Elderly Martial Saint: Sixty Times the Cultivation Speed ​​at the Start

The sounds of fighting from the direction of the ancestral hall lasted for far too long.

Yi Yang squatted behind the broken wall in the south of the village, his fingers resting on the hilt of his knife, counting his breaths.

One hundred breaths. Two hundred breaths. Three hundred breaths.

According to Liao Xu's plan, the five of them should have been able to overwhelm a Qi and Blood Level 3 deacon, plus two Qi and Blood Level 2 deacons, within thirty breaths at most. But now, the commotion at the ancestral hall has not only not stopped, but is getting bigger and bigger.

The clang of metal against metal, a muffled groan, the sound of bones cracking.

There was also a surge of qi and blood, excessively powerful.

That's not the kind of movement you should see when you're in the third stage of Qi and Blood.

Yi Yang lowered his eyelids, lifted the knife from his lap, and crouched low, crept along the base of the abandoned wall towards the north. His footsteps landed silently, his figure concealed by the moonlight and weeds, no different from an old cat foraging for food at night.

He stopped when he was about fifty paces from the ancestral hall.

We can't get any closer.

With sufficient hearing, one's Qi and blood are all in good condition.

Intermittent words could be heard coming from the ancestral hall, cut off by the walls and the sounds of fighting.

"...Nine Evil Demons..."

"...Leave them all for me...to make Blood Pills...to help me break through to the fifth level of Qi and Blood..."

Yi Yang's pupils contracted.

Qi and Blood Level 5. Refining Impurities Realm.

That demon was not at the third level of Qi and Blood, but at the fourth level, and he even wanted to use the blood and blood of these people to refine pills and break through to the fifth level.

The tip was false.

Or rather, the tip itself is the bait.

Yi Yang pressed his back against the wall, his breathing becoming as shallow as possible. His mind raced with thoughts.

help?

Help me my ass.

The Nine Evil Sect's deacon, already at the peak of the fourth level of Qi and Blood cultivation, would see his combat power surge even further after consuming the Blood Essence Pill. While he wouldn't be outmatched if he charged in now, why take such a risk?

Yi Yang was well aware of his own strength: he was at the Qi and Blood Forging Bone Realm, his Nine Peaks Blade technique had just reached a minor mastery stage, and he also possessed an introductory internal cultivation method. In a head-on clash with this heretical madman at the fourth level of Qi and Blood Perfection, his chances of winning should be around 60-70%.

But he won't place a bet unless it's a 100% stake.

At sixty years old, his gambling instincts have long been worn away by the daily grind of life.

He chose to wait.

Wait for the situation to become clear, wait for the best opportunity.

Boom!

A loud crash came from the direction of the ancestral hall, and the ground trembled. Yi Yang peered out and saw, in the moonlight, that the main beam in the center of the ancestral hall was askew, most of the roof had collapsed, tiles and broken wood were flying everywhere, and dust was billowing into the sky.

Immediately afterwards, four figures rushed out from the smoke and dust.

Liao Xu ran in front, his left arm hanging down, his sword gripped in his right hand, his steps unsteady. Yi Zhanzhi followed closely behind, his face covered in blood, it was unclear whether it was his own or someone else's. Zhao He was being supported by Shen Qingyue, half of his arm dangling, running unsteadily.

Four people.

There are only four.

Song Wu did not come out.

Yi Yang glanced at the direction the four people had fled, then looked at the ruins of the ancestral hall.

A figure in a gray robe stepped out from the collapsed area, his feet crunching on broken tiles, his pace unhurried. Wang Gongqin wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, her eyes glowing with a sickly red light, and chased after Liao Xu and the other three.

He didn't look south of the village.

Yi Yang huddled in the shadow of the broken wall, suppressing even his blood circulation to the lowest level.

Only after the figure in the gray robe disappeared into the woods north of the village did Yi Yang exhale a breath of stale air.

Without hesitation, he bent down and crawled into the ruins of the ancestral hall.

Broken wood lay scattered, rubble littered the ground. The brazier overturned, embers still smoldering. The air was thick with the stench of blood, so strong it choked the throat.

The corpses of the nine cultists were scattered in various ways, some pierced by swords, others cleaved in two by broadswords, their postures contorted, blood pooling around them.

Yi Yang's gaze swept across the room and landed on a sturdy corpse in the corner.

Song Wu.

His chest was caved in, his ribs were all broken, his eyes were bulging out, and he hadn't finished exhaling his last breath; his mouth was still open.

Yi Yang didn't look at it much. Dead people weren't worth wasting time on.

His attention was drawn to something else.

Bloodstains.

It wasn't the kind of splashing from a fight, but rather a steady stream extending towards the back of the ancestral hall. A thin line, following the cracks in the floor tiles, meandered towards the backyard.

The backyard of the ancestral hall.

In a typical clan ancestral hall, the backyard is where the clan elders discuss matters, and their status is even higher than that of the main hall.

Yi Yang stepped over the broken tiles and the broken beam, following the trail of blood inside.

The backyard door was half open, with cobwebs hanging on the door frame, but the dust on the threshold was fresh from being stepped on.

Push the door open and go inside.

The courtyard was small, paved with blue bricks, with a shallow pit in the center. The pit was not deep, only about half a foot deep, but at the bottom it was filled with a dark red liquid, viscous, with a fishy and sweet taste, and it gleamed eerily in the moonlight.

Around the shallow pit, the floor tiles are engraved with patterns.

It wasn't decorative. The lines were curved and intersecting, radiating outwards from the shallow pit, each stained with dried blood. Some were deep, some shallow, as if repeatedly drawn.

