"The harder it is, the more extraordinary the art. Maybe sevenfold stacking will take a while—but to steady my realm and make the year-end tourney? Time should be enough."
After a brief rest, Jiang Ruochén rose and moved through the forms again.
His physique and raw power were already in place. What remained was to grind at the essence of the Elephant Dragon Fist's entry chapter: the Seven Elephant-Dragon Blows.
These seven blows are the core of the entry stage—also the hardest part. You must borrow the force of the first strike and, at extreme speed, launch the second so the two impacts merge in an instant, doubling the power.
Simple in theory. Brutal in practice.
Jiang trained inside the tower for dozens of days before he finally brushed the threshold of overlap for the first time.
He sank his weight, his breath surged, and he blasted out a first punch at his absolute limit—then, faster than the eye, withdrew and fired again.
The two blows stacked; power fused and detonated—the force rippled the air itself.
By his own estimate, it reached five elephants of strength.
It was only five because he'd merely achieved the merging—the second punch hadn't truly been thrown at full power while stacking, so it didn't multiply as it should have.
Even so, it was terrifying. A Fifth-Heaven cultivator punching with five elephants—enough to crush most ordinary Ninth Heaven opponents.
Huff… huff…
Before he could savor the success, a sharp pain knifed up his arm, draining most of his strength in a rush. He nearly stumbled and fell.
That was the price of the art. The stacked impact devours the body, and after grinding for so long already, his frame simply couldn't shoulder that much loss all at once.
"What a ridiculous art—ridiculous power, ridiculous difficulty, and the drain is the most ridiculous of all." He clutched his forearm, baring his teeth.
Whether by chance or because it heard him, the Old Dragon drifted out of the God-Burial Tower.
"Not bad," it said. "Barely ten-odd days to achieve a two-strike overlap—that counts as passable. Your second punch wasn't full power, but five elephants is enough to destroy the vast majority of Ninth Heaven cultivators."
Jiang looked over. "Senior, this art is insane. Is there any way to reduce the drain? Even at full condition, I can throw, what, two of those before I'm spent?"
"There is," the dragon replied crisply.
"What way?" Jiang's eyes brightened.
"Increase your cultivation.Toughen your body.Practice the Elephant Dragon Fist more."
"…"
Did that really need saying? Jiang griped silently.
"All right," the dragon went on, "you've entered the door of the Elephant Dragon Fist. Leave the tower and find high-intensity combat. The God-Burial Tower buys you time, but secluding here forever is just crafting behind closed doors. If you want unrivaled combat strength and a settled realm, real fights are essential."
Jiang pulled a face. "I'd love to spar, but the royal city forbids fighting. If I want a proper grind I'd have to head to the Demonic Beast Mountains outside the walls. In my situation, getting out is easy—getting back… not so much."
"You're fretting about the Queen?" The dragon's voice was light, its presence heavy. "No need. In her eyes you're still a waste. She won't mobilize half the city just to touch you. And if a Qi Sea realm really does move…" A pause, then iron. "I have ways to erase them."
The words rang like thunder—casual to say, domineering to hear.
Truth be told, with his strength skyrocketing, Jiang had long wanted to temper himself; it was only fear of the Queen's tricks that kept him in place. With the dragon's assurance, he had no more scruples.
"Thank you, Senior. I'll head out now!"
Suddenly his arm didn't hurt so much. He bowed, slipped from the tower—and didn't leave the city immediately. First, he went to the main quarters to see Consort Wan.
Five or six dozen days had passed inside the tower; outside, half a month had gone by. As a son, he should check in.
After half a month apart, Consort Wan's gaze was bright with joy—and concern. She asked after his realm and, more than that, whether his long seclusion had overtaxed his body.
Once she was sure he was unharmed—and had made significant progress—relief softened her face.
"Chen'er, as long as you're improving, Mother is content. The year-end tourney matters, but cultivation cannot be rushed. Don't chase quick success and hurt yourself," she said, holding his hand, earnest and gentle.
Warmth unfurled in Jiang's chest. "Don't worry, Mother. I know my limits. I won't be foolish again."
"Good."
She smiled, rose, and said, "Rest a moment. I'm happy today. I'll cook your favorite—Sweet-and-Sour Fire-Roast Chicken—to celebrate your progress."
"Thank you, Mother." In this cruel world, she was his one unfeigned warmth. That warmth only hardened his resolve to grow strong—and protect those beside him.
By afternoon, after lunch with Consort Wan, Jiang didn't waste time. He left the capital and headed three thousand li north toward the Demonic Beast Mountains—ready to test his strength, stabilize his realm, and hunt a few beasts to trade for resources.
What he didn't know was that, the moment he stepped through the city gate, the guards reported his departure to the Queen.
"That waste dares leave the city? Think he can hide that he killed Xiao Cui from me?"
Seated upon the phoenix throne, the Queen's aura turned glacial. She'd already resolved to kill Jiang—not just for Xiao Cui, but because of the threat in his two-day climb to Second Heaven.
A little talent in other princes she could tolerate.But Jiang Ruochén? Never. Because he was Consort Wan's son.
"Your Majesty, shall I go?" Feng Luo stepped forward, feeling the killing intent and asking for the task.
"To kill a waste, why would I need you?" the Queen said coldly. "Send someone unconnected. Make sure there are no loose ends."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
After Feng Luo withdrew, the Queen let a thin smile curl at her lips and murmured, "Consort Wan, after more than ten years you still won't give up? You still dream of rising on that waste of a son? I'll make sure you're done dreaming."