Chapter 26: Old Images Stir Once More
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation
Qin Ming blinked, and suddenly he was a small child again, wearing old, ragged clothes. As his mind drifted through this memory, his attention turned to a slender, ancient booklet. Its cover was made of some kind of beast hide—probably added later to protect it. The cover was worn and had turned dark with age, meant to shield the delicate silk pages inside.
Carefully, Qin Ming opened it. On the very first page, he saw notes about a technique called the “Wild Technique.” He knew it all too well. In his mind’s ear, he could almost hear a voice gently reading out those cramped, tiny words.
Then that rough, calloused hand he remembered flipped to the second page. The writing was still small, but now there were new additions—unusual marks and strange symbols. Qin Ming took them all in, as though his own past self stood beside him, guiding him through these old memories. With his second awakening, both his body and mind had grown stronger. It felt as if dust had been brushed off a half-forgotten painting, making the old scenes in his mind sharp and bright again.
Half awake and half asleep, Qin Ming tried to move on to the third page, but the large hand in his memory wouldn’t turn it. He glanced again at the silk booklet. Its pages were worn and slightly yellowed, holding a quiet, ancient grace. It wasn’t very thick—maybe twenty pages at most.
After a few tries, he gave up on the third page and focused on the younger version of himself—the scrawny boy dressed in patched-up clothes and shoes full of holes. Even now, as Qin Ming drifted in that dreamy space, he could feel what it was like to be that poor child. A sad sigh escaped his lips. Later on, even as a teenager, he’d lived through bitter winters, hunger, and injuries. Two years ago, when he was sick near Silver Vine Town, kind villagers from Twin Trees had taken him in.
“Fourteen years old…” Qin Ming muttered, reaching up to touch the back of his head. Once, there had been a bad wound there. Now, after his first awakening, the scar had vanished. He felt nothing but smooth skin where blood had once run warm and red.
“The kid I was, and that fourteen-year-old me… they’re like two snapshots of my life, drifting far apart,” he said softly. “Those faces from the past still show up in my dreams, even if they’re a bit blurry.” He stared out into the dark night fading toward dawn. Back then, at fourteen, he had been forced to grow up too fast. Life had never been gentle with him.
Stepping outside into the chilly courtyard, he breathed in the frosty air and let his mind wander back to those early memories. The first two pages of the silk book were alive inside his head.
He began to practice the moves. They were strange—methods he’d never tried before. He worked through the steps carefully, one by one, testing each movement until he finally stopped. His body was still warm, though he no longer glowed from within, blending in almost naturally with his surroundings.
“That big, rough hand…” Qin Ming thought. Its sleeve had been frayed, and the palm was tough and calloused. The owner of that hand must have lived a life even poorer than the child he once was. Now, he was much stronger, and his life had changed. But back then, that big hand felt huge and comforting. He almost wished he could see a small hand, his own hand as a child, held protectively in that large one—making up for all those lonely years without a real family.
“The second awakening’s not finished yet,” he said, clenching his jaw. His voice now held the sure, slightly stubborn tone of a teenage boy. “I’ll eat more blood snake tonight. Maybe that’ll fire me up again. Maybe I’ll see more of those old memories, too.”
A sudden burst of strength surged through him. He gripped a heavy stone millstone and lifted it with surprising ease. He guessed he could now raise over fifteen hundred pounds if he tried. A grin tugged at his lips—it was kind of cool, being able to do something that crazy.
As dawn’s pale light crept in, Qin Ming washed his body, which still felt overheated. He had no plans to go hunting in the mountains today. Instead, he’d stay home and focus on the silk booklet.
“Why was I never able to master it before?” he wondered, furrowing his brow. “Guess I’ll find out—maybe in another dream.”
He knew the booklet mattered. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep it safe, as if terrified something precious might be lost. Outside, the snowstorm had passed. The sky seemed a shade brighter, if you could call it “bright” in a world without real sunlight.
