C2 The Disaster of Annihilation

Although Feng Yimo lay unconscious, he could faintly discern the quarrel outside, the sound of his mother's voice. Yet, he was unable to open his eyes or move his limbs, as if his body was no longer his own, beyond his control.

By the seventh day of his unconsciousness, the overwhelming information in his mind began to coalesce and make sense. These were the memories of someone named Chang. In those memories, he was Chang, and Chang was Feng Yimo—they were one and the same.

His past life's memories were now entwined with his present ones, causing Feng Yimo's head to throb with pain. Initially, he couldn't grasp whether his name was Chang or Feng Yimo. The woman who had stayed by his side, ceaselessly calling out to him and tending to his body, helped him realize that Chang was gone—only Feng Yimo remained. This place was neither the Heavenly Mirror Continent nor the Xiyuan Continent, but a village in Ironwind Ridge. Being young, Feng Yimo was unaware of the exact nature of this world. Moreover, having just awakened, his past life's memories were a blur, not fully retrievable.

What astonished him was that in his past life, he was a cultivator with considerable skill. Despite the incomplete memories, he managed to sort through much of his cultivation experience and knowledge. The ability to pass through barriers, like the fence, was a rather ordinary skill for him.

Outside, the fire blazed fiercely. His parents had been slain by villains, and he had tumbled into a dark, damp cave, unable to move, his mind a muddle, lapsing back into unconsciousness. The pain he felt when his mother was consumed by the flames was indescribable, a heart-wrenching agony—the most important person in his life was gone.

"Mother, I swear I will avenge you!" he vowed silently.

Time passed, unmeasured, until Feng Yimo's eyes fluttered open. The world slowly came into focus, as if his soul had finally found its way back. His hand twitched, feeble and weak, and it was an eternity before he could clutch the icy jade pendant at his chest—the sole keepsake his mother had left him.

Gradually regaining some strength, Feng Yimo struggled to sit up and reached out to push the cover of the cave. To his dismay, he found it was an impossibly heavy stone slab, immovable. Was he destined to die trapped in this place?

"No way! If Mother managed to put me in this secret chamber, there must be a way out!" He searched frantically until his hands found a protruding stone above him. A gentle press and the stone slab flipped open, revealing the night sky peppered with stars and a luminous full moon.

With great effort, Feng Yimo clambered out just as the slab snapped back into place, leaving no trace of his escape. He stumbled forward, his legs weak and unsteady, forcing him to fashion a makeshift cane from a wooden stick.

He couldn't recall how long he'd been unconscious, and without food, he felt as feeble as one recovering from a lengthy illness. The moonlight revealed his hand gripping the stick, and he recoiled in horror. This was no hand, but a skeletal claw sheathed in skin, fingers darkened, veins protruding, skin hanging loosely from the bone, particularly at the forearm where it sagged over two inches, grotesquely misshapen.

"The air is dry; watch out for open flames!" A night watchman approached in the distance, baton in hand. Spotting the motionless figure, he hoisted his lantern for a better look and recoiled at the sight of a gaunt Skull Head, hair wild, white teeth chillingly stark in the combined glow of moon and lantern light.

"Mother of mercy, a ghost, a ghost!" The watchman dropped his lantern and bolted, tumbling and scrambling away in terror.

A wry smile crossed Feng Yimo's face. Was his appearance truly that horrifying? He couldn't risk being mistaken for a specter and beaten; he was too frail. Mustering all his strength, he lurched toward the nearby woods. As he vanished into the thicket, a line of torches surged forward like a fiery serpent in pursuit.

"Where's the ghost? I'll beat it to a pulp!" someone bellowed.

"Lin San's such a coward, wetting himself over nothing, the disgrace!" another taunted.

"Could it be a cattle thief? We've had several oxen go missing from the village lately!"

Feng Yimo inwardly cursed his luck. Discovery would mean being branded a monster. He stepped back, only to tumble into a burrow, rolling endlessly until he collided with something damp, sticky, and chillingly cold. Dazed, he had no time to gather his wits before the object began to wriggle. A slimy body coiled around him, and then a snake's head, far larger than his own body, loomed into view. In one swift motion, it engulfed him, reared its head, and gulped down Feng Yimo whole, before settling back to the earth to resume its slumber.

