Is this the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique?
Zhang Wuyong stared at the Otherworldly Demonic Monk Cultivation System and silently reviewed the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique that had just poured into his mind. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that this was unmistakably a villain's cultivation art.
In that "other world," was the system positioning him as some villain who cultivated sinister techniques?
The Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique first required absorbing vast amounts of spiritual energy to condense demonic power within the body. After reaching a certain level, the cultivator then had to "absorb yin to replenish yang."
He glanced again at the background information displayed by the system—disciple of the Joyful Sect of the Demonic Path in the Mirage Sea Realm.
That other world might very well truly exist.
In that world, there was likely a demonic monk with the surname Zhang and the given or Dharma name "Wuyong," meaning "useless."
The so‑called mission of "forcing female disciples of the Immortal Sect to assist in cultivation" obviously was not meant to be as innocent as it had turned out here.
He was, after all, a dignified demonic cultivator of the Joyful Sect. Kidnapping a beautiful female disciple of the righteous path just to have her explain homework problems would be nothing short of a cosmic joke.
Even so, it was undeniable that, at least in this world, students doing homework could be regarded as a kind of "cultivation." When Zhao Yutong tutored him, she was indeed helping him to grow—just in a way far more wholesome than the system had likely intended.
In addition to the technique itself, a large amount of supplementary information had been implanted into his mind. Drawing on this new knowledge, Zhang Wuyong continued to dig through his memories.
Cultivation methods in that other world were divided into four ranks: Heaven, Earth, Profound, and Yellow. Anything below Yellow Rank was considered trash. Above Heaven Rank, there existed techniques so rare they were said to appear only once in ten thousand years.
In other words, the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique he had obtained was essentially the highest-level demonic art that most cultivators in that world could ever hope to encounter.
This system was truly generous.
Excitement surged in his chest.
According to its introduction, the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique was divided into nine levels. Upon completing the first level, one would gain immense strength. Upon reaching the second level, one's senses, perception, and awareness of the surrounding environment would all be greatly enhanced. Once he cultivated it to the third level, he would be able to extend his spiritual power outward and, even while sitting still, perceive every tiny detail within a radius of half a mile.
If he could reach the third level before the college entrance examination, then, when this ability was used in the examination hall, almost no one would be able to detect it.
Using a heaven‑rank demonic art just to cheat on an exam was unquestionably a monumental waste of potential. But for Zhang Wuyong, nothing in the world was more important right now than the college entrance exam.
As dusk fell, he closed his bedroom door and sat cross‑legged on the bed. His right foot was in a cast, but fortunately his knee could still bend. Using his right hand, he awkwardly adjusted the position of his injured leg until he could sit somewhat properly.
Following the initial steps of the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique, he focused his mind and attempted to draw in the spiritual energy of heaven and earth.
He remained motionless until midnight.
In the darkness, his eyes suddenly snapped open. A fierce glint flashed through them, and his gaze took on a faintly sinister edge. In that instant, it felt as if his nature had been brushed by demonic influence—armed with a demonic tome, a spark of killing intent rose unbidden in his chest.
His lips parted slightly, and he uttered a profound curse at the universe.
"Damn it."
Did this world… even have spiritual energy?
…
This world clearly did not.
Thinking it through, if true spiritual energy existed, monsters and the like would have appeared long ago.
It was not that Zhang Wuyong had never considered this before; he simply had not wanted to face it. Now, however, he was being forced to accept reality.
He collapsed backward onto the bed in frustration.
"Ow, ow, ow…"
The sudden movement tugged at his injuries, and pain shot through his leg. Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat back up and stretched his legs out.
He tried meditating while lying down. Then he tried turning over, and even pacing with his cane. None of it helped.
Not a trace of "spiritual energy" entered his body.
If he had to point out any change, it was that after hours of meditation and breathing exercises, he did not feel tired at all. In fact, he felt more energized.
But whether this was due to actual benefits from the Heavenly Demon Bliss Technique, or simply a mixture of adrenaline, frustration, and stubbornness was impossible to say.
In any case, breathing exercises, meditation, and mindfulness techniques were nothing rare in this world. Without spiritual energy, no one could become an immortal or a Buddha through them.
Even if this demonic breathing technique had some minor effect… it was still far from enough to get him into university through the college entrance examination.
Leaning on his cane, Zhang Wuyong got out of bed and limped to the window. He pulled open the curtains and looked out into the night.
It was pitch black, the darkness seemingly boundless.
