The Six Gates’ dungeon here had three levels, with the lower levels growing increasingly cold and damp. The prisoners held there became progressively more dangerous, including notorious outlaws and bloodthirsty heretics.
When Meng Qi, Qi Zhengyan, Duan Rui, Constable Wang, and the jailer entered the third level, they immediately felt a series of piercing gazes, each one seemingly tangible, clearly belonging to formidable individuals.
“Old Wang, I’ll f*** your mother! If you’ve got the guts, let me out and fight me fair and square. What kind of trickery is this, trapping me like a coward?” A rough and aggressive voice erupted, filled with fury and passion, shaking the iron chains and rattling the specially reinforced bars.
Constable Wang remained expressionless and ordered the jailer, “Starve him for three days.”
Turning to Meng Qi, he explained, “This is the notorious solo bandit Yuchi Gong. His martial arts skills are formidable. We expended great effort to finally capture him here locally. We plan to escort him to the capital after the New Year.”
He was quite proud of this achievement. Capturing a solo bandit who had repeatedly evaded capture was proof of his capability. As for the method used—who cared? No one ever said a constable had to be particular about how they captured criminals!
Yuchi Gong’s booming voice shook the entire third level, causing dust to fall from above. Standing eight feet tall with a muscular, coiled physique, even with his shoulder bones pierced, his tendons cut, and his acupoints sealed, his arrogance remained undiminished. His malevolence was palpable: “Old Wang, you damned hound, if I escape, I’ll slaughter your entire family and f*** your mother!”
Constable Wang ignored him completely, issuing another order to the jailer: “Three days isn’t enough. Keep starving him until he can’t even speak. If necessary, whip him eighty times.”
Yuchi Gong’s roars drowned out the other prisoners’ noise, making him the undisputed king of this level.
The jailer nodded repeatedly. Upon reaching an empty cell, he took out the key, opened the iron door, and locked Duan Rui’s hands and feet with unbreakable steel chains.
“It will take about three hours before the acupoints need re-sealing,” Meng Qi reminded.
Unwilling to remain in the cold, damp, and noisy environment, Constable Wang simply nodded and left. The jailer bowed: “Master Su, I won’t disturb your interrogation. If you need anything, come to the entrance of this level or just shout.”
Once Constable Wang and the jailer left, Yuchi Gong shifted his target, cursing Meng Qi and Qi Zhengyan: “Two brats barely out of their mothers’ wombs, playing interrogator now? Judging by your attire, you must be either noble sons or disciples of a sect, relying on your ancestors’ glory to have these hounds fawn over you.”
“In reality, your martial arts skills are as weak as water. If I weren’t locked up, I’d beat you both black and blue on the road. And if you brought women, I’d have my way with them—f*** your mother, I would!”
Spewing vulgarities, Yuchi Gong tried to provoke Meng Qi and Qi Zhengyan into irrational actions, like opening the cell door to beat him, giving him a chance to escape.
Meng Qi simply smiled at him, saying nothing, just watching quietly.
Suddenly, the cursing Yuchi Gong heard a strong, rhythmic heartbeat.
Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump—the sound had a strange cadence, as if echoing deep within his soul, causing resonance.
“What are you staring at? Got the guts to hit me?” Yuchi Gong continued shouting.
Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump—the heartbeat grew clearer. Yuchi Gong felt his own heart syncing with the rhythm. Meng Qi still smiled silently.
“Cowardly rat, pretty boy, clearly a faggot for sale…” Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump—the heartbeat quickened. Yuchi Gong felt his blood rushing, his head throbbing, unable to continue.
Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump—his heart beat beyond his endurance. His head spun, his vision turned red, and he felt his heart might explode.
He staggered backward, collapsed onto the ground, his face flushed, gasping for breath, utterly humiliated, as though death were imminent.
This young man was too strange!
Like a demon or a malevolent spirit!
What kind of martial arts was this?
“Senior Brother Qi, please watch the door for me,” Meng Qi said casually, his heartbeat returning to normal.
Once, he had read a martial arts novel where a devilish figure could control others’ heartbeats with his own, causing them to die mysteriously. Fascinated, he had taken a break during his three-month retreat to ask Ruan Yushu about the technique—Ruan Yushu had first demonstrated his power by controlling others’ heartbeats with zither music, so Meng Qi had long been intrigued. However, due to insufficient skill or time, he had never learned it properly.
Without involving specific zither techniques, Ruan Yushu generously shared the method. Meng Qi, having practiced the Eight-Nine Mystical Art, had exceptional control over every part of his body, including his heart. Thus, he had managed to imitate a similar technique—not particularly powerful, but useful for assassination or intimidation, primarily for relaxation and amusement.
Qi Zhengyan, still expressionless, nodded slightly: “Fine.”
He stood with the dragon-patterned golden sword, watching the surrounding cells.
The other prisoners fell silent. If even Yuchi Gong, one of the strongest and most defiant among them, had been humiliated without even being touched—just by being watched silently—it was better to keep a low profile.
What kind of strange technique was this?
Silencing Yuchi Gong without even speaking or moving!
In the silence, Meng Qi entered the cell and stood before Duan Rui: “To cure your soul-separation syndrome, we must first understand the entire story.”
Daoist Sage and Buddha, forgive me for deceiving a child, but I will find him a renowned physician!
“Master Su, please ask whatever you wish,” Duan Rui replied hopefully.
Meng Qi began by circling the question: “When did you first notice symptoms of soul-separation?”
