I Might Be a Big Shot — Chapter 42
The pain that pierced his very soul drove Li Xinglun to the brink of madness with every passing second. With each stroke of the blade, Xuan Minglie made Li Xinglun’s hands tremble uncontrollably, despite all his effort to maintain composure — it was impossible to suppress this agony that came from the soul itself.
Xuan Minglie watched Li Xinglun with intrigued amusement. This young Golden Core stage cultivator once again displayed something extraordinary before him. Even after several hundred years, Xuan Minglie vividly remembered the pain of the Blood-Severing Art, a torment etched into the soul for life. Time could erase most scars, but not those engraved on the soul.
Back then, Xuan Minglie recalled, he had let out a gut-wrenching roar — a sound no one would believe a human could produce. To prevent him from thrashing about in agony, the practitioner had restrained his body with an artifact but had not silenced his voice. The valley echoed with his howls, birds and beasts fled in terror.
But Li Xinglun never uttered a sound. Moreover, Xuan Minglie had maliciously refrained from restraining his movements, forcing him to rely solely on his willpower to endure. In Xuan Minglie’s view, the Blood-Severing Art was bound to fail — no one could remain so still.
Yet Li Xinglun never moved, never cried out. Apart from those involuntary tremors, he endured: one hour, two hours, three hours…
After twelve full hours, the blood patterns were only halfway complete. Li Xinglun’s gaze grew vacant from the endless pain, yet deep within his eyes, a light continued to burn, growing ever brighter under the grind of suffering.
At last, Xuan Minglie could not help but say, “Even if I don’t allow you to move, you didn’t have to endure to this extent. At least cry out — it can distract you and lessen the pain.”
Above all, such endurance was unnecessary. Having gone through it himself, Xuan Minglie knew exactly how excruciating it was — why put on a brave face before him?
Li Xinglun said nothing. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Fortunately, Xuan Minglie was quite good at reading lips. He saw Li Xinglun saying: He… is… outside…
Those four words said it all — no further explanation needed. Changkong Zhuoyu was standing guard outside. Since he had laid the formation himself, even if he refrained from probing with his divine sense to avoid disturbing them, he could still hear any sounds of pain. The moment he heard Li Xinglun cry out, Changkong Zhuoyu — given his temperament — might endure and not come in, but he would worry, pace outside in frustration, perhaps even twist his long, smooth hair into a tangled mess. Or perhaps, just as he dismissed his own gender, he would see this as nothing but a bodily ordeal, not worth caring about.
But even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand chance, Li Xinglun didn’t want Changkong Zhuoyu to worry about him in the slightest.
Xuan Minglie could not understand such behavior. Just to spare someone worry, he would suppress himself to this degree? Such intense feeling — Xuan Minglie had never known it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t admire it. For once, he tactfully kept quiet, and instead mouthed: “If you can endure this pain, you are destined for greatness.”
With such steely resolve, what hardship could possibly defeat him?
Yet Li Xinglun didn’t even notice Xuan Minglie’s lip movements. Every ounce of his focus was on fighting the pain. With each stroke of the blood patterns, his blood would seep out, and true essence would flow along the pattern into his veins, stimulated and guided by some mysterious force, turning into blood and circulating through his body. But this was not truly his blood. If the Blood-Severing Art was completed, a cultivator could transcend the body — even if the flesh was destroyed, the patterns remained engraved upon the soul. As long as a sliver of divine sense and true essence endured, the body could be rebuilt along the pattern’s lines — virtually immortal and indestructible.
The Blood Fiend Patriarch, whom the righteous sects of Mount Shu had struggled mightily to eradicate, was once such a being. Had it not been for the Twin Swords of Purple and Azure annihilating his soul completely in an instant, he might have still been be wreaking havoc in the mortal realm.
Once the Blood-Severing Art succeeded, even if unable to withstand the heavenly tribulation, one need not self-destruct or seize another’s body — they could still cultivate in their own flesh, merely needing time to recover. If one no longer feared the tribulation, why would they fear an artifact forged from the blood of one’s own kin?
Yet how many in this world could endure the pain of the Blood-Severing Art? Many saw their souls shatter before completion. If one’s cultivation was a bit higher, they might bear it — but this art could no longer be performed past the Nascent Soul stage. All who practiced it did so at the Golden Core stage at most, when their souls were not yet strong — enduring it was unimaginably difficult.
Gradually, Li Xinglun’s body was covered in blood patterns. As Xuan Minglie began engraving his chest, he mouthed again: At the chest, the heart’s blood is completely replaced. This is the most crucial part — a misstep here means death. When carving this pattern, the practitioner and the subject must synchronize perfectly; any mistake and the heart stops. Remember that.
He still respected Li Xinglun’s wishes — tactful, or one might say malicious — and did not speak aloud. By now, Li Xinglun might not even hear sound. Even staring into his pain-dimmed eyes, could he even see his lip movements?
Li Xinglun seemed not to notice Xuan Minglie at all, his gaze fixed on the palace ceiling. In his pupils, only that undying little light remained.