He had clearly received the treatment of a protagonist—a system, and a heaven‑rank technique that cultivators in another world would dream of. Was this really all it amounted to?
Feeling oddly refreshed despite everything, he turned on the desk lamp, took out a math paper, and started working through the problems.
Hmm, I see… I see… I see nothing. What are these questions even talking about?
In that moment, getting hit by a dump truck felt more straightforward.
He could not understand a single science question and could barely recall the material for the humanities. Even so, he forced himself to study until dawn—and he did not feel sleepy at all. Those few hours of meditation had left his body feeling as if it had enjoyed a full night's rest.
Relying on this burst of energy, he tried memorizing English vocabulary.
After about ten words, his eyelids grew heavy.
Memorizing English words was truly the ultimate sleep aid.
What pressed down on him was not physical exhaustion. Rather, it felt like those twisted strings of letters were turning into earthworms, wriggling into his brain and making his head throb.
They were all Chinese—so why did the college entrance examination have to include English?
There was something fundamentally wrong with this education system.
In the end, he persevered for two full hours. As for how many words he actually remembered, he did not dare to think about it.
At lunchtime, his father, Zhang Tao, returned from the shop.
"I want to go back to school tomorrow," Zhang Wuyong told his family.
"What's the rush?" Zhang Tao frowned. "Your leg still needs time to heal. What if it gets worse if you hurry back?"
His mother came out of the kitchen with a bowl of pork rib soup. "You're already in your final year of high school; where do you find time to rest? The doctor said it's not a comminuted fracture, so it's not a big problem. If you don't go back soon, how will you ever catch up?"
"You won't be able to keep up even if you go," Zhang Tao muttered.
His wife shot him a glare. "You're one to talk. This is all your fault. You've been telling our son since he was little that it doesn't matter whether he studies well or not, as long as he's happy. That's why his grades are like this now."
Zhang Tao had indeed said such things many times.
He himself was not well educated and had taken to heart the so‑called "happy education" and the idea that "studying is useless" promoted by certain experts. From elementary school onward, while other parents pushed their children toward extra classes and tutoring, he did the opposite, afraid that his son would stop enjoying learning.
In junior high, when Zhang Wuyong was summoned by the principal for beating up a group of boys who had bullied a classmate, Zhang Tao lost his temper on the spot. Since the other side had been in the wrong, he had expected a calm discussion. Instead, trying to stand up for his son, he pounded the principal's desk, only making things worse. The principal, furious, said suspension might be unavoidable.
Zhang Tao had dragged his son away, saying, "If he has to be suspended, then so be it."
During the three months that Zhang Wuyong was out of school, his parents barely supervised him, letting him roam outside and mix with all manner of shady friends.
It was entirely due to his own belated awakening that, in the second semester of his third year of junior high, he knuckled down and barely squeezed into high school.
By the time he reached his second year of high school, he finally realized he was completely falling behind. More than once, he had silently complained that his parents had not been stricter about his studies when he was younger. Other kids were forced to attend tutoring classes, but his family was not wealthy and never pushed him. Instead, his parents would rather give him money so he could travel during winter and summer breaks. He had never had a single day of extra tutoring.
In the end, he had learned to accept it.
Now, listening to his wife's tirade, Zhang Tao stubbornly said, "If he can study, he can study. If he can't, he can't. Even if he doesn't go to university, is the family going to starve? At worst, he can stay home and help at the shop."
"You just don't want your son to leave, do you? That way you can have him watch the shop while you go play mahjong," his wife shot back.
After muttering a few more complaints at her husband, she turned to Zhang Wuyong. "Studying is important, but don't push yourself too hard. Your health comes first. It's really fine to rest at home a few more days."
A small smile appeared on Zhang Wuyong's face.
Yes, he still wanted to raise his grades, get into a proper four‑year university, and go off to college. But even if he could not achieve that, he still had this home and these parents who fussed over him and cared for him.
He was genuinely grateful that the dump truck had not taken his life.
Maybe, if he really had gone to that other world, he could have relied on the system to carve out a glorious path and become a Demon Buddha who dominated the world. But staying here meant being an ordinary person, with lousy grades and no particular talents.
Yet, just to avoid breaking his parents' hearts, he had to remain.
After eating, he leaned on his crutches and limped back toward his bedroom, determined to continue memorizing vocabulary.
Even if he was just a salted fish, he would be a salted fish with dreams.
Fortunately, even a salted fish could flip over—so long as it still had a home.
The next morning, after breakfast, Zhang Wuyong set off for school.
Along the way, the system continually popped up warning messages…