Chapter Twenty-One: The Will of Heaven

The old crone saw none of the panic or desperate pleading she had imagined; instead, she was met with Car Wuyou’s profound contempt. Her face darkened, fury twisting her features. “Fine, fine, fine! You insolent brat, don’t get cocky. Watch how I’ll deal with you, slowly and thoroughly.”

As soon as her words fell, she raised her hand and struck with her blade again, another spurt of blood arcing through the air.

With each cut, Car Wuyou was like a tattered sack being torn apart, his body nearly destroyed, his spirit almost shattered. Agonizing pain gnawed at his nerves like venomous snakes, and his consciousness faded in and out. Yet he stubbornly clenched his teeth, stifling every urge to cry out or beg for mercy.

Bloodshot eyes wide, he screamed hoarsely, “Crazy old hag! You’re a useless wretch, no wonder your son turned out just as worthless. He led a hundred men to attack one, yet not only did he lose, he was utterly wiped out. If he died, he has only himself to blame for his lack of skill. And you, instead of seeking open, honorable revenge, hide in the shadows torturing a child who can’t fight back. Ha! If your son had survived, he’d die of shame at your cowardice anyway—though that would save my big brother the trouble.”

Watching the old woman’s face contort, Car Wuyou felt a surge of satisfaction. “So, you really have the nerve—do you dare kill me?”

There was mockery in his voice, indifference, a biting sarcasm. In his eyes flickered a resolve as if he were a warrior marching to his doom—tragic, proud, and unspeakably lonely.

The little girl frowned at Car Wuyou’s words, but seeing the note of release in his gaze, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. She took a hesitant step forward, wanting to plead on his behalf, but then caught sight of her mistress’s twisted, manic face and her master’s stiff, uneasy expression, and shrank back, uncertainty clouding her delicate, doll-like features—mingled with a hint of sadness, a touch of helplessness, and a trace of sympathy for the stubborn boy.

Miao Shilin, hearing Car Wuyou’s scorn for his son, felt a flash of anger. Miao Zongbao was his pride, the most outstanding heir the Miao family had produced in a hundred years. Now that he was dead, Miao Shilin would not allow his reputation to be sullied, not even after death.

But as his gaze swept over Car Wuyou’s stubborn face and the look that defied both life and death, a thought struck him: was this child deliberately provoking them, hoping for a swift end? What a tenacious, unyielding spirit—such cunning in these dire circumstances. A pity his talent was so poor; otherwise, he might have become an excellent candidate for cultivation.

Glancing at his wife, whose eyes now blazed with homicidal madness, Miao Shilin sighed inwardly. She hated the Car family to the core, and now, provoked by Wuyou’s words, her rage had truly flared. She might actually kill him with a single blow.

He sent her a warning thought: “Now is not the time to kill Car Wuyou. If you do it now, you might vent your anger, but you’d be slapping the Huashan Sword Sect in the face, giving them a perfect excuse to retaliate. Even the Qingchi Sword Sect may not be able to protect us then.”

But the old crone, maddened by Car Wuyou’s taunts and humiliation, was far beyond listening. The moment his warning ended, she suddenly swung her blade—a flash of cold steel, silent as death, aimed straight at Car Wuyou’s head. She struck with the intent to kill, showing no mercy.

Miao Shilin had kept close watch on his wife. When he saw her strike without hesitation, he sighed—Car Wuyou had succeeded in enraging her. Miao Shilin’s body flickered like a breeze, silently appearing in front of Car Wuyou to intercept the fatal blow.

He bent down and pressed several points on Car Wuyou’s body, staunching the bleeding wounds. Seeing the boy battered and barely clinging to life, yet still gritting his teeth in silence, he couldn’t help but wonder what strength sustained such stubbornness and resolve.

Miao Shilin extended his hand, probing Car Wuyou’s bones and constitution, shaking his head as he went. As he expected, the boy’s talent was utterly mediocre, his bones ordinary—a useless physique by cultivation standards. But just as he was about to withdraw, his eyes narrowed, his expression uncertain.

