Time flowed onward.
Ning Qi slowly exhaled, a trace of sharp resolve flashing through his eyes.
Whatever secrets the Great Yan Martial Saint possessed, Ning Qi was certain of one thing—
given enough time, surpassing him would not be difficult.
The hidden history of Great Yan had instead clarified Ning Qi's own path.
If one day he reached the Martial Saint realm and still found no true road to longevity, then ascension itself would become an option. Beyond this world lay a vaster heaven and earth, where limits were higher and shackles fewer.
His thoughts became calm and precise.
"The Great Yan Dynasty has never lacked Martial Saints… but can any power truly dominate forever?"
Ye Qinghe snorted.
"That's not necessarily the case."
There was no reverence in her eyes—only faint disdain.
Ning Qi understood. Martial sects had been suppressed under imperial authority for two thousand years. Such a span was long enough for grievances to ferment and contradictions to accumulate. All it needed was a spark.
Ye Qinghe's expression gradually turned animated.
"Little Ninth, during my recent trip, I discovered traces of the Demonic Sect in Qing Province."
"This Demonic Sect isn't simple. It appears connected to the previous dynasty."
"Not just that—many martial sects across the prefectures have ambiguous attitudes, and the borders of Great Yan are stirring as well."
She leaned closer, voice lowering.
"Only a hundred years have passed since the last Martial Saint intervened. If everything were stable, there's no way another probe would happen so soon."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Do you think something has gone wrong? Has the Martial Saint reached the end of his lifespan? Or… has Great Yan failed to produce a new one?"
Ning Qi was mildly surprised.
His Fifth Senior Brother had mentioned Demonic Sect traces as well. Now even Ye Qinghe had encountered them. Clearly, the undercurrents were no longer subtle.
Still, Ning Qi merely shook his head.
"Regardless of the truth, it's not something we can involve ourselves in."
He hadn't even formally entered martial cultivation yet.
In the face of such grand tides, he was insignificant. If chaos erupted, survival—not interference—was the only rational choice.
Strength decided everything.
Ye Qinghe muttered to herself, then suddenly realized she was being lectured by a one-year-old.
She promptly pinched his cheek.
"What kind of monster grows this fast?"
Ning Qi ignored her and calmly picked up another book—this one on geomancy.
Ye Qinghe ruffled her hair in frustration.
"Sometimes I really wonder if an old demon is hiding inside you."
"Enough reading!" she said irritably. "You need balance. Once you start martial cultivation, hardship will be endless. Enjoy your leisure while you still can."
Ning Qi replied without looking up.
"Is martial cultivation very difficult?"
Ye Qinghe's spirits instantly lifted.
"Of course! Talent alone is useless without perseverance."
"Take your Eighth Senior Brother, Qin Yun. His talent is among the top in Great Yan. Guess how long it took him to complete body tempering?"
"Five or six years?" Ning Qi asked casually.
Ye Qinghe clicked her tongue.
"Eleven years."
"From age seven to eighteen. He cultivated day and night without pause just to step into the Inner Yuan Realm."
Ning Qi paused slightly.
"That long?"
"And that's genius-level talent. For ordinary people, it takes even longer. Anyone under thirty is still considered part of the younger generation. Those who reach Inner Yuan before twenty are peerless."
She leaned closer, grinning.
"So don't rush. You'll suffer enough later. Why not let Senior Sister take you out to play?"
Ning Qi glanced at her.
"Oh."
That was all.
Ye Qinghe was instantly defeated.
The gulf between geniuses and mortals was sometimes cruel.
She eventually sprawled onto a rattan chair, muttering to herself, and—without realizing it—fell asleep.
Ning Qi glanced at her, a faint smile touching his lips.
Third Senior Sister was loud and unruly, but she worried he might be lonely.
He wasn't.
With full-level comprehension, every breath brought insight, every moment yielded gain. That feeling was intoxicating—something ordinary people could never understand.
Time passed quietly.
Life on Zhenwu Mountain was peaceful—almost unreal.
Compared to his previous life, confined to a sickbed, this existence felt like a gift.
He could move freely.
He had a master.
Senior brothers and sisters who cherished him.
Contentment filled his days.
In the blink of an eye—
Two and a half years passed.
Ning Qi turned three.
During this time, his seniors showered him with care. Every descent down the mountain ended with stacks of gifts—especially books. Dragon Mountain Daoist personally instructed him, withholding only martial techniques, while teaching everything else without reservation.
Others grew envious.
Ning Qi also noticed his Master had quietly descended the mountain several times—likely still investigating the massacre of Snow Plum Manor.
Dragon Mountain Daoist never spoke of it.
Perhaps he hoped Ning Qi would grow without hatred.
But Ning Qi remembered everything.
He simply waited.
Time was his ally.
The elders estimated his bone formation would complete around six years old.
They were wrong.
Early that morning.
Ning Qi rose.
His expression was calm—yet expectant.
He circulated the Congenital Bone Tempering Technique one final time.
The last thread of Innate Qi dispersed throughout his body.
In that instant—
A profound resonance surged forth.
It was as though heaven and earth acknowledged him.
Ning Qi's body trembled lightly. A deep sense of completeness flooded his being, as if a missing piece had finally locked into place.
No thunder.
No phenomenon.
Only clarity.
He opened his eyes, joy flickering within them.
Nine hundred days and nights.
Two and a half years of relentless refinement.
His bone foundation—
was complete.