Yi Yang squatted down and watched for two breaths.

It's a cult thing.

He didn't understand formations, nor did he want to. But the chilling feeling seeping from the ground made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

It wasn't fear. It was instinct warning me.

The bloodstains didn't end at the shallow pit. A thin line followed the grooves in the paving stones, extending towards the only room in the backyard.

Yi Yang stood up, his hand on the hilt of his knife, and his steps were extremely light.

The door was ajar.

He pushed it away with the back of his knife.

Squeak.

The room was small and simply furnished. There was an altar and two oil lamps that had long since gone out, their wicks charred black.

In the center of the offering table, there is a knife.

The blade is long and slender, slightly narrower than a typical waist knife, with a slightly curved back. The most eye-catching feature is the pattern on the blade, black and irregular, like veins growing from the bone, or like marks left by something that has eroded it.

Blood flowing in from the backyard converged along the grooves to the foot of the altar, forming a dark red ring.

The blood that flowed in was suppressing it.

Yi Yang stared at the knife for three breaths.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen good things before. The swords made for the Nine Peaks Sword Technique, and the goose feather sword that Luneng had, were all top-quality. But this one in front of him, just lying quietly on the offering table, exuded a sharpness that made one's hands itch.

The cult's deacon enshrined it here, suppressed it with a blood array, and even hid it in the backyard.

It is clearly a treasure, but the other party cannot use it for the time being.

No matter how you look at it, it shows that this thing is valuable.

Yi Yang didn't hesitate for long.

He reached out and gripped the knife hilt with his five fingers.

The blade trembled the moment I touched it.

hum.

A clear, ringing sound emanated from the blade's belly; it was silent, yet incredibly penetrating, like someone plucking a string on a musical instrument. The black patterns on the blade flickered briefly before falling silent again.

The knife is very light. Much lighter than it looks.

Yi Yang held the sword across his chest, his thumb tracing the back of the blade. It felt cool, smooth, without any burrs, and polished finer than a mirror.

"A fine knife."

The two words were squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying the kind of greed that only an old woodcutter would have when he saw a century-old tree.

The blood rings at the base of the offering table, no longer held by the knife, began to seep out. The array patterns on the floor tiles also darkened, as if their souls had been ripped away.

Yi Yang did not linger.

He tucked the knife behind his waist, covered it with his outer garment, and turned to leave the backyard.

With quick and steady steps, they passed through the ruins of the ancestral hall, avoiding the corpses, and retreated from the south of the village.

at the same time.

Deep in the woods north of the village, Wang Gongqin was chasing after Liao Xu and his three companions.

His speed was absurd; his gray robe billowed in the wind, and he seemed to be skimming the ground. Liao Xu and the other three ran for their lives, with Yi Zhanzhi even throwing away his longsword to lighten the load, but the distance was still closing.

Just as Wang Gongqin was about to catch up, he suddenly stopped.

It felt like someone was choking him.

He turned his head.

Looking towards the abandoned village of Shiqiao, several miles behind.

The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an almost twisted rage.

"Put my things down!"

That shout cleaved through the night, startling countless birds into flight in the forest.

Liao Xu and his companions ran for more than ten steps before realizing that the pressure of their pursuit had vanished. They turned around and saw the gray-robed figure rushing back like a madman, disappearing into the darkness in the blink of an eye.

The four looked at each other, none of them knowing what had happened.

Liao Xu clutched his left arm, his face deathly pale, blood trickling from between his fingers. He gritted his teeth, glanced at the three people behind him, and then looked in the direction of the abandoned village.

"Walk."

Yi Zhanzhi was breathing heavily, his throat tasting of blood. "Senior Brother Liao, those three from the Sky Patrol Division are still in the village..."

"It's beyond our control."

Liao Xu's voice was cold, cold without the slightest hesitation.

"That demon's Qi and Blood are at the fourth level of perfection. He's even stronger after consuming the Blood Essence Pill. The four of us combined wouldn't be enough to defeat him. Going back would just be suicide."

Yi Zhanzhi opened his mouth, but didn't say anything more.

Shen Qingyue supported Zhao He and whispered, "Go back and report to the Sky Patrol Division, and have them send experts."

Liao Xu nodded and led the three of them into the night.

Half an hour later.

Yunwen Town, the backyard of the Sky Patrol Bureau.

When Yi Yang entered through the side gate, the courtyard was quiet. The night patrol guard was dozing in the gatehouse, not even lifting his eyelids.

Nobody noticed him.

No one paid any attention to an old man ranked thirty-fourth, returning home late at night.

Yi Yang returned to his small courtyard, closed the gate, and bolted it.

The knife was not brought back.

On his way back, he took a detour to Qingmu Mountain. The cave where he had hidden the purple wood last year was now completely covered by weeds and pebbles. Yi Yang wrapped the knife in three layers of oilcloth and stuffed it into a crevice deep inside the cave.

Not urgent.

The item is valuable, but its origin is sinister. There must be a reason why the Nine Heretical Cult members worship it and control it with their blood.

Using it rashly is no different from picking up a grenade that might explode at any time.

Let's figure it out first.

Yi Yang sat on the edge of the bed, took off his boots, and stretched his toes.

I had a very fruitful night.

Lei Yun Martial Arts School defeated Song Wu, and Liao Xu and his three companions fled in disarray. The Nine Evil Cult Deacons revealed their true strength.

He was unharmed and even managed to grab a fine knife.

"To survive is to win."

Yi Yang lay down, a slight smile playing on his lips before closing his eyes. The touch of the black-patterned knife lingered in his palm. Cold, sharp, as if it were alive.