Spells Grinding: From Basic Sparks to Divine Arts

Chapter 231: A Solemn Vow

“Huh… What does Fellow Daoist Li want?” Wei Zimo asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“What kind of talk is that?” Qin Lu growled, stepping closer. “You said you had a ‘generous gift.’ That’s why I saved your life. Now you’re hesitating? Don’t tell me you’re planning to go back on your word, brat? Huh?!”

His voice rose to a sharp, menacing pitch. Combined with the Li Kui disguise—burly, bearded, and dark-skinned—the intimidation factor was overwhelming.

Wei Zimo took a step back, panic flickering in his eyes.

“How could I go back on my word! I… I’ll give it to you right now!”

He had no choice. The bearded man’s sword strike had terrified the Dragon Tiger Sect, and it had terrified him too. Severely injured and exhausted, Wei Zimo knew he couldn’t win a fight. His only hope was that this rogue cultivator just wanted money, not blood.

After a moment of hesitation, Wei Zimo reached into his robes and produced a scroll. He handed it over slowly, his expression pained.

“Fellow Daoist Li, I see you favor the sword. This is the highest-level sword art of my Wuji Sect—the Falling Leaves Sword Art. I offer it as thanks for saving my life.”

“Oh?”

Qin Lu snatched the scroll.

It was heavy, seemingly weighing a hundred jin, and colored a deep purplish-grey. Faint wisps of Spiritual Qi swirled around it, and the characters for Falling Leaves Sword Art were carved into the seal.

“Tsk, tsk. Looks decent,” Qin Lu muttered, fighting down a grin. “A Second-Tier sword technique, eh?”

He was delighted. Since reaching Foundation Establishment, he had been desperate for a high-level sword manual to match his cultivation. But White Jade Market was a backwater; finding Second-Tier techniques there was harder than ascending to the heavens.

He scanned the scroll briefly before stowing it in his Storage Bag. Then, he looked at Wei Zimo with a greedy smirk.

“It’s a nice gift. I’m satisfied. But…” Qin Lu leaned in. “Is the precious life of the Great Genius Wei really worth just one scroll? Seems a bit light, don’t you think?”

Wei Zimo’s face stiffened. His polite smile froze, replaced by a furrowed brow. Even a rabbit bites when cornered.

“…I wonder what else Fellow Daoist Li wants?” he asked, his voice low.

Qin Lu laughed. “Just empty your pockets. Let me see what you have, and I’ll pick what I like.”

Wei Zimo shook his head. “You know the situation, Fellow Daoist. The sect collapsed. I fled with barely the clothes on my back. I don’t have much.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Qin Lu said coldly. “Hand over the Storage Bag.”

“Huh.”

Wei Zimo took a step back, his hand drifting toward his sword hilt. His expression hardened into defiance.

Qin Lu spread his hands. “What? You want to fight me now?”

Wei Zimo stared at him intently. He was calculating the odds—and realizing they were zero.

“Fellow Daoist Li,” he said slowly. “I told you the truth. I have almost nothing. Only… only this.”

He produced a small porcelain bottle and floated it toward Qin Lu.

The bottle was milky white and unassuming, but the Spiritual Qi drifting around it was dense and pure.

“What is this?” Qin Lu asked, snatching it from the air.

“The White Fat Pure Bottle,” Wei Zimo explained, a hint of pleading entering his voice. “It’s a spatial Dharma Treasure I found by chance. I haven’t unlocked its secrets yet, but it is undoubtedly precious. It is the most valuable thing I have left.”

“Is that so…”

Qin Lu probed the bottle with his spiritual sense. It resisted him—a powerful seal blocked the entrance, confirming it was no ordinary item. Definitely high-grade.

“Is this… acceptable?” Wei Zimo asked softly, looking like a man standing on the gallows.

Qin Lu looked up. He saw the desperation in Wei Zimo’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders. If he pushed any harder, the kid would snap and fight to the death.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced.

Years ago, Qin Lu was just a nobody selling low-grade talismans on the street. He had scraped together enough Spirit Stones to rent a small courtyard in the Inner City. That evening, he had seen Wei Zimo descending from the sky on a flying sword, surrounded by adoring crowds. The genius of the sect. The untouchable golden boy.

Qin Lu had been jealous then.

Now, the roles were completely reversed. The Wuji Sect was ash, the golden boy was a beggar, and the nobody was the one holding the sword.

Fate was a cruel comedian.

“Right! That’s more like it!”

Qin Lu burst into hearty laughter, stashing the bottle away. “This is enough! We’re even.”

He wasn’t a monster. He didn’t kill for sport, and he had no real grudge against Wei Zimo. He knew when to stop squeezing.

Seeing Qin Lu rise into the air, Wei Zimo sagged with relief. He clasped his fists again.

“Thank you, Fellow Daoist Li. If I survive this, I will remember this kindness.”

“Heh! Just don’t come looking for revenge later!”

“Never! I am not an ungrateful man.”

“Good. Now run, kid. Those bastards will be back with reinforcements.”

“Thank you for the warning!”

Qin Lu nodded and shot into the sky, disappearing into the clouds without looking back.

Wei Zimo watched him go until he was just a speck. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward Dragon Tiger Market.

His face twisted. The polite mask shattered, replaced by a visage of pure, unadulterated hatred. His fists clenched until his nails drew blood.

“Dragon Tiger Sect,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You killed my Master. You slaughtered my brothers. You destroyed my home.”

Tears mixed with the grime on his face as he made a solemn vow to the heavens.

“I, Wei Zimo, swear on my soul… I will make you pay in blood.”