Touch...
The word resonated not in his ears, but directly in his mind, faint as a dying sigh. It carried an image: a warrior clad in silver-grey scale armor, wielding the dark bow with impossible grace, firing arrows that pierced mountains. Bai Feng. The name surfaced in his consciousness, accompanied by a wave of fierce pride, crushing loss, and a burning, unquenched desire for vengeance against a shapeless, overwhelming darkness that had swallowed his comrades and, finally, him.
As Long Huang's fingers brushed the cool, strangely living wood, the silver etchings flared brightly. A surge of pure, focused archery intent, sharp as a honed arrowhead and vast as the sky, flooded into him. It wasn't hostile; it was… assessing. Probing his spirit, his resolve, his connection to the Mysterious Silver Bow on his back. Images flashed – not of cultivation methods, but of principles: the perfect draw, the alignment of breath and heartbeat with release, the way to make the bowstring an extension of the soul, the art of seeing the thread of fate connecting archer and target.
Simultaneously, the Blades of Slaughter screamed. A wave of corrosive, possessive demonic energy erupted from them, clashing violently against the bow's pure, ancient archery intent. The discordant hum became a physical vibration shaking Long Huang's arms. The dark bow flared brighter, its silver lines blazing like captured starlight, repelling the demonic intrusion with a surge of righteous fury and profound grief. The conflicting energies warred within the clearing and within Long Huang himself – the pure, focused lethality of the bow master versus the chaotic, devouring hunger of the Archdevil.
Long Huang gasped, staggering back a step. The visions ceased. The bow's light dimmed to its faint pulse. The Blades subsided to their uneasy hum. The Nine Element Spirit Deer watched, tense and silent.
He understood. Bai Feng's legacy was here. Not just his weapon, but his art. But the Blades of Slaughter, the demonic path he walked, was anathema to it. To claim this power, to honor the fallen archer and gain the edge he desperately needed, he would have to master this conflict. He would have to prove himself worthy not just through strength, but through alignment with the bow's spirit and its principles, even while carrying the demonic burden. He needed Bai Feng's Bow Art.
He settled onto the bone-ash ground, cross-legged, facing the fused bow and the skeletal remains of Bai Feng. The Mysterious Silver Bow slid from his back into his hands. He closed his eyes, reaching out not with qi, but with his spirit, towards the weary consciousness clinging to the dark bow. He projected his need, his respect for the fallen master, his own desire for strength born of focus and precision, and his unwavering resolve to overcome the darkness within and without. He projected the image of the Savage Marquis, the Northern Jain spies, and Huang Peng's peril. He projected his vow.
The clearing remained silent. The bone-ash was cold beneath him. The Blades of Slaughter murmured their dissent. The bow pulsed. Weakly. Then, stronger. A thread of connection, fragile as a spider's silk but humming with immense potential, formed between his spirit and the ancient artifact.
The training began. Not with physical exertion, but with spiritual communion and mental refinement under the watchful, sorrowful gaze of a ghost.
Long Huang sat immobile for three days and nights. His world narrowed to the pulse of the dark bow and the discordant thrum of the Blades of Slaughter.
He focused solely on the bow's rhythm, the slow, steady pulse of its silver lines. He breathed in time with it, syncing his heartbeat. He visualized the Mysterious Silver Bow in his hands resonating with that same pure frequency. The Blades constantly interfered, sending jagged spikes of demonic energy through his meridians, disrupting the harmony, whispering promises of easier power through slaughter. He had to acknowledge their presence, their power, but isolate them, wall them off mentally while he focused on the bow. It was an excruciating exercise in dual focus and control. By the end of the third day, he could maintain the resonance for an hour at a stretch, the Mysterious Silver Bow in his lap humming faintly in sympathetic vibration, while the Blades were reduced to a sullen grumble, contained but not conquered.
Bai Feng's memories weren't granted; they were emanated. Waves of profound grief – for fallen comrades, for a lost homeland, for a battle unfinished – washed over Long Huang. It was a crushing weight, threatening to drown his own resolve in despair. He couldn't dismiss it; he had to understand it, respect it, and forge his own resolve through it. He anchored himself to his own purpose: saving Huang Peng, crushing his enemies, protecting his path. He visualized his resolve as a diamond core within the sea of sorrow, acknowledging the grief, letting it flow around him, but not letting it erode his center. Each wave that crashed against his mental fortress left him mentally exhausted but stronger, his spirit tempered.
"Draw"
On the dawn of the third day, as the resonance peaked during his meditation, the word echoed in his mind again, clearer now. "Draw..." It was accompanied not by a technique, but by a profound understanding: the perfect draw wasn't just physical. It was the unification of body, spirit, breath, and intent. He picked up the Mysterious Silver Bow. He didn't nock an arrow. He simply drew the string. Slowly. Deliberately. He focused on aligning every muscle fiber, every wisp of qi, his entire being, with the intent to pierce the horizon.
The Blades flared, sending a jolt of chaotic energy down his arm, threatening to twist the motion into something jagged and violent. He gritted his teeth, forcing the demonic energy down, channeling only his pure will and the bow's resonance. The draw felt… right. Effortless yet powerful. The air around the bowstring hummed with contained energy. He held it for ten breaths, then released slowly. The string snapped back with a pure, musical tone that echoed strangely in the silent clearing. A small, satisfied pulse came from the dark bow.
The connection deepened. Fragments of Bai Feng's art, the Sky Piercer Art, began to seep into Long Huang's consciousness – not as complete forms, but as fundamental principles visualized during his meditative state.
