Chapter 39: The World Felt Different
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation
The room fell so quiet you could almost hear your own heartbeat. Yet, in that deep silence, Qin Ming caught the faintest whispering voices. They sounded close—uncomfortably close. Tightening his grip on his long-handled Black Metal Hammer, he stood alert, like a young panther about to spring. Moments earlier, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a shadow dart by.
Outside, the night hung as black as pitch. Inside, the softly glowing Sunstone flickered a few times, then winked out completely. Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything. At least the whispers stopped when the light died.
When Qin Ming fumbled for the old leather-bound Blade Manual—its pages curled and worn at the edges—nothing happened. Silence. Stillness. He turned it over, squinting in the gloom. He couldn’t see the words, and now that it was quiet again, he wondered if he’d just imagined the whole thing.
Not wasting a second, Qin Ming hurried off to the Fire Spring near the village entrance to grab a few glowing stones. He trotted back home with the stones cradled in one hand and his hammer hefted in the other. In the gentle glow, he flipped through the Blade Manual. Nothing odd happened. No voices. No shadows.
“Man, did I totally freak myself out for no reason?” he muttered under his breath, sounding more like a restless teenage boy than a hardened fighter.
Soon he shrugged it off and focused on the ancient pages again. He studied the old techniques left behind by swordsmen from ages past. The silence eased his mind, allowing him to sink into the book’s teachings.
But then a sudden chill snaked up his spine. In that eerie stillness, the whispers drifted back to him, and this time he heard a soft sigh—right beside his ear. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He spun around, and there, faintly outlined in the dim light, stood an old man. His hair was white, his clothes torn and stained with dried blood. He floated right before Qin Ming as if he weren’t quite real.
The temperature in the room plummeted. Even the stones’ soft glow seemed to dim. Qin Ming didn’t freeze up; that just wasn’t his style. In a flash, he swung his hammer at the ghostly figure. But the sigh vanished, and so did the old man. Not a trace remained. Qin Ming’s expression turned grim. How could simply reading a Blade Manual lead to this madness?
He tightened his grip on the Black Metal Hammer, scanning the room. The glow from the stones returned to normal, the air warming up. Everything appeared perfectly ordinary again.
“Is this some kind of haunted book?” he wondered aloud, eyebrows raised. “Or maybe it’s that weird liquid I absorbed… Did it mess with my head?” His voice sounded like a puzzled teen trying to figure out a spooky rumor.
He paced for a moment, then made up his mind. If something wanted to scare him, fine. He wouldn’t back down. He’d wait and see what kind of ghost or demon dared to mess with him.
Determined, Qin Ming sat down and flipped through the Blade Manual again, hammer in hand. The only sound was the soft rustling of old leather pages. Soon he lost himself in the old combat techniques. That’s when the whispers returned—and this time, so did the bloodstained old man, standing only a few steps away, wild hair framing his weathered face.
“Time is short. Keep this Blade Manual safe,” the old man sighed, voice heavy with regret. “It’s such a pity… My blade techniques cannot be fully written down. Many will vanish forever—all my life’s work, slipping through my fingers.”
Qin Ming watched, wide-eyed, as the old man sat down at a ghostly desk and began to write. With each stroke of his pen, Qin Ming caught glimpses of shimmering blade lights, as if the old man were slicing right through the darkness.
Each time the old man finished recording a technique, Qin Ming saw hazy images appear: visions of the old man long ago, practicing his moves beneath starlit skies. Qin Ming could feel the old man’s emotions—his hopes, his frustrations—as if they flowed right into him.
After that strange liquid had changed him, Qin Ming found he could sense much more than just words on a page. He could feel the old master’s soul, understand his intentions, and grasp secrets that were never written down. Back in the mountains, Qin Ming always thought he was quick to learn, but now he wasn’t just learning; he was living these techniques, connecting with their very essence.
“This manual holds this old master’s entire life,” Qin Ming whispered, his voice hushed. “I’m seeing his memories… It’s like I’m stepping into his shoes.”
Steeling himself, he pulled out of the vision and closed the manual. He tossed the hammer aside for a moment and settled down next to the Copper Basin full of glowing stones. He started reading again, this time focusing his mind completely.
The more he concentrated, the clearer those whispers and visions became. He saw the old man gazing at the night sky, pondering his blade forms, then slicing through the darkness with silver light. Another vision showed thunder and lightning crashing down as the old man stood in pouring rain, wielding a wooden blade that somehow burned brighter than the storm.
Qin Ming’s heart pounded. This technique wasn’t in the manual at all. It was an insight born of experience and instinct, something that words could never truly capture. That’s why the old man had sighed. Words on a page could only go so far.
As Qin Ming kept watching, the old man’s life played out like a story before him: training in hidden mountains, facing gigantic beasts, wandering alone through snowstorms, clashing with powerful enemies, losing an arm, fleeing after terrible wounds. Eventually, the old man found a secluded place to heal. He buried his broken blade and spent five long years in isolation. Then, once he dug up that old blade again, its brilliance was stronger than ever. He could slice through mountains or split the seas—at least, that’s how it felt to Qin Ming.