Duan Rui recalled carefully: “It should have been shortly after my adoptive father went mad and left, when I became a beggar. At first, it wasn’t too severe, but after being bullied many times, I thought it was ‘retribution from evil spirits.’”
“What was your adoptive father’s background?” Meng Qi asked.
Duan Rui looked puzzled: “He was just my adoptive father.”
“When did you meet him?” Meng Qi asked directly.
Duan Rui finally understood: “About ten days before the beast went berserk, I found an injured old man in a hidden place outside the village. I bandaged his wounds and stopped the bleeding. After he woke up and didn’t want to see outsiders, he hid in a nearby cave. I often brought him yams and listened to his martial arts stories, which made me very happy. Later, he recovered, thanked me for saving his life, adopted me as his son, and taught me a physical conditioning technique. He always treated me well, like a real parent.”
Hmm, Duan Rui definitely didn’t have the skill to enter the deep mountains. If he had learned the Yijin Jing, someone must have brought it out. Could his adoptive father be a powerful master cultivating toxic techniques in the poison pool deep in the mountains? The beast going berserk might not be so simple either… Remaining calm, Meng Qi continued: “What distinctive features did your adoptive father have?”
“My adoptive father had very light eyebrows, a thin face, around forty or fifty years old, with messy hair…” Duan Rui described carefully.
Without obvious features, Meng Qi couldn’t reconstruct his appearance or guess his identity. He shifted focus: “Besides that, did your adoptive father teach you other techniques or give you anything else?”
“No,” Duan Rui answered firmly.
Meng Qi frowned: “Did your adoptive father practice that physical conditioning technique himself?”
“Yes, every night,” Duan Rui confirmed.
Meng Qi took a breath: “Did your adoptive father later go mad?”
Duan Rui’s gaze froze, his expression shocked. His adoptive father had gone mad after practicing the technique, and now he had soul-separation syndrome, nearly mad himself. Could it be because of the technique?
Though only two cases, Meng Qi seized the opportunity: “It seems the soul-separation syndrome originated from this physical conditioning technique. You should stop practicing it temporarily to see if there’s any change.”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” Duan Rui quickly agreed, relieved to have found the source.
Meng Qi hesitated slightly: “To cure the soul-separation syndrome, we likely need to address this technique. Why don’t you practice it once so I can see what’s wrong?”
He was very curious. Could it not be the Yijin Jing? For centuries, countless monks had practiced the Yijin Jing in Shaolin without reports of madness or demonic possession.
Eager for a cure and considering it just a basic physical conditioning technique, Duan Rui had no intention of hiding. He lay down, curled into a ball, hands on his abdomen, legs pressed against his chest, in a strange posture, his breathing gradually becoming deep and long.
Meng Qi expanded his awareness, his mind clear, vaguely reflecting Duan Rui’s flow of true energy, observing its changes and essence.
“It resembles Buddhist meditation…” Meng Qi carefully memorized the circulation routes and the speed and intensity of the energy flow, as Duan Rui showed no intention of concealing anything.
After completing one full cycle, Duan Rui changed posture, eventually performing nine in total, each increasingly strange and peculiar. The more he practiced, the more Meng Qi felt a growing sense of incompleteness and sinister toxicity.
Huff… Duan Rui exhaled, watching Meng Qi hopefully: “Master Su, my adoptive father said the order of the postures mustn’t be altered, or it would cause internal injury. Could it be that the order he believed correct was actually wrong?”
“It’s possible. Please describe the circulation routes of each posture in detail,” Meng Qi wanted to verify what he had sensed and also check if Duan Rui was lying.
Duan Rui answered honestly, matching exactly what Meng Qi had perceived.
Meng Qi occasionally questioned specific points, and Duan Rui answered fluently, consistent with actual practice, showing no signs of deception.
After memorizing the nine postures, Meng Qi said: “Each posture alone is extraordinary, but combined, they feel incomplete and eerie. It might indeed be the sequence. For now, stop practicing, forget the technique, and I’ll find a renowned physician to treat your soul-separation syndrome with medicine, acupuncture, and herbs. Once the ‘evil spirits’ are removed, the condition should be manageable.”
“Thank you, Master Su.” Duan Rui believed Meng Qi without doubt, as his conclusion matched his adoptive father’s.
Later, Meng Qi and Qi Zhengyan left, sincerely seeking a renowned physician to help Duan Rui.
At night, when it was time to reseal Duan Rui’s acupoints, the jailer opened the iron door.
“Soul-separation syndrome… didn’t expect it…” The jailer, a capable man himself, muttered casually as he squatted to reseal the points.
Suddenly, Duan Rui lifted his head. His eyes were deep and dark, pitch-black at a glance. He opened his mouth and spat, splattering the jailer’s face.
“Damn it…” The jailer had barely cursed before shrieking and collapsing. His face sizzled, and within two or three breaths, he was dead, his body completely blackened, with corrosive marks on his face.
Duan Rui pulled the jailer closer, retrieved the keys, unlocked the steel chains, stretched his limbs, and stepped out of the cell: “Trying to eliminate ‘me’? Deserved to die!”
“Brother, we’re all in the same boat. Help us escape, and there will be great rewards!” Yuchi Gong was overjoyed.
Duan Rui glanced coldly, his nearly black eyes devoid of emotion, then slowly approached.
Yuchi Gong first hesitated, then his hair stood on end, a sense of danger rising. He hastily shouted: “Don’t! Don’t come any closer!”
“Help!”
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