Cluck! Cluck!
The chicken shrieked the moment Lang Lin drew near. But he wasn't worried about it escaping—the ropes held it fast, no matter how wildly it thrashed.
With one hand he gripped its neck, holding it still, while the other drove the syringe into its flesh. Slowly, he pushed the plunger, letting the ancient blood seep inside.
He wasn't sure where the veins were, but the neck seemed the easiest place to inject.
The chicken's cries grew frantic, louder than the screams of slaughter.
The moment the blood entered its body, its eyes flared crimson. A wave of ancient aura burst outward.
Crack, crack—its bones snapped and shifted violently. Its body swelled grotesquely, ballooning until it stood three meters tall in the blink of an eye.
The transformation didn't stop there. Bone pushed through its face as liquid before solidifying into a grotesque mask. The beak became hidden behind jagged ivory, resembling the visage of some monstrous lizard-man. Three bulging red eyes opened in vertical alignment, blinking with eerie flashes of scarlet light, locking straight onto Lang Lin.
A chill seized him. His body trembled uncontrollably as he felt the wild surge of qi and blood radiating from the beast.
More cracking sounds filled the air as the creature writhed. Bone spikes bulged from its back, spiraling outward into a grotesque drill-like structure, a white helix that grew larger and larger. Its feathers darkened, turning the deep, sticky red of blood.
Then, with a deafening boom, it exploded.
Blood and flesh sprayed across the shed, leaving only a grotesque puddle. The second chicken, bound nearby, had already died—its chest ruptured, unable to withstand the suffocating force of released qi.
A knock came at the door.
"Didn't I say no one enters without permission?!" Lang Lin barked, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Understood, Boss," Zhang Bao's muffled voice replied. "But I felt… something. I was worried."
Felt something? Lang Lin frowned. Could Zhang Bao have been cultivating some hidden art? His clothes resembled those of a wandering martial artist, and he had appeared out of nowhere, trading labor for meals. Perhaps he had once lived in the mountains, seeking experience?
No. Impossible.
To Lang Lin, Zhang Bao was nothing more than a muscle-headed glutton. A man like that couldn't possibly possess the discipline of a cultivator.
Most likely he'd just heard the sound of the chicken's explosion.
"Exactly," Lang Lin muttered to himself.
He sent Zhang Bao away again. The giant returned to the house, brow furrowed with unease.
"What was that feeling of danger?" Zhang Bao whispered as he walked, his face troubled.
Back in the shed, Lang Lin surveyed the carnage. Flesh and bone littered the floor. The stench was overwhelming.
Disgust twisted his stomach, but there was no choice. He couldn't let Zhang Bao help—how could he explain the blood-soaked remains of a chicken that had turned into a monster and exploded?
So he cleaned it himself, working until sunset. Only after bathing and changing into fresh clothes did he collapse onto his bed.
The mirror showed his face still dark and ordinary, without a trace of handsomeness. But Lang Lin didn't care. He had money now. With money, women would come to him regardless of his looks or crippled legs.
Money was God.
Still, his mind remained fixed on the experiment.
"The blood and qi were too violent. The chicken transformed, becoming monstrously strong, but its body couldn't endure it. That's why it exploded…" He rubbed his temples. "I'll need to reduce the dose. Maybe then they can withstand it. But what if it still fails? That would be wasting precious blood."
The blood was priceless. There were only ten liters. He couldn't squander it carelessly. Unlike money, which could always be earned again, this blood might be a once-in-a-lifetime gift from another world.
He paced his room for half an hour, deep in thought. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, flicking toward Zhang Bao's room. A strange smile curved across his lips—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, as though it belonged to another person entirely.
That night passed quickly. Lang Lin didn't even check his e-book sales online. Exhaustion weighed him down, and he fell into sleep almost immediately.
At dawn, sunlight spilled across a fresh new day. Lang Lin rose with a smile, heading to the waterhole.
Morning air lifted his spirits. He stripped down and slipped into the water, beginning his daily practice of water-breathing.
Threads of pure energy swam around him like translucent worms before diving into his nostrils and flowing through his body. His frame shuddered as more foul black liquid seeped from his pores.
A grin spread across his face. "This technique really is incredible. Every day I grow stronger. My blood and qi are transforming. Even my crippled legs…"
He glanced down at his bent limbs. Still crooked, but undeniably straighter than before. Slowly, steadily, they were healing.
There was only one explanation: the water-breathing technique.
It was a miracle.
He climbed out of the water, body light and refreshed, throwing punches into the air. Joy bubbled up inside him. Where once five punches left him drenched in sweat, now he managed thirty before breaking a sweat, fifty before stopping.
His strength was approaching that of an ordinary man. And with time, with this technique and the dimensional ring, he would surpass them all.
He had yet to step fully into the path of cultivation. The first stage was qi gathering, divided into three levels: low, middle, and high. For now, he was in none of them, for the qi he drew each day remained too little to break free of mortality.
Still, he knew from the manuals: the higher the cultivation, the longer the lifespan.
People craved what they lacked—companionship, beauty, wealth. But the ultimate desire, once wealth was secured, was always the same. Longevity.
From emperors to commoners, the yearning for eternal life had never faded. Secret experiments had always existed in pursuit of it.
Yet all had failed.
But now, Lang Lin smiled faintly. He had found the way. If not immortality, then centuries of life at the very least—if he reached the higher realms of cultivation.
And if he died before then?
Nothing would remain.