Chapter Two: The Nameless Heart Sutra

Ge Qian’s mind raced, and he quickly understood—Wang Meng was here to extort pills from him. Wang Meng’s advancement was already swift, but if he managed to secure two Marrow Cleansing Pills each month, it would be like adding wings to a tiger. With such an advantage, he might truly be accepted as a disciple by Elder Ma! The benefits of being taken in by a Foundation Establishment stage elder needed no elaboration—even a single piece of cultivation advice would be of immense benefit.

But Ge Qian was no puppet to be manipulated. The world of cultivation was ruthlessly competitive; power and strength dictated status. The strong prospered and the weak were discarded. Sometimes, cultivators were more unscrupulous than the lowest scoundrels, their hands stained with blood, devoid of compassion.

To ask him to give up the pills was simply impossible. Without them, Ge Qian’s hopes would be dashed, for cultivating the path to immortality was his faith—he would rather die than give up. Yet, if he refused and confronted Wang Meng, who was at the third layer of Qi Gathering and practiced the "Fiery Cloud Art," it would be no different from suicide. The outcome would be the same.

Ge Qian smiled faintly and said with feigned difficulty, “Actually, I’ve already given up. I’m only trying to strengthen my body. As for the pills, Senior Brother Zhang Huaiju has already reserved them. I’m powerless now. How about this—you go speak to Senior Brother Zhang, and I’ll hand the pills over to you next month, how’s that?”

Wang Meng’s expression changed, a trace of wariness flickering across his face as he cursed his luck inwardly. Zhang Huaiju was at the sixth layer of Qi Gathering and possessed a Gold Spiritual Root—he was no match for him. Extorting pills was no secret within the Heavenly Star Sect, but it was hardly honorable, not something to parade openly. If he confronted Senior Brother Zhang for a share, it would be a blatant provocation. Should Zhang value his reputation and decide to silence him, being watched by someone at the sixth layer at all hours would be torture.

His beady eyes flashed as he spat, “You wretch, I didn’t hear a word you just said! Don’t talk nonsense. Since you’ve made a mistake, I’ll have to teach you a lesson so you won’t repeat it.”

Wang Meng, eager to vent his anger, formed a spell seal with his hands and cast his proudest technique—"Fireball Spell."

The Fireball Spell was a low-grade comprehensive attack spell, suitable for all five spiritual roots, though most powerful when wielded by a fire root cultivator. It converted spiritual energy into a blazing, searing fireball, which could be propelled by spiritual sense to attack enemies. Its power was formidable—even weapons forged from refined steel would melt upon contact.

Wang Meng, possessing the fire spiritual root, had devoted much practice to this spell. Even opponents of the same level found it troublesome. As he chanted the incantation, a fireball the size of an egg stabilized at his fingertip. With a flick and a thought, he sent it hurtling forth.

“Go!”

The fireball, trailing a scarlet tail, shot towards Ge Qian like a streak of light, as if it had eyes of its own.

For three years, Ge Qian had focused all his efforts on cultivation and breakthroughs, learning only one attack spell—“Water Blade.” This spell transformed water spiritual energy through incantation into a razor-thin blade of water, sharp enough to cut a refined iron staff as thick as an arm clean in two. However, at his mere first layer of Qi Gathering, the spell’s power was extremely limited—he could not unleash its true might.

Thus, he had resolutely abandoned further study of it, devoting himself to meditation and cultivation instead. Still, he had learned a few auxiliary spells: “Wind Riding Art,” which granted him speed many times faster than worldly lightness skills, and “Qi Concealment Art,” which hid his aura—though before cultivators of higher rank, it was virtually useless.

Seeing the fireball streak towards him, Ge Qian immediately cast the “Wind Riding Art,” leaping into the water. There, his abilities came into full play. The fireball hit the surface, sending up a wave several yards high as steam billowed skyward.

Wang Meng leaned over, scanning the churning water below but finding no trace of Ge Qian. Curling his lips, he muttered, “What a coward, not daring to fight head-on! Wasted a fireball spell for nothing—given its power, I can only cast it once or twice. Still, your escape skills are impressive, you coward!”

With that, he turned to leave. Knocking Ge Qian into the water was merely to vent his anger; Wang Meng had no intention of wasting more time. In cultivation, time was life. If he failed to reach Foundation Establishment within a hundred years, all his suffering would be for nothing—he would become nothing but a mound of yellow earth.

