Chapter 3 — Fists Rise with Thunder, a First Glimpse of Divine Might
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 1 of 3
The Pill Master had his own idea. "Feed him spirit blood," he said. "Plenty of it. Drink until he drops dead of it! Every dose of spirit blood raises his constitution a little more. Drink enough, and even if it never ignites a spirit body, his body will be tougher than any spirit body ever born!"
"One punch to kill a dragon."
The Village Head laughed. "That will scare the bastards outside the Ruins to death."
The two exchanged a smile. The Pill Master walked out of the room and pulled the door shut.
The next day the villagers brought in several more Dark-Boned Tigers, Azure-Scaled Jiao Serpents, Thunder-Plumed Sky Birds and Dark-Shelled Spirit Tortoises. With a goal in front of them, those old men and old women threw themselves into the work with furious energy, until the Pill Master flew into a rage: "Force that much spirit blood on him at once and it will burst him open!"
The Silent Smith, who had dragged in two Thunder-Plumed Sky Birds, split his lips in a grin and snickered, heh heh, his mouth empty of a tongue.
"Shen'er can take it!" Granny Zhu had utter faith in Shen Mu.
The Pill Master glared at them and said no more, but took out the insect eggs and went on refining blood. Trouble came anyway. This time there was rather too much of the Four Poles blood, and after Shen Mu drank it his body swelled up as though pumped full of air, until the old men and women were frantic with worry, terrified he would go off with a bang.
The Pill Master took out several hollow silver needles and drove them into Shen Mu's back and the crown of his head. From the needle eyes, streams of red, blue and purple qi hissed and spurted outward.
After a moment the needles stopped venting. The Pill Master drew them out and glared at the old folk again. "Step by step. One step at a time. You want to stuff him fat in a single mouthful, and all you will do is burst him. He is still overfull as it is, and you will all have your work cut out for you. In a while the Butcher will drill him on the blade, Master Huo will drill him on the fist, and Lame Weng, you take his legs and help him digest."
"Shen'er, come practice the blade!"
The Butcher planted both hands on the ground and vaulted up, landing atop a lone wooden post. He had no lower body; his torso stood on the stake, level with Shen Mu's height.
The Butcher gripped two butchering knives. They were nothing like ordinary butchering knives, which run less than a foot long, carry a round wooden handle, and wear an edge curved like a moon with three quarters of it sliced away. His knives had the same shape but stood several sizes larger: three feet two inches of blade, thick along the spine, thin at the edge, polished to a gleam. The two blades joined together looked like a pair of arched gates, frightening in their size.
The butchering knife in Shen Mu's hand was of that same size, but he had only the one, and a heavy one it was, some twenty catties to the blade. In ordinary times the boy could barely lift a single knife; but since he had drunk the Four Poles blood, his strength had grown so far beyond what it was that he could raise a butchering knife one-handed and barely feel the weight.
"Grandpa Tu, look out!"
Shen Mu charged the Butcher on his post, knife in one hand. The Butcher roared with laughter; half a man and he still cut a figure of towering bravado.
Night Cleaves a Thousand Cities' Wind and Rain!
Shen Mu's lone blade wove up and down, his feet shifting as he hacked at the Butcher; the blade-light came faster and faster, the wind whistling, strike and sound running together into one sheet.
"Too slow, too slow, you are far too slow!"