As the old man aged, he never sought peace or balance. He simply pressed forward, burning through his own life until he reached the end. Finally, he returned to seclusion to die. Before passing, he buried his blade and wrote his final words. He regretted never finding higher-level teachings or a way to prolong his life. His talent and understanding of the blade were world-class, but his body failed him.
Qin Ming watched as the old man wrote in a blur, blade-light flickering with each pen stroke. But when it came to the “Celestial Light” part, the visions grew hazy. The last pages were unreadable. Qin Ming understood at once—he wasn’t at that level yet. He couldn’t understand it emotionally or spiritually, so it stayed beyond his reach.
Closing the Blade Manual, Qin Ming let the visions fade. Everything he had seen replayed in his mind, as vivid as if he’d lived it himself. He stood, picked up his Black Metal Hammer, and stepped into the yard. Under the quiet night sky, he practiced the old master’s hidden blade techniques—techniques never written down. He moved the hammer with such speed that sparks of black light flashed in the darkness, forming arcs like a net of lightning.
He stopped eventually, breathing hard, heart still racing. He’d done it. He could reproduce these secret moves as though he’d trained for decades. Though he knew he still needed real effort to master them fully, just having this head start was incredible.
What really shook Qin Ming was the strange liquid from the stone block. It had let him connect with these deep emotions in the book. Maybe those random “scraps” he’d found were more precious than he’d ever imagined. If the world knew what he’d discovered, it would cause a huge stir. Perhaps the origins of those scraps were more impressive than anything he could guess.
Qin Ming’s mind drifted to that night when fire devoured the entire village. He remembered the Feather-Clad Youth, holding that strange Purple Bamboo Stick and looking almost otherworldly. Clearly, that youth belonged to a powerful, mysterious group. They must be truly terrifying in strength.
But now Qin Ming felt calmer, more confident. One day he’d reach that distant city and face all those old memories head-on. He also remembered two women he’d seen at the village entrance. They seemed to follow a different path entirely, perhaps looking down on those who still walked the Awakening Method road.
Qin Ming clenched his fist and smirked. “Whatever. My path isn’t weaker than anyone else’s,” he said, his voice steady, but with a hint of a teenage boy’s stubborn pride. “As long as I keep pushing forward, I can beat any challenge.”
Taking a moment to breathe deeply, he tested his strength. Both arms felt amazingly powerful, easily lifting over two thousand pounds, maybe even twenty-two hundred. With these blade techniques he’d learned, he was stronger than ever.
“I wonder if I could take on those old guys who’ve tapped into Celestial Light Strength?” he mused, scratching the back of his neck. He did some quick mental math. After three Awakenings, most warriors could lift around eighteen hundred pounds. Qin Ming’s raw power was already past that. True, they had deadly Celestial Light Strength that could punch through armor-like hides, but he had raw might and techniques that went beyond any manual.
Celestial Light Strength couldn’t travel through weapons; it could only be used on the body itself. That meant if he kept some distance, he might stand a real chance against even a Third Awakening master. He’d need a strong weapon—something like his Black Metal Hammer, which wouldn’t break under Celestial Light Strikes. Just thinking of it made him grin.
“This is gonna be a long night,” he muttered, only half-joking. He still felt buzzing energy running through him, too wound up to sleep. He caught a short nap before dawn, and he figured he’d skip sleep for a few days if he needed to.
Later that night, he refined his blade techniques again. He broke down what he’d seen in the old man’s visions, added his own ideas, and shaped them until they felt like his own.
The next day, Cao Long, Mu Qing, and Wei Zhi Rou told him they’d soon return home if they couldn’t find anything else. Before leaving, they gifted Qin Ming, Old Man Liu, and the other villagers a manual on Intermediate Qi Techniques. They said it could be shared freely with everyone. The villagers were thrilled, grateful to have such a rare gift. Qin Ming and his group had helped Cao Long’s team so much—like when they explored the Fire Bat Cave—and everyone parted on good terms.
That evening, Qin Ming studied the Intermediate Qi Technique but felt it couldn’t compare to the special Silk Book method he practiced. It didn’t have that spark of true understanding he’d grown to crave. It was just words, no soul behind them.
“Guess a technique has to have heart,” he remarked, shrugging.
Later, when he brought the Intermediate Qi Technique to Old Man Liu, he asked with a grin, “Hey, old man, you’re not planning to hand over all those secret spots with spiritual materials to the Red Glow City people, right?”
Old Man Liu folded his arms across his chest and snorted. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a plan. Once I’m fully healed and you’ve had your Second Awakening, we’ll head into the mountains. Just us two. We’ll find the best spots to reach the Third Awakening. I’m saving all the good stuff for our own crew!”
Qin Ming broke into a cheeky smile. “Sounds awesome,” he said, voice light and casual, like a boy looking forward to a weekend adventure. Then he cocked his head and asked, “By the way, is there some old place nearby that’s fallen to ruins or something? I kind of wanna, you know, borrow a few books. Don’t stress, I’ll pay in Night Silver—no way they’ll say no to that!”