Chapter Ninety-Three: The Man Emerging from the Abyss

In truth, Zhang Ning still found it difficult to fully control this body. Although control over one's physique and internal energy was an instinct cultivated from childhood by people of the Celestial Azure Realm, this particular body was exceedingly uncoordinated. Even after Zhang Ning's martial cultivation had exponentially increased his command over physical movements—now on par with natives of the Celestial Azure Realm—the corpse's inherent stiffness could not be overcome by martial arts or the strength of the will. The nourishing effects of soul arts would clearly require more time to manifest.

Thus, Zhang Ning staggered awkwardly as he made his way out, tearing off a strip of cloth to wrap his skeletal right arm completely. He had not anticipated that simply leaving the ravine would take a full ten days; the solitude along the way and the lingering chill of the corpse ceaselessly tormented what he had believed to be an iron will. In the end, Zhang Ning could endure no more. Upon reaching the mouth of the gorge, exhaustion swept over him, and leaning against a sturdy tree, he fell into a deep slumber, only remembering to press the long-finished “infusion” countdown button on the system before drifting off.

“Heavens, what a glare.” Sunlight woke Zhang Ning, his eyes so dry it was unbearable. Rubbing them, he recalled his current predicament. He couldn't help but complain inwardly: his body had regained its warmth, but the glands that ought to secrete moisture still failed him. Clearly, the soul art’s restorative effects were insufficient—he would have to order the Lingxiao family to improve upon it when he returned.

Lost in these thoughts, he heard someone push open the door. At once, a delighted young girl’s voice sounded: “You’re awake!”

Zhang Ning froze, thinking, “Don’t tell me it’s going to be that melodramatic?” Looking up at the doorway, he saw a girl with two neat buns in her hair approaching with a bowl of medicine. She seemed just past her coming-of-age, with strikingly delicate features and the air of a girl-next-door. Dressed in a pale green outfit, for a moment she reminded him of Meng Meng, yet her bearing differed completely.

Only now did Zhang Ning realize how flawed Meng Meng's attempt at gentle charm had been; true poise, born of a distinguished upbringing, was unmistakable. Despite their similar dress, Meng Meng’s aura surpassed this girl’s by several degrees. Yet the girl before him possessed a carefree innocence unique to her age—or perhaps not entirely carefree, for a trace of anxiety lingered between her brows.

Raising an eyebrow, Zhang Ning took the medicine bowl without a word. After scanning it with the system, he downed it all in one go, ignoring the bitterness and treating it as if quenching a thirst. He spoke: “Miss, you saved me… Is there something troubling you at home? Tell me, and I’ll help you as repayment. But if it’s too troublesome or a waste of time, I can’t promise anything. If you don’t say, I won’t bother to investigate further. Best if you have no trouble at all—then I’ll be on my way!”

He spoke with such briskness, utterly lacking the languor of someone just awakened, that it nearly left his savior, Qingning, at a loss. She stared at him, mouth agape in adorable confusion, before finally responding: “You really are something! I’ve never seen anyone repay kindness like this! And besides, you’re in no state at all…”

Truthfully, Qingning’s patience was due in large part to the striking handsomeness of Zhang Ning’s current body. When she’d found him slumped against the tree, he’d seemed a jade statue about to topple, so she had been unusually accommodating. Otherwise, his attitude would have infuriated her. Halfway through her sentence, she paused in surprise. “You’re leaving already?”

Zhang Ning, moving with crisp efficiency, had already straightened his clothes, checked that his firmly wrapped right arm remained untouched, and was heading for the door. On the way, he retrieved a sword from his storage pouch—a weapon he intended to use for roasting a chicken or the like in the wild, nothing precious, just a common spiritual tool. Indeed, it was exceedingly ordinary, the sort mass-produced by the Grand Freedom Demon Sect, but here in this small world it would be considered a rarity.

Qingning stuck out her tongue and said, “No one touched your precious sword. It just looks valuable, is all. You, though… I didn’t expect you to be so stingy! What are you in such a hurry to do, anyway?”

Zhang Ning had no interest in idle chitchat—he was on a tight schedule. He had only a month and a half in this small world, equivalent to a single night in the Celestial Azure Realm, to accomplish his task. With a stern face, he replied, “Since you have no enemies or troubles, I’ll be on my way.”

The normally good-natured girl finally bristled. With a huff, she retorted, “Actually, there is someone who’s been bothering me. Can you help me teach him a lesson?”

Qingning spoke almost without thinking. The person in question wasn’t exactly her enemy. Her uncle, with whom she depended on each other, ran a well-known local martial academy. His rival, a powerful competitor, was due to arrive soon for yet another challenge. This rival, far stronger, would come under the pretense of friendly sparring, but Qingning never expected this young man—who clearly came from a distinguished background, yet lacked the streetwise skills not to faint lost in the wilderness—to be able to help.

It wasn’t that Qingning sought repayment for her kindness; it was just that this person hadn’t said a single kind or polite word to her, and was about to leave in a rush. Unable to hold back, she teased him, expecting he’d simply ignore her and walk away. Surprisingly, Zhang Ning turned back at her words and asked directly, “Really? Where is he?”

Aomoku Martial Academy

In the main hall

A middle-aged man, exuding both the genial air of a wealthy merchant and an intimidating martial aura, was speaking: “Master Aomoku, why so modest? I hear you’ve recruited several exceptional new students. Why not let them spar with my own rather unworthy disciples?”

“You jest, Master Li. My academy’s instructors, resources, and training halls could never compare with your Li Family Martial Academy,” replied the man opposite him, face set in a resolute expression. His features bore a resemblance to Qingning’s, but his smile was forced and bitter.

As the local leader in the field, the Li Family Martial Academy was a force to be reckoned with. While Aomoku did not lack self-respect, his opponent was simply too arrogant—arriving every so often to assert dominance under the guise of friendly competition, then thrashing Aomoku’s outstanding students. The results were always the same: at best, his disciples would be bedridden with serious injuries; at worst, their martial progress would be forever stunted. The Li Family’s tactics skirted the line of the unacceptable, yet never crossed it outright.

By rights, Master Aomoku ought to resist, but his disciples were all in a transitional phase, and his own strength could not match the combined might of his rivals. With his students consistently suppressed, how could there be any hope for rest or recovery, let alone the cultivation of outstanding new talent? In such circumstances, it was impossible to stand firm. Though he had once admired Master Li, a growing sense of frustration gnawed at Aomoku’s heart: if only he were granted a period of peace to recuperate, how could he not surpass the Li Family Martial Academy?