Chapter Sixty-One: The Peculiar Crystal

“Sigh, the cultivation this ancient shaman possessed in life must have been truly terrifying! Even after so many years in death, he still exudes an overwhelming aura that brooks no violation. I really can’t imagine how the people of the Youqiong clan managed to obtain the ancient scroll of the Celestial Shaman’s secret arts back then.” Qingxu couldn’t help but wonder. With his own cultivation at the mid-Earth Immortal stage, even he found it difficult to withstand the pressure from the ancient shaman’s remains—let alone those at the Golden Core realm.

Cultivators at the Golden Core realm probably wouldn’t be able to step into this underground chamber at all.

“Perhaps, at the time, the oppressive aura of these ancient shamanic remains was dormant.” That was the only plausible explanation. Suppressing the question, Qingxu stepped closer to the bones.

From a distance, he hadn’t noticed, but up close he realized just how enormous the ancient shaman’s skeleton was—from head to toe, at least fifteen or twenty feet long. Had it been standing, Qingxu would have had to look up to behold it.

Perhaps due to the pervasive Yin-charged earth energies here, the skeleton wasn’t the usual pale white, but a gloomy, shadowy black, with metallic luster shimmering across its surface—clearly, it was extremely hard. Yet this was no surprise to Qingxu. The shamanic race was famed for tempering their bodies; their bones were like bronze and iron, the hardest part of any creature’s body. Even ordinary cultivators had extremely tough bones—how much more so those who specialized in physical cultivation?

“These bones are treasures in themselves! I recall that in the ‘Investiture of the Gods,’ there was something called the Netherworld White Bone Banner. I wonder what would happen if I refined a ‘Banner of Ancient Shamanic Bones’ from these remains.” Qingxu’s thoughts wandered, but he had no real intention of actually desecrating the skeleton. The dead should be respected, and he still had a basic sense of decency—such unscrupulous acts were out of the question!

Though he wouldn’t forge a treasure from the ancient shaman’s skeleton, he couldn’t resist a closer study. Of course, Qingxu didn’t expect to uncover many ancient secrets, but any small insight was valuable, and sometimes even a little knowledge could lead to much greater understanding.

He released his divine sense, starting at the feet and slowly “scanning” upward along the bones. As his consciousness entered the interior of the skeleton, he felt as if he’d plunged into a vast ocean—endless, gray-black “seawater” stretched boundlessly around him.

“Refining the marrow to frost? And even opening up a miniature world within the bones?” Qingxu was quite astonished, especially since, after so many eons, the small world inside the bones remained intact, and the marrow had not dispersed. It was truly beyond comprehension!

As a cultivator of the Profound Way, Qingxu had never reached the stage of “marrow like frost, blood like mercury” in his own practice.

“Looks like I really should find time to cultivate my body in the future. My life-bound treasure, the Qingxu Pagoda, is an innate spiritual treasure, but that’s no reason to neglect physical training!” The three great paths of cultivation each had their own merits—none could be underestimated. Though body cultivation was a difficult road to enlightenment, it offered significant advantages before reaching sainthood; just look at Erlang Shen and Sun Wukong in later ages—their cultivation was shallow, but their physical might allowed them to challenge even the True Immortals of Taiyi.

But there was one dilemma: the method itself. The Primeval Lord of Heaven surely possessed profound body cultivation arts—after all, the Nine Revolutions Profound Art originated from him. Yet he looked down on such practices, often deriding them as the ways of side-paths and charlatans. If Qingxu were to ask for such teachings, he’d likely be rebuffed.

“If only I could possess the body-tempering arts inherited by the Twelve Ancestral Shamans from Pangu himself.” He knew this was nothing but wishful thinking, yet he couldn’t help the longing. The Western Leader Zhun Ti had created the Eight-Nine Mystical Art, a formidable technique, by combining a second-rate shamanic method with his own insights—legend had it one could theoretically become a saint with it. Qingxu simply couldn’t imagine how powerful the top-tier arts of the Twelve Ancestral Shamans must have been.

Lost in these musings, his divine sense reached the skull. Up to this point, he’d found nothing else of note; the miniature world and the marrow within the bones could be seen, but not utilized.

“Looks like I probably won’t gain anything here. I’d best descend and extract a thread of the earth vein’s essence and leave early.” As he thought this, his divine sense swept over the ancient shaman’s skull.

“Huh?”

Unable to restrain a gasp, Qingxu sensed something unusual. Among the three bony horns atop the skull, the central one was hollow inside, and within it lay a crystal about three inches long, dodecagonal, entirely gray-black, gleaming like a gemstone.

“What is this?” The crystal within the horn caught Qingxu’s interest—it was the only unusual feature in the entire skeleton. He reached out and grasped the central horn, intending to crush it and extract the crystal for study. Yet, no matter how much force he applied—even with the strength of dragons and tigers—the horn didn’t yield or even crack, let alone shatter.

“So hard! This kind of strength could crush fine gold, yet it has no effect?” Marveling, he drew his Mystic Demon Sword and struck at the base of the central horn.

Crack!

With a crisp sound, the horn broke cleanly from the skull, and the crystal rolled to the ground.

Just as Qingxu stooped to pick up the crystal, another change occurred: the skeleton, deprived of its crystal, disintegrated into dust within moments.

“What in the world?” Qingxu stood dumbfounded, stunned for a long while before regaining his composure. His heart was in turmoil, but he understood that the crystal was extraordinary. For the immensely hard ancient shamanic bones to collapse into dust upon its removal—this alone proved it was no ordinary object.

He bent down to pick up the crystal. It felt smooth and slick in his hand, like the finest mutton-fat jade, with edges that didn’t even prick the skin. When he squeezed with force, it was hard as steel, immovable as a boulder. He tried channeling a trace of mana and immortal essence into it; the power vanished as if into the sea, but there was a change—the previously rigid crystal softened, becoming pliable like rubber, changing shape in his grasp. Yet the moment he released it, it reverted to its original form. Even his divine sense couldn’t penetrate it, as if blocked by a barrier.

“What is this, really?” Qingxu gave a wry smile, unable to make sense of it for now. He tucked it away into a compartment he’d opened up in the first layer of the Qingxu Pagoda, to study it when he had more time.

Though the crystal was a solid object, it could be made soft as flesh by channeling mana—a truly bizarre attribute. To be both hard and soft, to embody both yin and yang, it could not be ordinary; there must be a great secret hidden inside!

Sword in hand, Qingxu crossed the underground chamber toward the passage on the opposite side, his heart growing heavier. What awaited below was an ancient demon god—at the slightest sign of trouble, he must be ready to flee at once.

He deliberately slowed his steps, body taut as a drawn bowstring, ready to spring into action. His mana, his incarnations, the Three Pure Ones—everything was prepared.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!…

The Mystic Demon Sword vibrated unceasingly, seemingly agitated, pulsing with urgency, as if something ahead was drawing it forward, threatening to break free from Qingxu’s grip and fly toward whatever was calling it. Qingxu sensed clearly that this strange reaction came from the three fearsome beasts sealed within the sword.

“Chaos Beast, Taotie, Taowu? What exactly is causing this disturbance?” He felt a subtle sense of unease—he’d just devoured the three beasts, and now this strange event occurred, as if he’d stepped into a carefully laid scheme.

“Perhaps I’m just being paranoid. The world is full of coincidences; this might be nothing but one of them.” He tried to reassure himself, but the faint anxiety in his heart refused to go away.