“Here are the two techniques. Go back to your room and cultivate them yourself!”

That very day, after handing Han Yu the manuals, the Old Daoist unceremoniously shooed him out the door.

Just as the old man had warned, how much Han Yu learned from this point on was entirely up to fate. The Old Daoist would neither purchase Blood Food to replenish the boy’s vitality nor offer a single word of further guidance.

If not for Han Yu’s status as “Wan’er’s” grandson, the old man would have long since fed the brat to his bird.

The first technique was the Blood Droplet. It involved condensing one’s vital blood into a concentrated bead before expelling it at high velocity. Though no larger than a raindrop, it could punch through wood and stone with ease—a lethal, hidden strike that no ordinary mortal could hope to parry.

The second was the Spirit Nurturing Technique. This was the method the Old Daoist used to sustain the raven with his own Blood Essence, allowing the creature to grow into a massive, three-foot-long predator.

Once a beast accepted the Blood Essence of a master, it was like a wolf being domesticated into a hound. It would instinctively bond with the cultivator and obey every command.

Back in his room, Han Yu attempted to condense his vital blood to test the Blood Droplet. The moment he began the process, a wave of cold dread washed over him. His limbs turned to ice, and his ears began to roar; it felt exactly like that freezing night when he had been left to die in the snow.

The sensation was one of agonizing hollowed-out weakness.

Is this the price of power? Han Yu wondered, gasping for breath.

If this technique missed its mark in a real fight, he wouldn’t even have the strength to crawl away. He would be entirely at his enemy’s mercy.

If only I had more blood…

As the desperate thought crossed his mind, that familiar, smoldering heat—like holding a warm coal—ignited in his palm. A second drop of vibrant, translucent Blood Essence materialized out of thin air.

Han Yu blinked in shock. Just like the Keepsake Token from Wanchun Valley, his vital blood had been perfectly duplicated.

If this works, Han Yu realized, his heart hammering, I don’t just have one shot. I have two.

But curiosity gnawed at him: could the vital blood be taken back?

The weakness in his marrow and the burning thirst for nourishment drove him. He felt like a desert traveler who had stumbled upon a hidden spring.

As the bead of Blood Essence touched his skin, his Blood Refining art instinctively kicked in, drawing the energy back into his veins. A wave of profound, comforting warmth surged through him.

By the time the sensation faded, the extra portion of blood had been fully refined. His condition had recovered to seventy percent of its peak—the deathly pallor was gone.

He realized then that the retrieval wasn’t perfect. Much like watering a parched field, a portion of the blood was lost to the process.

Activating his refining art again on the second drop, Han Yu felt a torrent of heat rush through his limbs. It cleared the fog from his mind and fortified his muscles.

The burning thirst vanished. His body felt lighter and more powerful than ever before, the aches from the journey evaporating instantly. His Blood Essence surged, quickly exceeding its original limits by a significant margin.

This way, I don’t need Blood Food… and I couldn’t afford it even if I did, Han Yu thought, a quiet sense of triumph settling in his chest.

Early the next morning, hearing the rustle of movement next door, Han Yu scrambled out of bed. The Old Daoist was already mounting his donkey, and Han Yu fell into step behind him.

The old man glanced back, his eyes cold. “Little Brat, I’ve taught you what I owed you. Why are you still haunting my heels?”

Han Yu looked at him with steady eyes. “Master Daoist, aren’t you going to Wanchun Valley?”

“I am going to my Wanchun Valley. What does that have to do with a child?” The Old Daoist tilted his shriveled, horse-like face toward the sky. “I’ve fulfilled my promise. I’m not hauling this Dead Weight any further.”

Han Yu realized then that the old man truly intended to abandon him on the road.

“Master Daoist, I wish to go to Wanchun Valley as well.”

The Old Daoist let out a dry, mocking cackle. “Wanchun Valley? A whelp like you wouldn’t survive the gates.”

With that, he turned away and urged his donkey into a slow, rhythmic plod.

Han Yu didn’t argue. He simply followed, silent and persistent as a shadow. After a few miles of this silent pursuit, the Old Daoist finally reined in his donkey.

“Kid, you’re really going to be a leach, aren’t you?”

“Master Daoist, I am going to Wanchun Valley,” Han Yu repeated, his voice calm and polite.

“You’re that stubborn?”

“Yes.”

“With that surname of yours…” The Old Daoist’s gaze sharpened, but his expression softened as he looked at the boy’s eyes—the eyes of a woman long dead.

He sighed, the sound like dry leaves skittering on stone. “Fine. If you must be a burden, make yourself useful. Use your own blood to nurture the raven.”

He raised a hand, and the giant Black Raven plummeted from the clouds.

“This kid—” The Old Daoist pointed at Han Yu.

The bird fixed its beady, malicious eyes on the boy. Its hunger was naked and savage. It spread its three-foot wings, looking ready to tear the throat out of Han Yu’s small body.

“Feathered Beast! Control yourself!” the Old Daoist barked.

“The Little Brat isn’t for eating. From now on, he provides your daily meals. I’m done with you.”

“Gah?” The raven tilted its head, clicking its beak in confusion.

“Don’t talk back,” the Old Daoist rasped. “Keep it up and you won’t get a single drop from the boy, either.”

Indignant, the raven took to the air, circling low and letting out harsh, grating cries of protest. It was clearly offended by the downgrade in service.

A moment later, it dropped onto Han Yu’s shoulder, its talons gripping him with the weight of an iron bar.

“Gah!”

Han Yu managed a small smile. He thought the raven was like a petulant child who had been scolded—storming off in a huff, only to realize it had nowhere else to go. He had seen the village boys do the same: run away in a rage after a beating, only to slink back home when the sun went down.

“I’ll take care of you now,” Han Yu whispered.

“Gah!” The raven gave him a sharp, evaluating stare, then flapped away.

They traveled east for another day. By evening, they stopped at a roadside inn. The Old Daoist ordered two live chickens sent to his room.

The raven tried to slip inside, but the Old Daoist kicked it out.

“None for you! Go find the brat!”

The raven hopped to Han Yu’s room, letting out two demanding, hungry squawks.

Han Yu settled himself, circulating his newly fortified energy. He used the Spirit Nurturing Technique to channel his Blood Essence toward the bird.

As the crimson mist of energy flowed into its feathers, the raven grew still, its eyes closing in contentment.

Han Yu maintained the flow for several minutes. He felt his internal reserves dipping, but the soul-crushing weakness did not return. Sensing the limit, the raven opened its eyes and broke the link with a final, satisfied “Gah.”

Han Yu exhaled, relieved. The burden was manageable.

Once the bird had gone, Han Yu condensed another drop of vital blood, duplicated it, and refined both portions back into his system.

A wave of serenity washed over him. He hadn’t just recovered from feeding the beast; his foundation was growing stronger. His Blood Essence was deepening with every passing day.

The next morning, the Old Daoist set off without a word of greeting. Han Yu hurried to catch up. By nightfall, he would feed the raven and replenish himself, repeating the cycle of duplication.

Over the next few days, he mastered the limits of his gift. He could duplicate his vital blood exactly once per day. Physical objects, like the Keepsake Token, seemed to require a much longer recovery period.

By the third day, the Old Daoist’s suspicion finally boiled over.

The raven was spending more and more time circling the boy. It looked sleek, satisfied, and strong.

Even more troubling was Han Yu himself. Without eating a single scrap of Blood Food, the boy’s face was glowing with health, and his stride was more energetic than ever.

“Little Brat,” the Old Daoist called out, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Come here. Let this Daoist have a look at you.”