Qin Ming studied the silk book as if he could read it in his mind’s eye. Only two pages revealed themselves clearly, covered in tiny symbols and writing. That second page was full of stuff he’d never even heard of. He needed to practice until he understood it perfectly.
“This is wild,” he whispered to himself. “I wonder how it compares to other skills, like the Intermediate Meditation or the Advanced Breathing techniques.” In these remote parts, Qin Ming’s options for advanced training were pretty slim. He’d tried the common “Night Meditation Technique,” but that was it.
The silk book mentioned something called “Celestial Light.” But it never said how to summon it, and it didn’t mention that legendary “Tathagata Force” everyone whispered about in hushed voices.
Qin Ming frowned. The booklet seemed amazing, but why hardly mention Celestial Light at all?
After practicing all morning, he had a hunch. The writing seemed to suggest that if you just kept at it, bit by bit, your body would naturally bring out Celestial Light. It would sharpen your spirit, too. But there were no step-by-step instructions. It was like the book wanted you to discover the secret yourself, trusting the practice would lead you to the right path.
“So, it’s all about raising your life force, not giving you some flashy self-defense move,” Qin Ming said, scratching his head. “Man, that’s kind of weird.” He felt puzzled and a bit disappointed, but he kept going, determined to understand more.
By midday, the faint daylight grew stronger. Qin Ming rubbed his temples, a bit tired from the mental strain of practicing for hours. Still, he felt he grasped most of what those two pages had to offer.
As he practiced again in the courtyard, his moves seemed to flow more smoothly. He felt more connected to the world around him. His eyes had a sharper, calmer look, and even his hair seemed to shift gently, as if touched by a breeze. Most importantly, that inner warmth grew stronger. The silvery ripples on his skin were more pronounced now, almost like some kind of “silver mud” coating his body.
The booklet never mentioned specific levels or states he might reach, so Qin Ming had no clue how well he was doing. He paused, taking a moment to rest. Even when he stood still, something felt different—like he had gained a quiet, steady strength.
“Hey, Qin! Get out here! We’re heading up the mountains to check out some old ruins!” came Xu Yue Ping’s voice from outside. It sounded excited and friendly.
Qin Ming had planned to keep studying, but he’d made good progress, so maybe he could afford a break. He stepped outside. “What ruins, man?” he asked, his voice casual, with a hint of a teenage grin.
Xu Yue Ping smirked. “The old Mountain Patrol base! We’re gonna see what the wise old mountain ‘god’—or monster, whatever he was—left behind. Maybe we’ll find something cool,” he said, dropping his voice as if sharing a secret. “Or something that could make us rich, you know?”
Qin Ming nodded. “Alright, sounds chill. Let’s go.” In these dangerous times, most villagers stuck together. Venturing into the mountains alone was risky. Only Qin Ming dared go by himself, all thanks to his growing strength.
Before long, Qin Ming, Xu Yue Ping, and Yang Yong Qing were searching the ruined base. Snowy peaks stood all around them, and the air smelled crisp and cold. Suddenly, Qin Ming shouted, “Dude, check this out! There’s a huge stash of wine here!” He called the others over, remembering the nights when blades glinted in the snow and danger lurked everywhere.
Xu Yue Ping and Yang Yong Qing rushed over, eyes shining. For honest mountain villagers, finding barrels of good wine was like stumbling onto treasure. Old Man Liu, his face wrinkled but full of laughter, hopped over with surprising speed. He grinned ear to ear.
Qin Ming chuckled. “Hey, Grandpa Liu, remember I promised you ten jars of good wine? Well, here you go! Let’s load it up and haul it back.”
Old Man Liu was so happy he could’ve danced. He looked like he might crack open a jar and start drinking on the spot.
“Seriously,” Xu Yue Ping said, laughing, “who knew rummaging through the old Mountain Patrol base could turn out this awesome?”
Of course, news traveled fast. By day’s end, Twin Trees Village took about thirty jars. The rest was shared among the nearby villages. Qin Ming didn’t try to keep it all; it was smarter to share and keep things peaceful.
