Martial Arts: My talent multiplier increased

Three corpses lay scattered in front of him.

On the left, face up. The face was ashen. Not pale, but a plaster-like ashen color, the kind that comes from utter bloodlessness. Lips were cracked. Eyes were sunken. The whole body looked like it had been dried out. Zhou Dashun's description of it as "like a dried salted fish"—Fang Yuan now knew that wasn't an exaggeration. It was a true description.

The body on the right. Lying on its side. Arms curled up across its chest. Fingers bent into a clenched fist—the final struggle before death frozen in its limbs. There are two dark red finger marks on the neck of this corpse. Fingernails pierced the skin. After the flesh shrank, the two holes looked like snake bite marks.

The body directly in front of me was lying face down. A piece of clothing on its back was torn open. On its bare back, along the spine, there was a neat row of dark red spots.

Fang Yuan recognized the pattern of the distribution of the spots.

The "Hua Tuo Jiaji points" are arranged along both sides of the spine. There are a total of seventeen points.

This is not a scar. It's the needle insertion point for extracting semen.

The method of practicing evil arts involves inserting fingernails into acupoints on both sides of the opponent's spine, drawing out the essence and blood from the source through the meridian system.

A layer of very fine goosebumps rose on Fang Yuan's back. It wasn't fear. It was a more fundamental physiological rejection reaction—the natural human instinct to resist "the death of one's fellow human beings in this way."

Four times the strength of the root bone suppressed the goosebumps within two breaths.

Fang Yuan's gaze returned to the evil cultivator in the corner.

The evil cultivator placed his hands flat on his knees. Ten dark red fingernails were spread out on his knees. His chest rose and fell extremely slowly—his breathing rate was very low, about four times per minute. Even slower than Fang Yuan's suppressed breathing.

Practicing exercises.

He was using some kind of evil technique to digest the essence and blood that had just been extracted.

Fang Yuan's brain completed the tactical assessment within three breaths.

Opponent: Early stage of Bone Refining Realm. A practitioner of evil arts.

Fang Yuan lacks complete information on the characteristics of evil arts. However, based on known information, it can be deduced that—

Explosive power. The essence and blood of unorthodox cultivators originate from others. Multiple types of qi and blood are mixed within the same meridian system, and the total amount of qi and blood in a short period may exceed that of a normal martial artist of the same level. However, the compatibility of qi and blood from different sources within the meridians will inevitably have problems. It's like mixing three different types of fuel in one engine—the power may be greater in the short term, but the engine wear and tear will also be greater.

Sustained combat effectiveness: Relatively weak. The internal energy drain caused by the mixing of vital energy and blood will accelerate its depletion during combat.

Defense. Relatively weak. The evil cultivator's body was emaciated—he had also consumed his own muscle and fat. Although he had a lot of essence and blood, the "container" that held it was already fragile.

Conclusion: A glass cannon. It fires heavily, but it can't withstand the impact.

Fang Yuan's right hand was pressed together on the outside of the window frame. His five fingers were clenched tightly, his knuckles pressed together, and his palm was slightly concave.

Stacked Wave Fist - Triple Fist Intent.

No need to build up power. The precise control of power transmission in the Eightfold Stance makes building up power an unnecessary movement—the power originates from the soles of the feet, passes through the knees, hips, waist, shoulders, and elbows, and finally converges on the fist. The entire transmission chain is completed within half a breath.

The first punch is intended to be delivered outwards.

Fang Yuan threw his punch from the outside of the window. His fist didn't pass through the window frame, but his intent did.

The air was compressed into an invisible line through the crack in the window. Starting from Fang Yuan's fist, the line passed through the three-inch gap between the window cracks and accurately shot towards the back of the head of the evil cultivator in the corner of the abandoned house.

The second layer of punching intent is superimposed on the first. Speed ​​remains the same, but power doubles.

The third level.

The triple punches overlapped in the air, forming a single, invisible shockwave. It was Fang Yuan's precise control of aerodynamics through his eight-fold stance training. The airflow was compressed into a transparent, sharp spike, about the thickness of a chopstick, carrying the triple superposition of force, aimed at the back of the evil cultivator's head.

"Pop".

A dull, muffled sound. Like a ripe melon being tapped.

The evil cultivator's body froze.

Ten dark red fingernails twitched on her knee. The twitch was directionless—not a twitch of wanting to stand up, not a twitch of wanting to fight back. It was the last disordered discharge of the nervous system after losing central control.

Then he fell forward.

His forehead hit the ground with a dull thud.

From Fang Yuan's punch to the evil cultivator falling to the ground.

Take a breath.

Fang Yuan withdrew his right hand from the window frame. There wasn't a single mark on his fist. Not even a speck of sweat.

His breathing rate remained unchanged. His heart rate remained unchanged.

The abandoned house was quiet for three breaths.

Fang Yuan's doubled divine sense locked onto the evil cultivator's blood and qi signals. The signals were rapidly weakening. From the early stage of the Bone Refining Realm, it dropped to the Flesh Refining Realm within ten breaths. After another five breaths, it dropped to the Skin Refining Realm.

Then reset to zero.

Fang Yuan climbed through the window and went inside.

The soles of the shoes landed among the broken tiles on the abandoned house floor. The Eightfold Stance Technique ensured that each step landed precisely in the gaps between the tiles—without breaking anything. Without leaving a footprint.

He walked to the corpse of the heretical cultivator.

Fang Yuan squatted down.

From this distance, the evil cultivator's face was even more horrifying than it appeared from outside the window. His skin lacked the texture of a normal human. It was dry, rough, and covered with fine cracks, like a piece of old tree bark that had been stored for far too long. There were dark red, dried marks on either side of his mouth—not his own blood. It was splattered from when he was extracting the essence of others.

Fang Yuan's gaze shifted from the evil cultivator's face to his right hand.

There is a brand on the web of my right hand. It's not big, about the size of a copper coin.

bat.

Dark red. Branded deep within the skin. The pattern is exactly the same as the bat totem on the token in Fang Yuan's pocket.

Fang Yuan's fingers touched the token in his pocket. It was cold.

homology.

verified.

Fang Yuan stood up. His gaze swept across the abandoned house. Three corpses. The corpse of the heretical cultivator. Broken tiles. Dust. In the corner was a tattered cloth bag—the heretical cultivator's personal belongings.

Fang Yuan walked to the cloth bag, squatted down, and opened it.

There wasn't much inside. A piece of dry rations, as hard as a rock. Half a water pouch, empty. A small handful of black pills—Fang Yuan unscrewed it and smelled it. Fishy. A strong metallic rust smell mixed with the pungent odor of some kind of animal fat.

Something like a blood-replenishing pill. The formula was extremely crude. Fang Yuan's doubled comprehension allowed him to extract at least three types of spoiled medicinal ingredients from the olfactory information.

If Liu Ruyan saw this, she would probably write an 800-word pharmacological critique.

Fang Yuan put the pills back. The last thing in the cloth bag was a folded piece of paper.

Unfold.

There are a few lines drawn on the paper. They're crooked and uneven. It's not a map. It's some kind of set signal. Three horizontal lines, two circles, and an "X" inside each circle.

Fang Yuan didn't understand it. But he used twice the comprehension to etch every stroke on the paper into his memory. Further interpretation to follow.

He folded the paper and put it back in the cloth bag. The cloth bag was closed. Everything was back to normal.

As Fang Yuan stood up, his right hand passed over the corpse of the evil cultivator.

At this very moment—

A dark red aura seeped from the surface of the corpse.