Although Ge Qian was fast in the water, his movements were still hampered. The extreme contrast between the fireball’s heat and the pond’s chill caused his leg to cramp instantly.

Agonizing pain shot from his left leg. He had experienced this before and would usually float to the surface, massage the muscle, and recover after a rest. But today was different—if he surfaced now and Wang Meng cast another fireball, there would be no escape. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ge Qian maneuvered towards the rock wall of the pond. With his “Heavenly Eye” technique, he could see ten yards through the water and noticed he wasn’t far from the wall. He cursed himself for not leaping in closer to the rocks in the first place—but who could have predicted that his left leg would betray him?

Just as his hand grasped the water weeds on the wall, his other leg cramped too, wracked by pain.

He instantly lost his balance, cursing under his breath. Pain stabbed his gut, his head spun, and as he opened his mouth to curse, pond water mixed with weeds flooded in—he swallowed several mouthfuls, choking badly.

He quickly shut his mouth—otherwise, he’d be bloated like a toad.

Relying on his youth, he gripped the emerald-green weeds and wriggled into a crevice in the rocks. Regulating his breath, he alternately grabbed handfuls of weeds, struggling upward with great difficulty.

The pain from his cramped legs made his hands tremble endlessly. Half an hour later, Ge Qian, exhausted as a dead dog, dragged himself onto the shore. By then, Wang Meng had long since returned to his cultivation.

Leaning against a stone, Ge Qian massaged his legs in resignation, jaw clenched. He swore silently, “Wang Meng, just wait! When I, Ge Qian, achieve mastery, I’ll make you pay tenfold for this day!”

When night first fell, Ge Qian returned to his room. Every Qi Gathering disciple had a simple chamber to themselves. Cultivators valued meditation, tranquility, and self-forgetfulness, and interruptions were strictly avoided.

His room contained only a bed and a mat for meditation—nothing more.

The first thing Ge Qian did upon entering was to sit cross-legged and begin reciting scriptures.

He no longer remembered the name of the scripture. It was a Buddhist chant, some 1,800 lines long, each of varying length and rhythm.

The scripture granted Ge Qian no power, but whenever he recited it, his pain, helplessness, anger, and all the day’s troubles faded into calm and peace.

His mother had taught him this nameless scripture. On the day she left, she had said gently, “My child, I’m sorry. I must leave now and cannot watch you grow up. Don’t cry; I’m only going to another world to find your father. Remember, don’t imitate your father—heroes die young. Live well, lead an ordinary life, that’s the truest way.”

“Mother, father is gone already. Why must you leave me too? Don’t you want me anymore?”

“How could I not want you? I’m only going ahead to that world to build a warm home. When you come in a hundred years, you won’t suffer anymore. By then, I’ll have everything ready for you.”

This unbreakable memory was something Ge Qian could never forget. Rage roared in his heart.

Why do good people die young? His parents had been honest and upright, yet they fell ill, while villains thrived in wealth and power!

Heaven, are you blind? Since you are unjust and uncaring, unable to distinguish good from evil, I, Ge Qian, swear to pierce your veil and make you taste suffering yourself.

As Ge Qian chanted the scripture, images flickered through his mind, shattering and forming like fragments in a mirror.

An hour later, he opened his eyes, now clear and deep as those of a newborn child.

All his troubles had vanished. Ge Qian took out his storage pouch.

At first glance, Ge Qian’s storage pouch looked no different from anyone else’s, but in truth, it was entirely inferior. The storage pouch was a cultivator’s tool for keeping items—palm-sized on the outside, but typically holding up to thirty feet within. Once refined, it could be used at a thought to store or retrieve objects. But Ge Qian’s pouch held only ten feet—barely a third of the standard space.

It was clear that the elder responsible for distributing items, seeing Ge Qian had no spiritual root and no backing, had deliberately shortchanged him, tossing him a defective pouch to dismiss him.

Fortunately, though the space was small, it was enough for Ge Qian’s meager belongings. At the time, he had been furious, but knowing he still had to survive in the Heavenly Star Sect, he had swallowed the insult and left. Behind him came a burst of mocking laughter, and Ge Qian clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his flesh.

Silently, he vowed: “One day, I, Ge Qian, will rise to glory, and when that day comes, I’ll repay this injustice a hundredfold!”

凡路仙途2_凡路仙途全文免费阅读_第二章无名心经 End of Chapter 2: The Nameless Heart Sutra