Chapter Three: A Small Test of Skill

At a progress level of 92, it was already quite impressive; Li Qi currently stood at 95, and that was with some cheating involved. Three months ago, Li Qi’s progress was only at 60. For someone Li Zheng’s age, without any cheating, reaching 92 was truly remarkable—just not quite matching Li Qi’s accelerated pace.

Li Qi could only acknowledge this with a wry smile: in a multiverse, which strong individual doesn’t have some form of advantage? The only difference was whether they fully exploited it or left it partially concealed. In a way, talent itself was a kind of advantage—an innate “cheat code,” though its manifestation wasn’t as obvious as a stats panel.

As for the characters hovering over Li Zheng’s head, they were also a supernatural effect brought on by his stats panel. His panel combined fate and fortune, clearly linked to destiny. At present, this ability resembled a sort of divination technique, a glimpse into fate itself. However, constrained by his current life level, this supernatural insight could only reveal the simplest, most basic information and trace some past clues, consuming considerable energy.

Even so, if he chose to become an investigator, he would be a top-notch detective. Supernatural powers were undeniably formidable. Yet to waste effort on detective work instead of pursuing transcendence and martial prowess was to lose sight of the true goal. His time and energy were already insufficient for martial cultivation; other pursuits were even less feasible.

In his previous life, there were no extraordinary martial arts. Having experienced a mundane world, Li Zheng’s yearning for the extraordinary was far more intense than that of the people in this world. He didn’t care about the extra points for the college entrance exam that Li Zheng mentioned, even though it was a dream for countless ordinary people here.

If he had traveled through worlds and gained advantages, he would never settle for being ordinary as he was in his past life. Even without cheats, he would refuse to accept mediocrity.

Before Li Qi could dwell further on these thoughts, a hoarse female voice, clearly in the midst of voice change, interrupted: “Hey, are you Li Qi?”

“Of course I am,” Li Qi replied, turning toward the source of the voice.

Before him stood a girl with a slight baby fat on her face, fair and delicate skin, and bright, clear eyes—undeniably full of youthful vitality. She was a little shorter than Li Qi, dressed in a thick jacket that didn’t look bulky. She wore pink knitted gloves and a hat, with twin ponytails resting on her chest, resembling a cute little pink bunny at first glance—adorable and lively.

The girl was Li Yin, a childhood playmate of Li Qi’s, though their closeness had waned with time. They had often played together during summer and winter vacations as children, but as they grew older, their interactions became less frequent, though not distant.

When silent, she was undeniably a beautiful young woman.

“You really are Li Qi. You’ve changed a lot—you’ve lost so much weight, your chin’s sharper now, and your gaze is sharper, too.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you got dumped by a girl at school!”

“They say in short videos that when a boy suddenly doesn’t seem like himself, it’s usually because of unrequited love…”

Li Yin tapped her chin thoughtfully, trying to look wise.

“Maybe you should watch fewer clickbait videos and try to be a useful person,” Li Qi countered. His transformation wasn’t due to any love woes; it was simply the yearning of an ordinary person from a world without the extraordinary, yearning for transcendence.

Perhaps in this world, where the extraordinary was ingrained in instinct, people knew the benefits of transcending the mortal realm and desired it, but not nearly as intensely as Li Qi. Having seen despair and darkness, he appreciated the value of light all the more.

As for youthful crushes, since his two lives were his own, whether in his previous life or before his memories awakened in this one, his nature remained similar. He was devoted yet broad-hearted—devoted because he only liked one type of person: the most beautiful girl in class. Broad-hearted because school divisions changed frequently, and the girls he liked kept changing, an uncontrollable factor.

So, if asked whether he had a special, irreplaceable love, he honestly did not.

Of course, Li Qi saw no shame in this; it was simply his path.

Now, women could only affect the speed with which he wielded his blade. Love and romance paled in comparison to the allure of transcendence.

“Your advice is good, but I choose not to accept it,” Li Yin rolled her eyes.

“Actually, if it weren’t for seniority—since I’m your aunt—I, as the lady of the house, might consider showing some mercy and spending half an hour with you, letting you experience what it’s like to be taken, since you’re such a weakling. Clearly, you’re at the very bottom of the school hierarchy—pitiful, so pitiful…”

“Unlike those martial arts masters who are school celebrities, adored by a swarm of girls.”

Li Yin naturally began to tease him.

“So, Qi’er, call me Auntie, let’s hear it.”

Li Yin grew bolder.

“Why do you have a mouth at all, if you’re just going to talk nonsense…”

“As for our family’s Tiger Sha Eighteen Blades, it embodies our patriarch’s lifelong dedication and wisdom, containing countless brilliant techniques. How can you confidently compare your barren self to the culmination of his painstaking blade art?”

As she spoke, Li Qi suddenly flicked her on the head. Li Yin instinctively tried to dodge but failed, the sharp sound of a knock ringing out.

“You dared to take me by surprise, to cheat and sneak up on me…”

Li Yin was furious, blaming herself for being caught off guard.

In truth, Li Qi’s blade technique had reached beyond level three, just half a step shy of mastery—his speed of hand, eye, and mind were all finely honed. Within the reach of his outstretched arm, unless his opponent’s skill matched or exceeded his, evading an attack was extremely difficult, even with preparation.

Though he trained with a blade, the weapon was merely an extension of his arm; he could still function without it. All weapons were ultimately extensions of the body’s limbs, and mastery returned to the body itself.

Li Yin was about the same age as Li Qi but had long since faced reality, recognizing her lack of talent and abandoning cultivation early—much like most others. After all, cultivation required relentless, day-and-night effort, not empty words.

Especially early on, cultivation was often a path of martial immersion, fraught with hardship.

Naturally, Li Yin couldn’t grasp the subtleties involved.

Only Li Zheng noticed the coordination in Li Qi’s movements but didn’t think much of it—Li Yin was simply too inexperienced to signify anything.

Only Li Qi himself felt deeply satisfied by the explosive power and coordination within such a small space, convinced that his recent hardships and struggles were worthwhile.

This agile skill was unimaginable in his previous life; such power, rooted within oneself, was exquisite.

At his current stage, he hadn’t even fully entered the realm of cultivation. His future was bright and limitless.