In his dantian was a Taoist statue.
Seated on a lotus platform, ancient, its features blurred beyond recognition, even the robe's folds worn smooth.
It looked plain, like forgotten relics in desolate ruins, but three blue flames flickered on its head and shoulders.
This was the cause of his transmigration!
In his past life, Li Yan's work often required travel. Wherever he went, he'd visit museums and antique markets, a hobbyist at heart.
He knew his limits, not a professional, so he only looked, never bought.
Yet this statue, unremarkable on a stall, clearly a fake, hooked him. He took it home.
Days later, he awoke in this world.
Over the years, he'd studied it.
This treasure was strange but its use was clear: it acted like a substitute doll.
The three flames on its head and shoulders could take his place in death.
Each fatal blow would extinguish one flame.
In other words, he had three chances to revive.
Its other function was to transfer injuries.
Be it internal wounds, poison, or blade cuts, they could shift to the statue in a breath.
Simply put, like a limited Deadpool.
Now, a small claw mark marred the statue's neck.
Li Yan dared hunt Blind Third because of this safeguard.
Moreover, his obsessive martial training, fearless of injury, pushing past limits, relied on this statue to transfer wounds.
Long suffering hones a healer. His iron control over his body was forged through countless wounds.
His pale skin? A quirk of the transfer.
The statue looked intact, but its interior was cracked.
Li Yan knew he must use it cautiously, not over-rely, lest the damage douse a flame.
But with his current control, he could dance on the edge of limits. The Ten Core Forms were as natural as breathing, leaving no room for injury.
Warmed up, he flowed into motion.
His moves seemed routine, yet shifted like quicksilver, impossible to predict.
These were his family's true combat arts: Thirty-Six Cloud Hands, Nine-Path Leg Techniques, Thirty-Six Grapples, rooted in support and cut, shaped by formation, scattered strikes linked into chains.
Real combat wasn't flashy, but as they say, amateurs watch the show, experts see the craft. Li Yan's simple, ugly moves brimmed with killing intent.
Black Egg, strongest among the village youths, once cocky, saw Li Yan train and broke into a cold sweat, realizing there were greater heights.
Each move was robust, his body crackling as he stretched.
Tendons quivered, bones sang in unison.
By the Martial Compendium's measure, he'd reached the peak of Bright Force.
This was no small feat. Such mastery set him apart, qualifying him to earn a living at any escort agency in the martial world.
And he was only fourteen.
Next was to swell the qi membrane, round the tendons, and grasp Dark Force.
In this martial world, Dark Force marked a third-rate master, able to lead escorts or, like his father, carve a name.
At his age, if Chang'an's martial halls knew, they'd come with gifts, taking him as a disciple, perhaps a future pillar.
A gruff voice broke his rhythm.
"Hmph, what's the use of all this practice?"
The voice, old and rough, was his grandfather, Li Gui.
The old man, unnoticed, had hobbled into the yard on his crutch.
Li Yan stopped, grinning. "Grandpa, why so cross? It was just a beast. Think I couldn't handle it?"
"A beast's nothing!"
Li Gui tapped ash from his pipe, face dark. "Shouldn't have passed down the fist. Martial arts stir a killing heart, inviting trouble."
"Your father ignored me, ran off to be a swordsman, and died. You're just as reckless, set to end our line!"
Li Yan smiled, not arguing.
This world mirrored his past one in ways, yet differed.
Martial arts, for one—his old world's tales of forming cores or defying nature were fiction, but here, they were real.
The geography was similar, but history diverged.
This was the Daxuan Dynasty, ninth year of Yuanheng, a century strong.
Another difference: personal strength here was staggering. Famed grandmasters could take heads amid armies, bold enough to infiltrate palaces for assassinations.
In chaos, they ruled fiefs; in upheavals, they shaped eras.
His grandfather, a fierce soldier, reached Dark Force's peak, a step from Transformation Force, with a bright future, until border wars cost him a leg.
Worse, he'd crossed his superior, earning only some fields and a "Hundred Battles, Mighty Valor" plaque from the Ministry of War.
That plaque hung outside.
Not everyone got "Hundred Battles, Mighty Valor." With it, his father could've been a county constable but chose the wilds as a swordsman, a thorn in Li Gui's heart.
Of course, respect elders, but don't always heed them.
The world was calm now; his grandfather wanted him a quiet farmer.
Li Yan knew better—any era demanded a hard fist.
A blade unused was worlds apart from none at all.
Seeing Li Gui still fuming, Li Yan's eyes twinkled. He sat on the threshold, grinning. "Grandpa, tell me about the ice plains again?"
Li Gui snorted. "You've heard it a hundred times!"
Still, he lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and sank into memory. "That cursed place wasn't fit for men…"
"Northern generals rebelled, colluding with tribes to invade south. We were sent to crush them, led by General Zhang into the far north ice plains, to wipe out the remnants…"
"All snow and ice, forests crawling with giant tigers, bears, wolves—your Blind Third was a pup by comparison…"
"The weather was worst—fog so thick you couldn't see ten steps, men freezing dead on the march…"
"Besides rebel stragglers, there were people in the woods—pale-skinned, red-haired, blue-eyed, in beast pelts, fleeing at sight of us."
"A scholar with us said they were Rakshasa shamans from farther north. Who'd think people lived there…"
"Later, more died. Men had nightmares, woke frozen like statues, smiling—chilling…"
"We caught the enemy, but a white-fur storm hit mid-battle. Brothers fell, rebels froze. We dug ice caves to live…"
"Losing a leg was lucky compared to those buried there…"
Li Yan listened quietly.
This world's geography matched his old one; the ice plains were likely Siberia.
But it seemed far deadlier.
He'd heard these tales often, coaxing another to shift focus.
His grandfather cursed fiercely, but Li Yan knew his father's death—white hair burying black—had broken him.
Old men loved past glories; the ice plains were Li Gui's proudest feat. Talking eased the pain.
When the tale ended, Li Gui's mind fogged, forgetting his words. His cloudy eyes fixed on Li Yan, then he spoke. "Yan, lad…"
"Yes, Grandpa?"
"Marry a girl with a big backside."
"Wide's a bit plain."
"You know nothing. Wide hips bear strong sons."
"Alright, you win…"
Li Yan smiled, but his eyes dimmed.
These two years, his grandfather's memory and health faded.
When his father lived, he'd return occasionally, sharing tales of the wilds, codes, and legends.
Fascinating, but if he could, Li Yan would stay in this village forever, just to give his grandfather a few more years…
…
At the village entrance, Blind Third's corpse hung on the old locust tree.
Adults glanced and hurried to the fields. Wolves were common, and once dead, its fearsome tales became jokes. The harvest mattered more.
But kids found sport, snatching stones.
"Smash Blind Third!"
"Pelt it dead!"
Laughing, they hurled rocks, mangling the corpse, swinging it wildly…
…
Night fell, moonlight cold as water.
Tonight was different.
No crickets sang, no birds called, even the ditch frogs hushed.
On the locust tree by the dirt path, Blind Third's battered, blood-dark corpse hung still.
Shadows crept from the wheat fields, peering up in the moonlight—smaller wolves.
Chief Li Huairen was wrong.
Wolves hunted together and killed their own kind.
Years ago, many soldiers hung wolf corpses thickly, scaring packs away.
But a lone corpse's scent drew nearby wolves.
Yet, circling Blind Third's body, these wolves seemed wary, never approaching.
Suddenly, they whimpered, scattering into the fields, vanishing into the night.
A cold wind rose, the locust tree rustling, its shadows dancing like a beast in the night…