Afraid he might be mistaken, he ran his hands over Car Wuyou again, carefully checking several key points. The more he examined, the stranger his face became. Finally, after a thorough search, a deeply complex expression overtook him—excitement, relief, disbelief, confusion all mingled together.

The others, seeing his strange demeanor, were astonished. What on earth had happened?

Night had grown deep. Miao Shilin stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the cold moon, lost in thought about the day’s events. At length, he heaved a long sigh, murmuring with a complicated expression, “The Medicine King Constitution—so rare, the Medicine King Constitution. Is it fate? Could it really be fate?”

He recalled how, while testing Car Wuyou’s bones earlier, he had instinctively used a secret Miao family technique to probe the boy’s spiritual sea. Within that nearly shattered yet unfathomable sea, besides Car Wuyou’s own consciousness, he had discovered a peculiar region containing a mysterious, formidable spiritual force.

Few people possessed spiritual force in their sea of consciousness; fewer still had spiritual power as strong as Car Wuyou’s. His seemed to reach the second grade, Miao Shilin mused.

He remembered the Miao family’s treasured Classic of Qi Huang, which described spiritual force: “Spiritual force is mysterious and unpredictable, divided into five grades. Ordinary people possess none; only cultivators with sufficient mastery gain any at all, and most remain at the ungraded level. Only those of profound attainment reach the first or second grade. Cultivating this classic requires spiritual force as its foundation; without at least first-grade spiritual force, never attempt it, lest disaster follow. Remember, remember…”

Miao Shilin shook his head, a wry smile at his lips. He had spent over a century searching high and low for a child with strong spiritual force to inherit the family’s Classic of Qi Huang. He had traveled all across the Southern Frontier, even venturing to distant Central Plains. Yet after all that searching, he’d found nothing.

And now, as the saying goes, “Flowers don’t bloom when planted with care, willows grow green when planted by chance.” Right under his nose, effortlessly, appeared someone with spiritual force—and at the formidable second grade, no less.

Of all the people he knew, only his own son, Miao Zongbao, could match Car Wuyou’s spiritual power. Zongbao, heir of the Medicine King, possessed second-grade spiritual force, but that was mostly due to the inheritance of Medicine King blood; nothing to marvel at. As for himself, his spiritual force was only first-grade—barely above average even in the Miao family’s history. In fact, many ancestors had reached the third grade, and even the fourth grade had been seen twice. But for a mere wastrel from the Car clan to possess second-grade spiritual force and the Medicine King Constitution—this was truly rare. Most experts at the Core Formation stage had little to no spiritual force at all.

The Miao family’s rise and decline were both tied to the Classic of Qi Huang, yet its reputation as one of the greatest treasures in the cultivation world remained untarnished.

Back then, the Miao clan’s founder, an unknown youth, soared to prominence relying on this very classic. He himself scaled the heights of the Southern Continent, earning the title of Medicine King, entering an era where kings vied for supremacy. With his own hands, he transformed a feeble clan into one of the ten great cultivation families—the illustrious Miao clan of ten thousand years past, gathering countless masters beneath its banner.

But as time passed, the once-glorious Miao family declined sharply. The reasons for its downfall filled every descendant with dread, sorrow, and helplessness.

For ever since the Medicine King attained his peerless fame through the Classic of Qi Huang, it was as if a curse had settled on the Miao bloodline. Every descendant who cultivated the classic, regardless of talent or attainment, inevitably died within a decade or two, their meridians torn asunder.

It was a dark, oppressive era for the Miao family. Their most gifted practitioners perished one after another—the higher their spiritual force, the swifter their demise. Even the then-family head, Medicine King’s grandson, the famed Hundred Herbs Scholar, was left helpless.

The Hundred Herbs Scholar was himself a legendary figure. Though his cultivation could not compare to his ancestors, his perseverance and wisdom enabled him to blaze a new trail, creating the widely celebrated Classic of Hundred Herbs. Admittedly, this classic drew greatly from the Classic of Qi Huang, but his own achievements were nonetheless remarkable…