Chapter Thirty-Six: The Ancient Demon Transforms, Nine Infernal Trials!

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Fine rain drifted down, the cold wind biting, and Xia Xianyu’s face was etched with bewilderment. Yet at that moment, the rain grew heavier, blurring everything into obscurity. After that single punch, all began to dissolve into a hazy indistinctness. Once again, the ashen mist around him surged forth from some unknown place, returning everything to its original state.

Yu Daoyi was still suspended in midair, his expression frozen as if time itself had halted. In his eyes, there was only that punch—its raw power, its dominance, its otherworldly strangeness. Parting the gray mist, he felt as though an enormous fist was rushing toward him, swelling ever larger until, beneath its shadow, he was insignificant, utterly defenseless, and could be crushed to dust at any moment.

As if guided by some unseen force, Yu Daoyi slowly raised his right hand and formed a fist. A faint red glow coiled about it—so pale it seemed a breath of wind would disperse it. Then, bending slightly at the waist, he struck forward with a punch, mimicking precisely the posture he had seen in the dream.

His expression was grave, and even his face showed a trace of that same eerie quality. The two fists collided, shattering all reality in an instant.

It was as if waking from a great dream, and all that had transpired seemed nothing more than illusion. Flowers in a mirror, the moon in water—when all was done, there was no conclusion at all. Unable to escape the entanglement of mortal dust, it was all but a dream of fate. In the end, it was just the myriad distractions of the mortal world, endless thoughts swirling.

He never saw the end—never learned who triumphed or fell in that final war, who that person was, not even his name, or whether he was man or monster. Had he truly slaughtered the world for the sake of one person? All of it remained a mystery.

At the end of this grand dream, it seemed all he gained was the knowledge of that punch, with nothing more to follow. He could only sigh with a touch of melancholy.

Truly, I was missing a bucket of popcorn. What a pity.

And to think it ended on a cliffhanger! Utterly disgraceful!

He glanced down at his right hand. In that moment of sudden awakening, he had felt an instant of deep empathy—as though the essence of that punch had been imprinted in his memory, indelible.

So what on earth is that wretched book?

His old man must still be hiding something from him. Wasn’t he supposed to be using him as a shield, and nothing more?

He steadied himself, shaking off wild speculation. No matter its origins, the thing was still damaged, likely only a quarter whole. It had been with his old man for so long without incident; surely it couldn't do him any harm in the short term. Yes, there couldn’t possibly be a problem.

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He told himself to have faith—he wasn’t the sort of magnet for trouble that drew every imaginable calamity. No, surely not.

Yu Daoyi shook his head lightly, but the name Xia Xianyu truly did ring a bell. He was certain he’d encountered it somewhere before, more than once even. Otherwise, with his memory, he wouldn’t have such a strong impression—he knew himself well enough.

Here, nothing could be known for certain. He would have to investigate further after returning. For now, there was a more pressing matter at hand.

How the hell do I get out of here?!

Is this a joke? The movie’s over! Time for the audience to leave!

They didn’t even give me a bucket of popcorn! And locked the doors! Is this even humane?

From prior experience, he should have awakened by now. Feeling dejected, Yu Daoyi sat amid the void, chin in hand, pondering why he had found himself here once more.

From beginning to end, what mattered most was that punch. All had ended after that punch—profound and oddly familiar. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall whether he had seen that punch somewhere before.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open—the last punch he had delivered against the Black Gold Panther!

It was subtle and hidden, but there was a trace of resemblance. His own punch and the one he had witnessed were worlds apart, utterly incomparable, yet that punch had struck a chord of familiarity within him.

Could it be that only by mastering that punch would he be allowed to leave?

He clenched his right hand, feeling a hint of frustration—his talent for cultivation was truly lacking.

He was well aware of that.

In this void, time lost all meaning. Here, nothing mattered—so quiet it was almost frightening. Who knew what might emerge from the gray mist?

He had no idea how long had passed, nor how many methods he had tried.

At last, Yu Daoyi, exhausted and helpless, kept swinging his 'Qilin arm' over and over, drenched in sweat. He had been practicing like this for ages, trying to recapture a sliver of that previous sensation.

The longer he remained here, the stronger his urge to throw that punch became. Strangely, his subconscious insisted that only by recapturing the feeling of that punch—only by truly unleashing it—could he escape this void.

There was no sense of time, no boundaries to space. He felt neither hunger nor weariness.

He imitated, again and again, endlessly.

There was no talent, no shortcut—only the memory of that punch before him, unforgettable.

He told himself, over and over, he could not remain trapped here forever. If he lacked talent, he would follow the basics; if there was no shortcut, he would practice with diligence!

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Gradually, things began to change. In the endless void, a faint red glow flickered in the gray mist.

When repetition lost all meaning, Yu Daoyi’s gaze grew vacant, yet a faint red light radiated from him—weak, but identical in essence to the figure from the vision, differing only in strength.

Fist after fist he struck, until, after countless blows, he suddenly stopped without warning. Clenching his fist tightly, his sweat-soaked, delicate features seemed subtly transformed—it was impossible to say where, but something was undeniably different. The red glow at last faded from his body, gathering entirely in his right hand.

One punch—unstoppable!

One punch—piercing the darkness!

One punch—splitting the mist in two!

One punch—shattering the void!

His eyes were no longer empty; awareness returned. He felt as though all strength had been drained from him, exhaustion overwhelming, and the mist in the void blurred away. Drowsiness swept over him once more.

Just before he lost consciousness, he seemed to hear a faint voice from ahead—so ethereal it was barely audible, yet a few words rang clear in his ears.

“Ancient Demon’s Transformation, Ninefold Inferno!”

With that, as if a mirror shattered, a blinding light returned to his sight.

He blinked, a surge of strength coursing through his body, though his mind remained weary. At last, he had returned to reality.

He let out a long, heavy breath.

He couldn’t help but marvel at this ‘movie’—the ticket price was outrageously high!

Thinking back on his numb actions at the end, at least he hadn’t been too slow-witted, or else who knows how long he would have been trapped. Next time, perhaps he should greet that blasted book, try to get on its good side. If it kept dragging him in for these little reunions, who knows—one day he might never come out again…

He steadied himself and, with barely open eyes, peered ahead. Night had fallen unnoticed, darkness enveloping the world. The cries of some unknown birds echoed in his ears. In front of him was a campfire, surrounded by scattered white powder—he recognized it as the insect-repelling powder he carried to ward off poisonous bugs and bees.

Opposite the fire sat two people. One sat ramrod straight, eyes closed as if in light slumber, an aura around him that warned strangers away. His cold expression might as well have had “Keep away from me” scrawled across it. If not for his striking good looks, with another face he would be the sort of person others would want to punch on sight.

Beside him, a young maiden with bright eyes and pearly teeth sat atop a fallen tree trunk. Her brows were elegant and her posture graceful. She idly stirred the fire with a twig, her gaze fixed on the flames, delicate brows faintly furrowed, lost in some unknown thought.