pjbooks Chapter 439: Original Scroll (2)
Chapter 439: Original Scroll (2)
Each Black Point described was accompanied by observations.
’Black Point of the Lung.’
’Proper stimulation facilitates the circulation of Qi.’
’Error results in respiratory collapse. Death within minutes.’
’Black Point of the Heart.’
’If used correctly, it can save someone on the verge of spiritual death.’
’Error results in instantaneous death.’
’Black Point of the Kidney.’
’Can strengthen vitality, increase physical endurance, and accelerate regeneration.’
’Error results in organ failure.’
’Death may take hours, but it will be inevitable.’
Kyrian remained motionless.
His brow was furrowed as he continued reading more and more about the technique.
The margin for error was nonexistent. A single deviation, a fraction of a millimeter, could be fatal.
A difference in temperature, a second too much or too little, could kill. A hesitation, a moment of doubt, could destroy.
It was exactly as the man had said.
To save. Or to kill. Everything depended on absolute precision.
Kyrian continued.
The second part described the needles. And that was even stranger. The needles were not ordinary weapons.
They could not be forged like swords. They could not be refined like spiritual treasures, such as the old man’s spear imbued with fire Qi.
The process was complex.
The instructions detailed dozens of specific materials.
Rare minerals that existed only in certain regions, within deep veins protected by ancient beasts.
Bone fragments from beasts.
Spiritual woods, trees that took centuries to grow and only blossomed under specific conditions.
Plant essences, extracts from flora that no longer existed in some regions.
’And small quantities of black Qi itself.’
’The needles must serve as extensions of the practitioner.’
’They must conduct black Qi. Without resistance. Without dispersion.’
Kyrian reread that sentence repeatedly.
Tools. They were unique tools.
’It seems I will need to learn how to forge my own needles...’
The technique itself was neither malicious nor benevolent. It depended entirely upon the one who used it.
Kyrian continued turning the pages. The man’s notes began to appear.
The handwriting was different, more modern, and more organized. Firm letters, clear words.
"Twelfth year."
"I finally managed to perceive shadows resembling the Black Points."
"Perhaps I am close."
...
"Eighteenth year."
"I pierced the wrong point."
"The patient died."
...
"Twenty-fourth year."
"I discovered that some Black Points change completely from person to person."
"What works on one person may kill another."
"What is safe in one region may be fatal in another."
...
"Forty-first year."
"I managed to alleviate chronic pain."
"The patient smiled for the first time in years."
"It was worth it."
...
"Fiftieth year."
"I finally managed to gain a clear glimpse of the Black Points."
"Not all of them. Not perfectly. But enough."
...
Kyrian fell silent.
Each note represented years. Decades. Attempts. Failures. Deaths. Discoveries.
The man had not simply learned the technique. He had devoted his entire life to it.
He continued reading.
’The Black Points are not fixed. They can change. They can move slowly over time.’
’They can appear where previously there was nothing.’
’They can disappear, as if they had never existed.’
’Patterns exist.’
’But I still do not understand them completely.’
...
Kyrian narrowed his eyes.
"So even he didn’t understand everything."
He turned another page.
"Black Qi deteriorates the body. Prolonged use reduces life expectancy."
"The damage accumulates primarily around the heart."
"I have found no method to prevent its formation."
Kyrian immediately recalled the points near the man’s heart.
The cracks. The irregularities. The technique was killing him. Slowly. Inevitably.
He continued reading.
"The technique is incomplete. I am certain of it. The original scroll contains gaps. There are references to higher stages, to levels of understanding I never reached."
"But the methods have disappeared. The Endless Needles that I practice are merely fragments."
Kyrian returned to the original scroll.
Indeed, some portions had been destroyed.
Entire sections had disappeared, torn apart, burned away, and erased by time.
Incomplete diagrams, halves of drawings, severed runes, lost connections.
Interrupted instructions, sentences that began but never ended, words that vanished into nothingness.
It was a puzzle. A broken legacy.
’But even so...’
The remaining fragment was terrifying.
Kyrian took a deep breath.
’If merely a fragment possessed this level of depth...’
’What would the complete technique be like?’
His eyes returned to the notes. One particular sentence caught his attention.
’Perhaps the Black Points do not represent destruction. Perhaps they represent transition. Something between two states.’
Kyrian immediately remembered the black sapling. Alive. Dead. Neither. And both at the same time.
His thoughts grew deeper.
The technique did not seem to deal solely with the body. It seemed to touch upon something more. Something he still did not understand. Perhaps something even the man did not understand.
Time passed in silence.
The candles diminished, melted wax gathering around the wicks, the flames flickering.
The moon crossed the sky, its silvery light entering through the window and casting shadows upon the wooden floor.
Kyrian continued reading. Pages. Diagrams. Observations. Failures. Hypotheses.
With every line, his curiosity deepened.
The technique was dangerous. Yet fascinating.
The boundary between preservation and destruction, between life and death, was thin.
And the Endless Needles floated upon that boundary.
Slowly, Kyrian closed the final scroll.
His fingers remained resting upon the worn surface, feeling the rough texture of the leather, the marks left by time.
His thoughts were turbulent.
The technique was absurd. But... it was also extraordinary.
He looked toward the room where the man was resting.
Through the closed door, there was no sound whatsoever. The man’s breathing remained steady. For now.
Kyrian turned his gaze back toward the scrolls spread before him. The Black Points. The black Qi. The Endless Needles.
An incomplete technique. A legacy on the verge of disappearing.
His eyes settled once more upon the small black sapling. Silent. Motionless.
Neither alive. Nor dead. Both.
Slowly, Kyrian gathered the scrolls.
He carefully organized each set of notes, placing them in chronological order, separating theories from observations.
He stored the original scroll separately from the others, within a special compartment of his spatial ring, where time could not reach it.
Then, he stood up.
The wood creaked beneath his feet.
He walked toward the small room that had been offered to him.
The chamber was simple.
A bed of dark wood, a thin mattress, cotton sheets.
A small table beside the bed, holding a candle and an empty cup.
A narrow window overlooking the herb garden, where shadows danced beneath the moonlight.
Nothing more.
Kyrian sat upon the edge of the bed.
His thoughts still lingered on the technique. He had found a new path. A dangerous path. A path that had cost his predecessor his life.
Was it worth it? To pursue curiosity...
Or should he focus on his other objective? Creating his own cultivation technique.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
The image of the Black Points remained engraved within his mind.
As did the words written upon the ancient scroll.
’The needles are merely tools. Everything depends on the one who holds them.’
Silence filled the room.
Outside, the Sky Caravan remained alive.
Merchants negotiated, their voices echoing through the streets, their stalls illuminated by spiritual lanterns.
Cultivators trained, the sounds of swords clashing, Qi being released, energy being expended.
Beasts roared in the distance, feeding, fighting, living.
Meanwhile...
Kyrian lay down.
His body relaxed, his muscles loosened, and his breathing deepened.
’Tomorrow.’
’Tomorrow I will decide what to do.’
His mind calculated his next steps as sleep slowly overtook him.
And the night continued. Silent.