The massive python's girth measured a staggering ten feet, its head a menacing sight. Its eyes, cold and as large as washbasins, glinted ominously. Oddly, a protrusion, akin to a cow's horn, rose from the center of its forehead. Palm-sized scales covered the snake's head, their pale green hue casting a ghostly glow in the pitch-black cave, reminiscent of razor-sharp axes.

This creature was a demon beast!

Darkness enveloped Feng Yimo, and he plunged into the dank, fetid passage. Gliding along the slick path, he groped in vain for something to grasp, but found no purchase. He realized with a sinking heart that he was trapped inside the belly of the serpent, freshly roused from slumber only to become this creature's supper. His fate seemed cruelly bitter and unfortunate.

After a descent of some twenty to twenty-five feet, his slide came to a halt in a more spacious area, filled with an unbearable stench and the half-digested remains of a cow. Clearly, he was in the snake's stomach, its chamber of digestion.

His senses dulled from the recent awakening, Yimo was still acutely aware of the acidic stench eating away at his flesh. He knew he had to escape soon or share the cow's fate, reduced to nourishment for the snake and eventually excreted as waste.

Struggling, he clambered atop the bovine carcass to spare his body from the corrosive gastric juices, buying himself some precious time. He then searched blindly for anything of use. The absence of light in the stomach was no obstacle for Yimo, whose memories from a past life granted him the ability to see in the dark. His search was rewarded when he spotted a long sword near the cow's remains, its quality material resisting corrosion and emanating a faint, cool light.

What a fine blade! It was a low-grade spiritual weapon, yet among the finest of its class, verging on the medium-grade. Yimo seized the hilt with great effort, examining it closely. The sword must have belonged to some unfortunate cultivator swallowed by the giant snake. Regrettably, his own weakened state rendered him nearly powerless. Merely grasping the hilt had exhausted him, taking over ten breaths' worth of effort. He could barely lift the sword with both hands, his grip shaking. The thought of using it to stab the snake was out of the question. Without the strength for a lethal blow, he risked provoking the beast and sealing his own doom. His priority was clear: he needed to find a way to regain his strength.

Seated cross-legged atop the cow carcass, he practiced his breathing techniques, drawing on the cultivation methods from his past life. Despite the stench filling the belly of the giant snake, he managed to tolerate it. With each inhale and exhale, sparse spiritual energy began to coalesce around him. His breathing pattern, honed by past experiences, differed from the norm—others might breathe evenly, but he adopted an irregular rhythm of three long breaths followed by two short ones, inhaling twice and exhaling thrice, all to better assimilate the spiritual energy into his flesh and transform his constitution.

To his astonishment, as he continued with his breathing exercises, he noticed the spiritual energy in the air intensifying. It dawned on him that the giant snake encasing him was a demon beast! Unlike ordinary wild beasts, demon beasts could passively absorb spiritual energy, much like humans, except without conscious control. Humans, on the other hand, actively harnessed spiritual energy, possessing both thought and an extraordinary capacity for advancement.

Feng Yimo deliberately slowed his cultivation, cautious not to absorb too much spiritual energy from the snake's body and risk alerting the creature.

Yet, what left Feng Yimo at a loss for words was the Spirit Devouring Silkworm nestled within his dantian, greedily consuming all the spiritual energy he gathered, leaving nothing for him. His dantian was barren, his body weak and devoid of any cultivation signs—he was but a mere mortal starting anew.

In his former life, he recalled being surrounded by the Netherworld Skeleton army, facing imminent death. At that pivotal moment, the Spirit Devouring Silkworm erupted in a blaze of light, and then all went blank. The only clue to what had transpired was the triangular scar on his right palm, which had lost one of its three rings, indicating a spent opportunity for rebirth.

Thus, his immediate goal was to satiate the Spirit Devouring Silkworm, to rouse it from slumber so he could finally nourish himself. But the timing of its awakening was an enigma.

"Ah well, it will awaken in its own time," Feng Yimo spoke to himself with a resigned air.