look,” Zhou Man said casually, turning to leave.
Cheng Fangzhai stood frozen, clutching the book with both hands, eyes full of confusion and awe.
Zhou Man didn’t see anything wrong with casually giving away the Shenzhao Jing—one of the Wang family’s three great martial skills. With her hands tucked leisurely behind her back, she strolled home and fell asleep, not waking until the sun was already high.
In recent days, thanks to her practice of the Yi Shen Jue technique, her spiritual energy had grown stronger, and even the wound on her severed finger had healed remarkably fast. Still, she wrapped it carefully in a strip of black cloth so no one would see it.
For easier movement at night, she chose a dark navy robe from her chest, tied the cuffs tightly, and draped another piece of black cloth as a makeshift cloak. Once prepared, she stepped out quietly into the night.
Having reached the Xiantian realm, her movements were as light as a swallow’s. In a few swift leaps, she cleared the village, scaling the slope to retrieve the bow and arrows she had hidden earlier. Slinging them across her back, she moved westward toward the mountains beneath the cold, silver moon.
The Shu Mountains loomed ahead, tall and veiled in ancient forest. The distant cries of birds echoed through the woods, their mournful notes deepening the chill of the moonlit night.
Down the winding road rolled a luxurious carriage.
Inside sat Jin Buhuan, casually leaning against the shaft while idly flicking open his gold-dusted Sichuan fan. Gone was the blood-stained garb from Nipan Street. Now, he wore a white robe embroidered in gold, with a sword, an old brush, and an abacus hanging from his belt—like an arrogant scholar with no true learning.
Behind the carriage trailed a dozen monks, while beside it rode a young man in a purple robe on a dark red horse, a short sword and bow slung at his side.
Jin Buhuan watched him for a while, then grinned. “Chen Si,” he called.
The purple-robed youth turned back, impatient. “What is it?”
Fanning himself lazily, Jin Buhuan gestured toward the men following them. “Jasper may not be rare, but even lesser cultivators prize it. You think this small escort is enough?”
Chen Si’s tone was curt. “I’ve already said the jasper’s for the young lady’s flower garden. Who dares take it from the Song family?”
Jin Buhuan’s smile deepened. You’ve clearly never met real bandits, he thought.
But since Chen Si had been sent by Song Yuanye—the Song family’s young master—to “assist” him, and was practically a brother to Song Lanzhen, even his arrogance carried weight.
After all, even a dog of the Song family held a higher place than Jin Buhuan.
A bitter thought crossed his mind, but he didn’t voice it. Instead, he chuckled. “With Brother Chen around, I’m at ease. By the way, those wounds from last time—healed, I hope?”
He meant the ambush by Sikong Yun’s men.
Chen Si, though powerful and already in the late Xiantian stage, had been injured during that battle. He instinctively touched his left ribs, his expression tightening. “It’s nothing,” he said coldly.
Jin Buhuan snorted inwardly and reclined in his carriage, reaching for a handful of roasted peanuts served on a plate of East China Sea warm jade. He shelled them lazily, one by one.
The road fell silent again—save for the clatter of hooves and wheels, and the crisp sound of peanuts cracking inside the carriage.
No one noticed the figure crouched in the shadows.
Zhou Man was perched within the thick branches of an old locust tree. Her black cloak melted into the darkness, only her eyes faintly glowing with violet light.
She activated her Purple Wisdom Eyes and peered downward.
The curtain of the carriage swayed gently, offering her a glimpse inside.
Her brow twitched. Who in their right mind uses priceless East Sea jade as a peanut dish?
Jin Buhuan’s vulgarity was undeniable—yet so peculiar, so unabashedly unique, that she couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of disbelief and amusement.
Shaking it off, she refocused and counted the men below.
Including Jin Buhuan and Chen Si, there were sixteen in total.
Her face stiffened. She had only fifteen arrows—even counting the three engraved with sunken silver.
How am I supposed to deal with that?
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