Xuan Minglie gave a wicked smile. He was, after all, a sect master of the demonic path, and one who had himself succeeded in the Blood-Severing Art. How many in ten thousand years had fully mastered this art? Only the Blood Fiend Patriarch had managed such a feat. Having endured the same unbearable pain, how could Xuan Minglie be a good man? Having finally attained such power, how could he willingly let this gifted youth also gain it? He would not defy Changkong Zhuoyu’s orders, but he could still make harmless little mischief during the ritual.
No particular reason — merely his petty rebellion against this heaven-defying master and disciple.
He stabbed the blade ruthlessly into Li Xinglun’s chest, carving the blood pattern into the heart through the ribs — but allowed no true essence to flow into the heart with the blade. Xuan Minglie smiled faintly.
Li Xinglun no longer knew where he was or why he endured this torment. In a haze, he saw a swirl of white mist — somehow so enticing that he longed to reach out and touch the figure within.
He touched it. The warmth of smooth jade made him reluctant to let go. A familiar voice said to him: “Disciple, you’ve touched your master’s armpit again. It’s ticklish — this master’s solemn mask is about to crack with laughter.”
Master? Did he have a master? Why would someone of such lofty status need to keep a mask?
Li Xinglun remembered nothing. His body moved on instinct — an instinct that refused to let go. Without thinking, he asked: “Master, is that really your armpit I’m touching?”
The figure in the mist gave no answer — only the mist dispersed, and Li Xinglun clearly saw his own hand resting on someone’s chest, stroking it with faint intimacy. He looked up and saw a face that struck directly into his heart — breathtakingly beautiful. {Honestly, from the previous flirting hint, I suspected that would be his ass rather than his chest...}
This was someone he must hold in his heart and never forget. Even if his chest no longer held warm blood, it would be filled by this person.
In that instant, his long-stilled heart began to beat again, once, then again. As Xuan Minglie carved the final pattern, Li Xinglun’s dilated pupils refocused, meeting Xuan Minglie’s astonished gaze.
“The art is complete, yes?” Li Xinglun asked.
“…Yes…” Xuan Minglie replied hoarsely.
The moment he spoke, the palace door was kicked open from outside, and Changkong Zhuoyu strode in. At first glance, all he saw was crimson — nothing but red covered the palace floor.
“Xuan Minglie!” For the first time, Changkong Zhuoyu’s voice carried unrestrained fury. He leapt to Li Xinglun’s side, flipped his hand, and a spontaneous formation enveloped Xuan Minglie.
“Don’t think that just because you mastered the Blood-Severing Art I can’t deal with you!” Changkong Zhuoyu’s words were venomous. “There are plenty of ways to make someone unable to live or die!”
It seemed that even while outside, his divine sense had kept watch here. He knew exactly what Xuan Minglie had done midway.
“Master,” a cold, lifeless hand gripped Changkong Zhuoyu’s wrist, “don’t be angry. I can understand the Sect Master of the Xuan Ming’s jealousy. He only tried to make me deaf to it, not conceal anything. If I can’t even overcome this little difficulty, how can I be worthy to be your disciple?”
Changkong Zhuoyu touched Li Xinglun’s face — still icy cold. To have drained his blood from his flesh — how could he still have warmth?
He pressed a hand to Li Xinglun’s chest, feeling that steady heartbeat, and finally relaxed.
At least his heart still beat. He was still alive.
Only now all his righteous energy had turned to blood energy — he could no longer be a righteous sect cultivator.
Changkong Zhuoyu’s hand lingered on Li Xinglun’s chest. Li Xinglun’s bloodless cheeks flushed faintly, and he murmured, “Master, I’m still not dressed, you know.” {Payback time #1}
His previous clothes had been drenched in blood and couldn’t be worn again. Changkong Zhuoyu quickly withdrew his hand. “This master will find you some robes at once.”
“No need, I have something ready,” Li Xinglun said calmly.
With that, he reached into the air, and the blood on the floor gathered, weaving in midair into a blood-red robe that draped itself over him.
Li Xinglun leapt down from the platform to the floor. In just over twenty hours, his height had increased considerably. From being nearly equal to Changkong Zhuoyu, he now stood half a head taller. {He was originally half a head taller...}
Wearing that blood-red robe, he stood quietly in the palace. Clearly just a freshly-forged Bloodborne Soul demonic cultivator, yet already exuding a presence impossible to ignore.
{Bloodborne Soul — the perverse version of the Nascent Soul.}
In appearance and aura, he was almost indistinguishable from the legendary Xue Qianjie.
{By now it should already be obvious the one is the other; the only question remaining is whether Li Xinglun is the future or the past. I rather imagine the latter, since Xue Qianjie appeared out of nowhere and knew he had to wait for a calamity. Li Xinglun will probably activate the Time-Space Wheel at some point, making a connection with Changkong Zhuoyu in the past, leading up to the other's long sleep while Li Xinglun takes the slow road forward. Maybe they even slept together for a while, but eventually got separated. Meanwhile, in the present, Xue Qianjie will come out of the demon realm once the rift opens up sufficiently.}
~ Chapter End ~
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