The Lingering Power of a Nostalgic Kill

The villagers took turns feeding him rice porridge.

The spoon was too big and his mouth too small; the porridge went down the wrong pipe several times, leaving his face flushed a deep red as his small body convulsed with coughs.

There was one time he nearly didn't pull through.

The auntie feeding him nearby was terrified. She turned him upside down and patted his back for a long time until a large mouthful of porridge was spat out, and only then did he start to cry again.

Watching that scrawny little infant in his memories, Qin Chuan felt a suffocating tightness in his throat.

The scene skipped forward to age three.

Qin Chuan saw several children around his own age. They were wearing tattered clothes, chasing a stray dog through the open space at the edge of the village, their laughter ringing out loudly.

Qin Chuan recognized their faces.

Goudan, Tiezhu, and Xiaocui.

The scene suddenly darkened as disciples of the Clear Sky Sect charged into the village.

Firelight, screams, and cries all blended together.

Qin Chuan saw himself hiding in a haystack at the village entrance. The straw stalks pricked his face, making it itch. He curled his entire body into a ball, pressing both hands tightly over his mouth, not even daring to breathe audibly.

Footsteps sounded outside the haystack, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

Then, silence.

Qin Chuan stayed in the haystack for the entire night. When he crawled out the next morning, the sun was bright, so intense that he couldn't open his eyes.

He saw several small figures lying there in the open space at the village entrance.

Goudan, Tiezhu, and Xiaocui.

Qin Chuan crouched beside the haystack and watched for a long time.

He didn't cry. At three years old, he didn't know what death was. He only wondered why the people who had been chasing the dog with him yesterday were no longer moving today.

He walked over and tugged on Goudan's hand.

It was cold and stiff; that hand did not grip him back.

Qin Chuan's eyes began to burn.

Standing within the memory, his throat tightened, and his chest felt as if it were being crushed by something, leaving him unable to catch his breath.

The scenes continued to flip forward.

Age six, in the fields of Yuze Village.

A thin, small boy wore a hemp garment patched seven or eight times, the sleeves too short, revealing two slender, bony wrists.

His pant legs were rolled up above his knees, his bare feet treading in the wet mud, blackened and caked with dirt between his toes.

He gripped a hoe taller than himself, raised it, and brought it down. Once the hoe bit into the soil, he had to grab the handle with both hands and pull back with all his might to turn the earth.

Every time he turned the soil, his palms were chafed by the wooden handle. In less than an hour, blisters formed on both palms. The blisters broke, and the seeping fluid made the handle slick and wet, making it impossible to hold steady.

Qin Chuan watched his six-year-old self turning the soil, hoe strike by hoe strike.

The sun was vicious, scorching the back of his neck until it was bright red. Sweat flowed from his forehead into his eyes, stinging sharply; he wiped it away with his sleeve and kept digging.

No one helped him.

Grandpa Boen had fallen gravely ill the previous winter and couldn't get out of bed. The other families in the village could barely look after themselves.

Qin Chuan farmed alone, carried water alone, and cooked alone.

Six years old—a six-year-old child.

Qin Chuan's eyes turned red.

Watching that little boy in the tattered clothes within his memory, he felt as if his heart were being gripped and twisted, aching. That pain wasn't of the flesh; it was an ache seeping out from the marrow of his bones.

The scenes continued to flip forward.

Nuoding Junior Spirit Master Academy.

Qin Chuan saw himself sitting properly in the front row of the classroom, wearing the gray uniform issued by the academy. The uniform was a bit large; the collar hung loosely, and the sleeves covered his fingertips.

Back then, he had just entered the academy, and he would lower his head whenever he spoke to anyone. It wasn't out of fear, but a reserve that had grown from the marrow of his bones.

As a child raised in a village, arriving in the city for the first time, he felt everything he saw was better than what he had at home, and he didn't even dare to walk down the center of the road.

His classmates gathered in small groups to chat.

They talked about their family's spirit inheritance, their parents' connections in the spirit master world, and things Qin Chuan couldn't understand at all.

