Completely baffled

The butcher stepped forward three paces, his blade flashing as it sliced into the bull demon from the front. The tip of the knife traced a deadly path through the palate, the tough neck, front shoulder, left ribs, long bone, and hind leg, finally withdrawing beside the bull’s haunch.

A spurt of blood gushed forth like a fountain, and the bull demon let out a long, agonized howl.

That massive, solidly-built beast had half its body reduced to chunks of flesh and bone, falling away in slabs to pile on the floor. Even such a fearsome monster could not withstand the practiced hand of an old butcher.

The divine sense in Li Miao’s mind faded. He opened his eyes. The dazzling lights of spells and magical treasures still hung motionless in the air, and the butcher sat nearby, drinking wine as if nothing had happened.

“Do you know what to do now?” the butcher asked.

Li Miao, with only partial understanding, drew the chopsticks from Sun Lie’s shattered throat, infused them with primal energy, and thrust them toward the approaching beams of light.

In an instant, the frozen scene sprang back to life.

“Kill him!”

More than a dozen cultivators, unaware of anything amiss, surged forward to finish him off.

Li Miao traced the trajectory of the magical treasures and spells in reverse, the chopsticks in his hand transforming into a short, formidable butcher’s knife. He sliced through the magic, splitting and breaking it apart.

But he was only a novice—far from the seasoned butcher of his vision. He barely managed to dissolve two spells before the magical power corroded half the chopsticks, leaving him with only a slender bamboo skewer.

A series of violent explosions followed—though it seemed slow in the mind’s eye, it all happened in a flash.

After neutralizing the two most dangerous spells, the remaining ten or so streaks of light crashed into his former position. The wine table was blasted to pieces, splinters of wood flying through the cabin. The shockwaves of the spells, along with two particularly swift magical attacks, struck him in the back.

Hit by several attacks at once, Li Miao was wounded immediately, coughing up a mouthful of blood and staggering two steps, nearly falling.

Before he could recover, the cultivators shouted again, “Well done! Once more—kill him at once!”

They recalled their magical treasures and unleashed a second wave of attacks.

Li Miao’s pupils contracted. Instinctively, he drew the Purple Jun Sword.

At this range, with his primal energy ready, a single sweep with the spirit sword could very likely wipe out everyone present before they could complete their second attack. He knew he would take another round of injuries, but with his energetic protection, he was confident it would not reach his core.

But just then, with a crisp “clack,” the butcher set his wine bowl down once more.

The movements of the cultivators froze again—their magical treasures stalled in mid-flight, their spells caught in the moment of casting, neither advancing nor retreating. All was motionless.

For the second time, the space was sealed.

Halting everyone, the butcher said, “Chopsticks are still chopsticks—no match for the intricacy of magical artifacts. A butcher’s knife that can slay monsters must be tougher than their tendons, hides, and flesh, else it couldn’t even cut the skin, let alone flay and debone them.”

Though he said this, he made no move to return the cold steel war blade to Li Miao. Instead, he grasped the air, and with a surge of magical power, conjured a translucent butcher’s knife.

He flicked his fingers; with a sharp whistle, the knife sliced through the air, darting into the crowd.

The blade flickered up and down at an incredible speed. Even with Li Miao’s keen eyesight, he could barely make out a twisted afterimage as it swept past the cultivators’ necks, collarbones, pelvises, knees, and more.

His heart pounded in shock. Could this be the butcher’s true skill?

With a final whistle, the half-transparent knife of condensed power flew back to the butcher’s hand. He twirled it between two fingers, and it dissolved into nothingness.

Because the space was frozen, the cultivators struck by the blade did not fall apart in bloody chunks; instead, tiny red lines appeared on their skin, and their clothing showed slashes—proof that they had already been cut to pieces.

Seeing this, Li Miao was filled with awe.

The butcher spoke: “In the eyes of a butcher, all the myriad beings of this vast world fall into three categories. Those I do not wish to kill, those I wish to kill, and those that cannot be killed.”

