If you die, I will be able to inherit your cultivation.

Zhou Ming played wildly on the sea of ​​clouds all day long, and only returned to Wuying Hall reluctantly when the sun set and the evening glow burned through half the sky.

When I landed, my feet felt a little unsteady, and it took me a while to get used to the feeling of being on solid ground again.

After dinner, as usual, I used my divine sense to scan the palace.

Emperor Yongchang lay listlessly on the table in the Qianyuan Hall, his eyes vacant, looking like a walking corpse.

Su Mingli was in the back office of the prefectural governor's mansion, trying on the third way of wearing his official robes in front of the mirror.

Su Mubai sat listlessly facing the chessboard in the Wenhua Hall. Everything was normal, nothing unusual.

Zhou Ming sat down behind the desk and began to ponder seriously.

I've already learned how to fly, but my knowledge of magic is still a blank.

After much thought, the simplest way to get started is with flying swords.

Whether it's flying on a sword or using a flying sword to injure people, it's all a required course for cultivating immortality.

But where can I get a flying sword?

He looked around and casually pulled a long sword from the antique shelf behind him.

Since he took charge of the imperial palace, court officials and local powerful families all knew that he was Su Mingyue's favorite.

His word carried more weight than anyone else's, so people sent him quite a few things.

Famous calligraphy and paintings, rare ancient books, precious medicinal materials, and some swords in excellent condition.

Zhou Ming is not someone who is easily swayed; he will readily accept anything that catches his eye.

This longsword is one of them, with an ebony scabbard wrapped in copper trim and a hilt wrapped in silver wire, making it look quite valuable.

He gripped the hilt and drew the sword, the blade emerging from its sheath, a chilling light gleaming on Zhou Ming's face.

The blade was thin and sharp. A light tap on the spine produced a clear and melodious dragon's roar that lingered in the empty hall for a long time.

It's a good sword.

Zhou Ming gripped the sword hilt and tried to slowly infuse a wisp of magic power into it.

As soon as the magic power was released from his fingertips, the sword trembled with a hum, and a sword light, brighter and colder than when it was drawn from its sheath, flowed along the blade.

The sword seemed to come alive, emitting an excited low hum in his hand.

He poured in only a trace of magic power, less than one ten-thousandth of the amount of the purple-gold nascent soul in his dantian.

Then the light on the surface of the sword suddenly became unstable, and countless fine, spiderweb-like cracks appeared simultaneously from the guard to the tip.

Cracks spread rapidly in the sword light, accompanied by a series of subtle and crisp cracking sounds, until the entire sword broke apart inch by inch in his hand.

The broken blade clattered and fell onto the table and the gold-brick floor, leaving Zhou Ming with only a sword hilt wrapped in silver thread.

Zhou Ming looked down at the broken iron scattered on the ground and shook his head.

No matter how sharp the swords and blades of the mortal realm may be, they are ultimately just ordinary iron and cannot bear his magical power.

Even if he only poured in a trace, the sword couldn't withstand it and shattered.

After thinking about it, Zhou Ming felt that he should forge a magic weapon himself.

In his previous life, he read novels that people in the Qi Refining stage could use earth fire to forge magical artifacts. Now that he was in the Nascent Soul stage, and had such a large purple-gold Nascent Soul in his dantian, he should be able to forge a flying sword, right?

Fire is needed for refining weapons.

In my previous life, when I read novels, I learned that Golden Core cultivators would develop Dan Fire within their bodies. When they reached the Nascent Soul stage, Dan Fire would evolve into Nascent Soul Fire, becoming much more powerful and capable of melting even rare and precious materials.

The Infant Fire should be inside the Nascent Soul, and it is one with the Nascent Soul, just like his magical power, which can be summoned at will.

Zhou Ming sat cross-legged and focused his mind on his dantian.

The golden nascent soul sat cross-legged in the void above the dantian, its eyes slightly closed, motionless.

Zhou Ming tried to use his mind to manipulate the nascent soul, causing it to release nascent soul fire.

The nascent soul opened its eyes, raised its hand in a gesture, but nothing happened.

He tried again, repeatedly imagining flames erupting from the Nascent Soul's fingertips, but not a single wisp of smoke appeared, let alone flames.

Zhou Ming changed his approach.

Perhaps the Infant Fire shouldn't come from the Nascent Soul's fingertips, but rather the Nascent Soul's entire body should transform into flames?

He tried to ignite the nascent soul with his mind, but the nascent soul remained motionless.

He then tried to force his magical power out of his nascent soul and condense it into the shape of flames in his dantian.

The heat in my dantian lasted for a while, and then there was no further response.

Zhou Ming opened his eyes, frowned, and recalled the settings of the novels he had read in his previous life.

Infant Fire is the primordial fire of a Nascent Soul cultivator, and in theory, every Nascent Soul cultivator should be born with it.

Why can't he get it working? Is his method wrong?

The Wuying Hall remained brightly lit for the entire following night.

Zhou Ming sat cross-legged on the low couch, sometimes closing his eyes to concentrate, and sometimes gesturing with his fingers in the air.

The hall was quiet, with only the occasional crackling sound of the lamp wicks popping open.

No matter how he tried, not a single flame appeared at his fingertips.

After much commotion throughout the night, until it was pitch black outside the window and the lanterns under the eaves for night watchmen went out.

Zhou Ming still couldn't spark an argument. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, exhausted, and closed his eyes. He felt even more tired than when Dongmei made him squat in a horse stance in the training ground for an entire afternoon back then.

The sky was beginning to lighten with the first light of dawn.

The first ray of morning light pierced through the carved window frame, slanting across Zhou Ming's profile and casting a narrow, pale golden patch on the floor and the table.

Zhou Ming squinted, as if sensing something.

The sunlight brings light and heat, not from inside any object, but from a higher external source, directly illuminating the entire room.

Zhou Ming suddenly realized, why must we force the nascent soul to generate its own nascent soul fire, instead of using the energy of the nascent soul's body to stimulate its growth?

Sitting cross-legged, Zhou Ming once again focused his mind on his dantian, no longer commanding his nascent soul to "spit out flames," but instead truly merging his mind and nascent soul into one.

No longer seeing myself as a physical body sitting cross-legged on a low couch, but as the little purple-gold figure in my dantian.

The purple-gold figure stretched out its tiny right hand, and a wisp of extremely fine and pure magic power flowed from its fingertips.

The little man raised his left hand, channeling the magical power surging from his right hand between his two hands. Using his own soul as a guide, he carefully, attentively, and slowly rotated and ground the energy.

Just as the magical power was being ground to its limit, a faint wisp of purplish-gold flame silently appeared between the Nascent Soul's hands.

Zhou Ming's physical body on the low couch opened its eyes and raised its right hand.

A tiny purplish-gold flame suddenly ignited at his fingertips.

The flame was only the size of a candle, hovering quietly above his fingertips. It was entirely purple-gold, extremely bright at the center, but the outer flame was as soft as a thin veil.

It didn't have any scorching heat, and you couldn't even feel the temperature, but Zhou Ming felt a chill run down his spine as he stared at the pulsating purple-gold light.

He could sense the terrifying power contained within that tiny flame.

He finally understood why even a mortal sword couldn't withstand a trace of his magic power; in the face of this infant fire, a piece of ordinary iron was probably less durable than a piece of withered grass.

Zhou Ming grinned, brought his fingertips close to his eyes, and watched the wisp of purple-gold flame dance obediently on his fingertips.

It can fly.

There's a fire.

Next.

I should forge myself a flying sword.