Qin Chuan sat in the corner, spreading out his textbook and reading word by word.

If there were characters he didn't recognize, he would draw a circle next to them with his pen and go find Teacher Gangzi after class to ask.

Yu Xiaogang had a decent impression of Qin Chuan back then.

"Although this child's aptitude is average, he is willing to put in the effort," Yu Xiaogang had once commented to other teachers in the faculty lounge.

Qin Chuan didn't know about that remark. He only knew that he was slower than others and had a lower starting point, so he simply spent more time than others.

At night, when the other students returned to the dormitory to rest, Qin Chuan would still be sitting in the classroom, flipping through Yu Xiaogang's lecture notes by the light of an oil lamp.

The notes were written in a neat, orderly hand, with detailed derivations and examples following every theory.

Qin Chuan couldn't quite grasp the more profound parts, so he copied down what he could understand first, memorized it, and then set out to chew through the difficult sections.

Once, he wrote a term in the margin of his notebook: "Hybrid Martial Soul."

The next day, before class, he took his notes and found Yu Xiaogang.

"Teacher, I have a question."

"Speak."

"Can Martial Souls be hybridized?"

Yu Xiaogang was taken aback for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, for example, if one person's Martial Soul is a cat and another's is a tiger, is it possible for their offspring to develop a new Martial Soul that possesses the characteristics of both?"

Yu Xiaogang set down the book in his hand and looked at Qin Chuan earnestly.

"That idea has been proposed before."

That afternoon, the teacher and student discussed the topic in the classroom for a full four hours. They talked from hybrid Martial Souls to transgenic Martial Souls, and from theoretical feasibility to the difficulties of practical application.

The more they talked, the more excited Yu Xiaogang became, eventually patting Qin Chuan on the shoulder and saying, "Your brain is worth more than your Martial Soul."

Qin Chuan was quite happy at the time.

He only realized later that while this remark praised his intelligence, it was also a jab at the inadequacy of his Martial Soul.

The scenes continued to flip by.

Twelve years old, innate soul power level 6.

The gap between him and his classmates grew wider and wider. While others were at level 31, he was still hovering at level 24. While others had dragons and tigers for Martial Souls, his was just a small bell.

Illusion Bell.

A small bell that could make people drowsy with a single shake.

Everyone in the classroom was laughing.

Yu Xiaogang stood on the podium, his expression serious as he said, "Student Qin Chuan, I suggest you pursue a career in service."

A service career—a hypnotic masseur, someone to lull children to sleep.

Oscar laughed the loudest, Tang San made snide remarks from below, and Dai Mubai sat with his legs crossed, slapping the table.

Qin Chuan sat in his seat, not saying a word.

The images stopped there.

The effect of the memory strike reached its peak at this point.

All the images piled together like a dull blade, slicing at Qin Chuan's heart, one stroke at a time.

In reality, Qin Chuan stood in the thicket, his hand holding the Lovesickness Heartbreak Butterfly trembling slightly.

His eyes had turned red.

It had been a long time since he felt this way. During his three years of underground cultivation, he had ground his emotions until they were as hard as stone. Happiness, anger, sorrow, fear—he could control them all perfectly.

But a memory strike was different.

Flowers Falling in a Dream created a false sense of parting to trick your emotions. A smart person knows it's fake and can grit their teeth to endure it.

A memory strike digs out your own memories; those images are real.

Those feelings are real, too.

You cannot tell yourself "this is fake," because it is your own life.

Qin Chuan took a deep breath, circulating his Heavenly Dao Power through his body, and only then did the surging emotions slowly subside.

The Star Dou Great Forest before him became clear once more.

The Lovesickness Heartbreak Butterfly in his hand was still gently flapping its wings, the patterns of the two "Beauty's Eyes" shimmering with a faint light in the afterglow of the setting sun.

Qin Chuan looked down at his hands.

His fingers were still trembling slightly; the lingering effect of the memory strike was even greater than that of Flowers Falling in a Dream.