Long Huang saw through Bai Feng's memories – not with physical sight, but with spirit sense refined to an impossible degree. He perceived the world as a tapestry of qi flows, weaknesses in defenses, the subtle shifts in an opponent's stance that betrayed their next move, and the faintest disturbance in the air miles away. He practiced within the clearing, eyes closed, it was like his mind was sucked into a world of it's own.
This was a trail Bai Feng set for his successor. Long Huang didn't realize this and thought he was still in the real world. With his eyes closed, he used his spiritual sense to map every bone fragment, every protruding weapon shard, every ripple in the ash caused by a burrowing insect. He learned to filter out the distracting 'noise' – the oppressive aura, the Blades' murmur – and focus solely on the 'targets' he chose. The deer became his unknowing partner, moving silently through the surrounding trees; Long Huang tracked its every step, every head turn, solely through spirit sense.
Rooted Like the Mountain, Fluid Like the Wind (Stance & Movement): Visions showed Bai Feng standing immovable as a mountain peak while drawing, then flowing like liquid wind to reposition in the blink of an eye. Long Huang practiced stances that rooted him to the earth, drawing power from below, making him an unmovable platform for the shot. He then practiced explosive, silent footwork – not the Ghost Step's evasion, but short, precise bursts that repositioned him without breaking his draw or his focus. He practiced transitioning from rooted stance to fluid movement and back seamlessly, the Mysterious Silver Bow always held ready, his spirit sense constantly scanning. The bone ash offered treacherous footing; mastering movement here demanded impeccable balance and control.
The Unseen Arrow (Qi Projection): The Sky Piercer Art's true power lay not just in physical arrows, but in arrows forged of pure, focused qi and an archer's intent. Bai Feng's memories demonstrated the principle: condensing qi not just into an arrow, but shaping it during the draw, imbuing it with a specific purpose – piercing, exploding, binding, sensing. Long Huang practiced drawing the Mysterious Silver Bow without a physical arrow. He focused his qi, mingling his own with the pure resonance drawn from the dark bow, visualizing the arrow's form and function. The first attempts were pathetic – weak sputters of energy that dissipated a foot from the bow. And what he didn't notice was that he could use qi despite being only at the Meridian Tempering realm.
The Blades constantly tried to corrupt the pure qi with their demonic energy, turning it into unstable, sputtering bolts of dark fire that fizzled out or exploded prematurely. He had to purify his qi flow, isolate the stream dedicated to the bow, and impose his will with absolute clarity. By day seven, he could consistently form a short-lived, shimmering arrow of condensed air and pure intent that could strike a specific bone fragment ten paces away with a sharp crack.
The deeper he delved, the stronger the echo of Bai Feng's final moments became. The clearing's atmosphere shifted. The bone-ash seemed to writhe. Phantom sounds echoed – the clang of steel, war cries choked off, agonized screams. The residual slaughter intent of the ancient battlefield, amplified by the proximity of the Blades of Slaughter, began to manifest.
Ethereal figures, translucent and bleeding dark energy, coalesced from the ash and shadow. They weren't intelligent, merely echoes of rage and pain given form by the demonic resonance of the Blades and the battlefield's lingering hatred. They shambled towards Long Huang, wielding spectral weapons, their mouths open in silent screams that vibrated in the soul.
This was the test. To apply the transcendental principles, while battling the very demonic influence that threatened to corrupt the art and resonated with the phantoms. Long Huang nocked a physical arrow. He drew, syncing breath and spirit. Eyes of the Horizon – he saw not just the phantom, but the unstable knot of dark qi forming its core. Rooted Like the Mountain – he anchored himself against the psychic onslaught of their screams. Unseen Arrow principle – he poured focused intent into the physical arrow, visualizing it sheathed in pure, piercing qi. He released.
The arrow struck the phantom's chest. Dark energy flared, resisting. The arrow shattered. The phantom lunged. Long Huang flowed Fluid Like the Wind, dodging a spectral axe swing, already drawing again. The Blades shrieked, urging him to unleash the Blade Storm, to devour the phantoms. He refused, walling off the impulse. He focused harder. Purer qi. Sharper intent. Pierce the core. The second arrow, blazing with concentrated white-blue qi, punched through the phantom's core knot. The figure imploded with a soundless wail, dissolving into wisps of dark mist. Success, but draining. More phantoms emerged.
As Long Huang fought, a stronger presence manifested near the monolith. A translucent figure clad in tattered silver-grey armor, holding a shimmering echo of the dark bow. Bai Feng's spirit, or an imprint of his final stand. He didn't attack Long Huang. He simply drew his spectral bow, aimed not at the phantoms, but at a point high on the obsidian cliff face, and fired. A beam of pure silver light lanced out, striking the rock. Nothing happened. He fired again at same spot and again.
An unspoken lesson: focus, precision and persistence against overwhelming odds. Long Huang understood. He stopped wasting arrows on glancing blows. He focused solely on core strikes, each shot a deliberate exercise in applying the Sky Piercer principles under pressure, ignoring the Blades' increasingly frantic demands for chaotic release. He moved less, stood rooted more, trusting his perception and his shot.
By the end of the ninth day, the phantom attacks subsided. Long Huang stood amidst swirling bone ash, chest heaving, arms trembling from exertion and the strain of containing the Blades. He had purified and loosed over fifty arrows, each one a focused lance of intent and qi. Bai Feng's spectral echo watched him, then slowly faded, offering a faint, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment before vanishing. The connection to the dark bow felt stronger, warmer. The first foundational moves of the Sky Piercer Art were taking root. And Long Huang now noticed all of that was an illusion realm made by Bai Feng's ghost to help him train.