“If you do not wish to kill, do not show your blade and earn enmity. If you do wish to kill, strike cleanly—give your enemy no chance to retaliate.”

Li Miao frowned.

He felt the butcher’s worldview was too narrow.

The world is vast and diverse. Among the countless living beings, there are many who fall between the extremes of those to kill and those not to kill.

For example, those with whom one is at odds. Perhaps there is mutual resentment, but often it stems from different perspectives on life—not true, irreconcilable hatred.

Such people need not be killed. Merely revealing your “butcher’s knife,” letting them see your strength, is enough.

To judge all life by the labels of “killable,” “not to kill,” and “unkillable” is surely too simplistic.

Though Li Miao respected the butcher’s power, his mind remained clear—he did not become lost in the man’s worldview or allow himself to be led blindly. The principles in his heart were still firm.

The butcher poured another bowl of wine and said, “Now I shall teach you the third technique: Severing of Soul and Thought.”

Severing of Soul and Thought.

From the sound of it, it seemed even more formidable than the previous two.

The butcher extended his finger, reaching again for Li Miao’s brow.

But this time, Li Miao interrupted him. “Please wait, elder.”

“Oh? What is it?” The butcher paused, tilting his hat up a little.

Li Miao drew a deep breath.

He had realized something.

The two knife techniques the butcher had taught him were both matters of skill—brilliant skill, to be sure. But he knew all too well that what he glimpsed in the vision was only the tip of the iceberg. In a true fight, executed with full power, “Severing the Neck and Letting Blood” would be a devastating killing move in an instant. “Flaying and Deboning” could both dissolve an enemy’s attack and strike back lethally.

And yet—

These two knife arts, for him, were of limited value.

His combat skills were already formidable; learning these would be mere embellishment. The butcher’s way of slaughtering pigs and demons was no different from the one-sided killing he had done on the battlefield.

Only the strike at a weak point had true value for him—mainly for its insight into vulnerability.

Simply put, the butcher’s techniques offered little genuine improvement to his strength.

What Li Miao needed desperately was not more fighting skill, but secret arts and techniques.

His primal energy was far denser and more potent than most true qi or magical power. Even fighting all day without using his Stellar Holy Body, he would not exhaust it. By contrast, a Purple Mansion cultivator of the same level would be fortunate to last an hour.

Li Miao possessed abundant primal energy but lacked the appropriate secret arts to unleash it—a waste, like a mighty bow without a matching arrow.

Thus, having discovered that the butcher’s teachings were purely technical, he formed other ideas.

He said, “Forgive me, elder. Your blade techniques are indeed powerful, but they may not be what I need right now.”

“Oh? And what is it you need?” the butcher asked, frowning.

Li Miao considered and replied, “A secret art or martial skill that can unleash one’s full strength with maximum effect.”

“You are too greedy,” the butcher said, shaking his head. “There are so many cultivators in the world, all learning spells and lethal techniques, yet few can truly challenge those above their own level.”

“I teach you knife skills that let you use one part strength to defeat an enemy ten times stronger by striking at their weakness.”

“But you are not content. You wish to transform one part strength into ten, to defeat just such an enemy head-on. Tell me, are you not too greedy?”

Li Miao smiled wryly, sensing the butcher’s displeasure, and quickly explained, “Elder, as the saying goes, ‘make the best use of things and people.’ My strength already surpasses others at my level. What I lack is a powerful blade technique to channel that strength, not—”

But his explanation only seemed to irritate the butcher further.

The man raised his head, visibly annoyed, and Li Miao caught a glimpse beneath the brim of his hat.

It was a fearsome face.

The butcher’s visage was crisscrossed with deep scars, as though slashed by sharp blades, running from brow to cheek, leaving no smooth or healthy skin. Even the eye sockets were torn by several gashes, the eyelids curled so that they could not close completely.

Li Miao’s heart trembled. He had not expected that the heroic-looking butcher would have such a terrifying appearance.