The truth was the Mountain Patrol had already cleared out anything truly valuable. They left the wine behind because it just wasn’t worth their trouble. After the villagers discovered it, word spread, and soon people from all over came to pick the place clean by nightfall.
At one point, Qin Ming examined a portrait that had come down from the mountains. It showed a man with a face tinted blue and a sword in his hand. Qin Ming studied it closely. “Is this the guy who took out the whole patrol?” he muttered, remembering that fierce fight.
There were a bunch of these portraits, apparently meant to be handed out. If anyone spotted the man, they were supposed to report it. The Mountain Patrol was no joke—its leader had backing from Red Glow City, which was a big deal around here.
“His name’s Wang Nian Zhu,” Qin Ming read aloud. “Huh, so that’s him. Funny how I remember giving him a good whack.” He shrugged, recalling the battle. Now that the man was gone, only these paintings and rumors remained.
“Guess you’re famous now, man,” Qin Ming said quietly to the portrait. “Even if it’s just out here in the sticks.” With that, he turned away. He had no reason to dwell on enemies he’d already beaten.
Still, Qin Ming’s thoughts drifted to the groups out there—Golden Rooster Ridge, the Three-Eyed Cult. Maybe the patrol or others would figure out who Wang Nian Zhu really worked for. They were all worth keeping an eye on, just in case.
Later that night, Qin Ming ate more blood snake meat, letting its powerful essence fill him once again. Soon his body felt hot, glowing faintly before he drifted into a deep sleep.
In his dreams, he returned to his childhood. He saw himself as a tiny kid again, stubbornly practicing the silk booklet’s techniques. His clothes were full of holes, but he kept trying, refusing to give up.
“Why can’t I get this right?” the younger Qin Ming complained, frowning like a kid who’d just had his favorite toy taken away.
A low, quiet voice answered, “Long ago, a truly amazing person tried these techniques. In the end, he died. He was one of those who helped create this method.”
“Wait, seriously?” the young Qin Ming asked, eyes wide, sounding like any teen boy who’d just heard something unbelievable.
“That’s right,” the voice went on. “Some old folks were super stubborn and wanted to keep up with dazzling techniques. The theory seemed brilliant, so they tossed aside their old skills to follow this new way. They ended up wounded, lost, or dead. None of them succeeded. If they couldn’t do it, how could anyone else?”
“Then why leave this book behind?” Young Qin Ming demanded, a spark of anger in his eyes. This was the only technique he had—why taunt him with something impossible?
“The parts nobody could master were torn out, burned to ashes. What’s left can only be understood if someone who once learned it guides you. So all we can do is look at what remains.”
“Where’s the rest?” the child insisted, his voice cracking.
“Gone. Burned,” said the voice, flat and final.
The young Qin Ming grew quiet, staring down at his worn shoes and his toes peeking out. He felt a sting of loss in his chest, as if something precious was forever out of reach.
When the morning light came, Qin Ming woke up in his courtyard, sighing softly. It turned out the silk book wasn’t the great treasure he’d hoped it was. Still, it offered something, even if it would never reveal its full secrets.
“No one helped me, but I still learned the first two pages,” Qin Ming said under his breath. “Big deal. The rest is gone, and even the creators failed. Guess I’ll keep my eyes open for other techniques.”
He stepped into the cold air, feeling the changes his second awakening had brought. He was stronger—strong enough to lift a thousand pounds with one arm. That was something, at least.
…
Two days passed, and Qin Ming got word from Cao Long, Wei Zhi Rou, and Mu Qing. The leaders had planned one last talk with the higher powers in the mountains, gathering at the mountain range’s entrance. Many people were already waiting, bracing themselves against the snow.
Suddenly, they spotted a figure riding a donkey through the snowy drifts. It moved slowly toward them.
“Who’s that?” someone whispered nervously. “Must be someone important from Red Glow City.”
But as the donkey drew closer, everyone realized the rider wasn’t human. It was a pure white weasel, sitting calmly like some strange monk deep in thought.
At that, not a single person dared speak. The gathering, meant for negotiation, had just taken a very odd and unsettling turn.