No wonder he always kept his hat low, never raising his head to meet others’ eyes.

It was to hide his frightening looks.

Yet with the means of an immortal cultivator, one’s appearance should be easily altered at a certain level. Why did the butcher look like this?

Perhaps sensing Li Miao’s thoughts, the butcher, having been seen, made no further effort to hide. He took off his hat, set it on the table, and said quietly, “Well, are you afraid of me?”

“No, just surprised,” Li Miao replied. He had seen all manner of monstrous beings across the cosmos—many far uglier than this. His temperament was not such that he would judge the butcher poorly for his appearance.

Seeing his composure return, the butcher’s tone softened. “Then count the scars on my face.”

Li Miao did as told, looking closely.

Some scars were long, running from the hairline across the brow and nose, all the way to the chin. The shortest still stretched two inches, from the temple to the corner of the eye.

After a careful count, Li Miao said, “Seventeen scars.”

“Yes, seventeen,” the butcher replied.

He ran his hand over the mass of scars and said, “Perhaps in a hundred years, there will be another, and it will be eighteen. Or perhaps, a century from now, there will be no more butcher in this world.”

“Why do you say that, elder?” Li Miao asked in confusion.

The butcher replied quietly, “I was never meant to exist in this world—my destined end is only a matter of time. Having lingered so many years and made so many friends, I have nothing to regret, even if I perish and fade away.”

He sighed softly. “It’s only a pity that my mastery of the knife has no heir.”

Li Miao was left utterly perplexed.

Destined for calamity? Not meant to exist?

Did that mean the butcher should have died long ago?

And what did another scar in a hundred years mean?

His mind swirled with questions, but the butcher offered no explanations.

“I thought you, with your power to open the heavens, might be a worthy successor. But it seems your path differs from mine—you are not the one fated for my legacy.” There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

Li Miao felt a pang of guilt, but now, to change his mind and ask to learn would seem like mere pity, which would only offend the butcher further. So he let the subject drop and asked, “Elder, this power to open the heavens you mentioned—is it my internal true qi?”

The butcher nodded. “Yes. Your magical power is very similar to that of the ancient gods who split the heavens. I’ve never seen such a being, but I can recognize the power.”

“And who were these gods?” Li Miao pressed.

The butcher replied, “They were the primordial beings born when the world first formed. They called themselves gods—innately powerful, long-lived, and rulers of their age. But their potential for growth was limited. Many years later, when immortals appeared, they were replaced, and the race of heaven-splitting gods became history.”

Li Miao was deeply shaken.

So the “gods who split the heavens” were the same ancient gods buried beneath the Taixu Divine Tomb, as a certain mad Daoist had once mentioned.

And his own primal energy was much like theirs.

He recalled that Guo’er’s reincarnation lotus art also originated with those gods. Did that mean she would eventually cultivate primal energy too?

The thought excited him.

But on second thought, things were not so simple.

As he understood it, cultivating primal energy was an endless process. Any being, however innately powerful, could become a mighty one through the guidance of primal energy—perhaps even a supreme ruler of the cosmos.

Yet the butcher said the gods’ aptitude was poor, with little potential for growth, eventually being defeated and replaced by the immortals.

So it seemed the gods either differed fundamentally from primal energy cultivators, or they did not know how to cultivate primal energy, growing only slowly by nature.

But since the reincarnation lotus art existed, they must have known how to cultivate.

Thus, there must be a distinction between primal energy warriors and the gods of creation.

The butcher drank again.

His fearsome face betrayed little emotion, but his heavy tone revealed his dark mood.

“Since we are not destined, there is no point in teaching you the third blade technique.”

As he spoke, he clenched his fist, and the power of the void surged forth, twisting the frozen space.

A vortex opened in the cabin, and the bodies of the dozen True Condensation cultivators were sucked in, vanishing chunk by chunk.

There was no blood, no screams—dozens of living people, along with their magical treasures, spells, and even their scattered true qi, were swallowed by the void and utterly erased, as if they had never existed at all.