Death God: Starting from Refining Essence into Qi

As the thousand-day wedding drew to a close, the sun was already setting. The golden-red afterglow slanted across the vermilion gates of the Shifengyuan clan compound, the gilded clan crests shimmering in the light and shadow. The noble guests, coming and going, dispersed in twos and threes, their robes fluttering, leaving behind the lingering scents of wine and flowers from the banquet. The clamor gradually subsided, leaving only the evening breeze gently sweeping across the steps, carrying away the last trace of human voices.

Xuan stood alone beneath the white jade steps, his gaze calmly fixed on Qianri's retreating figure as he led his bride. The two figures slowly walked through the corridor, eventually disappearing into the shadows of the trees deep within the clan's territory.

This wedding marked Xuan's first time returning to this land with complete peace of mind after breaking free from the shackles of the Four Maple Institution. Free from clan constraints and marriage agreements based on self-interest, only the pure and clean bond between him and Qianri remained. The evening breeze was slightly cool, yet a rare sense of relaxation and relief arose in his heart.

A figure had been waiting for a long time beside the gray stone wall of the clan's territory.

Her purple twin ponytails cascaded loosely over her shoulders as the girl casually leaned against the cold stone wall, a sweet grass stem she'd plucked from the banquet dangling from her mouth, the delicate blade of grass gently grinding between her teeth. She made no attempt to conceal her gaze, staring directly at the two people below the steps, watching Qianri pat Xuan's shoulder with a smile, the two exchanging a few quiet words until Qianri turned and left.

Once Xuan was all alone, Saito flicked his tongue, spat out the chewed, soft grass stems, crushed them with his foot, and slowly approached him.

"Are you going back to the Ghost Path Sect?" Her tone lacked its usual unrestrained and arrogant manner, and there was a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation at the end of her voice, as if she were asking casually, or as if she were covering something up.

"Hmm," Xuan replied. He had already realized that the girl wasn't as carefree as she always appeared. Considering the lifespan of a Shinigami, the still young Saito, despite her immortality, still possessed a delicate and sensitive side.

Gen didn't elaborate, but continued, "We need to keep an eye on the Yorozuya. Jiro and the others need to review their Kido training, and the new commissions also need to be organized. What are your plans?"

Saito didn't answer immediately. She stared at the eaves across the street for a moment, then reached out to fiddle with the knot on the hilt of her sword, wrapping the purple rope around her fingers several times—wrapping it up, loosening it, wrapping it again—her fingertips repeatedly twisting the white-brimmed tassel at the end of the knot.

"I'm going to get something." She straightened up, speaking casually and perfunctorily, "I left in a hurry and forgot to bring it."

Gen looked at Saito. She clearly wanted to go home, but she didn't want to say the word "home" aloud. It was unclear whether she didn't want to call the place where she used to live "home," or whether she was ashamed to say the word "home." For the image that Saito had always maintained, admitting that she wanted to go home for a visit was harder than admitting defeat.

But he didn't say it out loud.

"Then I'll head back first," Xuan said. "The Yorozuya can't be left empty for too long."

Saito responded, slung his Zanpakuto over his shoulder, and turned to leave. After taking about ten steps, he paused briefly, as if hesitating about something, but ultimately did not turn back. He simply raised his hand and waved it haphazardly, his pair of purple twin ponytails swaying behind his shoulders, gradually being swallowed by the shadows of the street corner. His figure concealed a hint of inexplicable awkwardness and solitary courage.

Xuan withdrew his gaze, a hint of understanding flashing in his eyes—she wasn't going to get anything; she clearly wanted to go back to her family, but was too proud to say so directly.

He didn't point out this vulnerability, but simply turned and strode towards the west of Rukongai. The matter of the Kido Sect weighed heavily on his mind. Jiro and Gen's Kido training had reached a bottleneck, the newly deduced Kido still needed verification, and the Yorozuya's commission ledger also needed to be checked. He really couldn't delay any longer.

The streets of the inner Seireitei were already bustling with people. Shinigami dressed in their Shinigami uniforms hurried along, nobles in their finest robes chatted and laughed, and rūgū pushed carts carrying goods, their backs bent as they moved forward—at this hour, the crowds were so dense that it was inconvenient for anyone to use Shunpo (Instant Step) in the throng. Gen patiently traversed several main streets, avoiding the throngs of people, until he reached the outskirts. The houses gradually thinned out, the stone pavement turned into soft yellow earth, and the surrounding noise was completely replaced by the sound of the wind in the wilderness. Only then did he slowly begin to channel his spiritual energy.

His body had long since etched the push-off, leap, and landing of the Instant Step into muscle memory. He used only a small amount of mental energy to maintain the flow of spiritual power and environmental vigilance, while the rest of his mind was immersed in the dismantling and deduction of the Seventy-Five Iron Pillars of Binding Spell. The wind of the countryside whistled past his ears, the scent of early summer grass and trees mixed with dry dust, occasionally sweeping past a patch of wild bushes, startling a few dusty flying insects, but he was completely unaware, all his consciousness immersed in the reconstruction of the principles of the Demonic Path.

Binding Dao 75: Five Pillars of Iron Piercing. He had repeatedly dissected this high-level binding Dao in his mind hundreds of times. The Breaking Dao 67: Thunderous Scattering, Breaking Dao 73: Twin Lotus Azure Fire Fall, and Binding Dao 73: Mountain-Reversing Crystal, which he had already mastered, all provided him with references, but there were still many bottlenecks.

The Mountain-Reversing Crystal is a defensive barrier that solidifies spiritual energy into a triangular pyramid shape. Essentially, it transforms spiritual particles from a free state into a stable structural state. The Five Iron Pillars also require the formation of a physical entity, and the principle is similar. The core is the simultaneous construction and suppression of five independent structures. The five iron pentaprisms are linked by iron chains to maintain the suppressive power.

The incantation for the Five Iron Pillars in the original work is: "A wall of iron sand, a pagoda in the shape of a monk, the burning iron glows, because of its firmness, it eventually becomes silent." Xuan's consciousness travels back and forth between the meridians in his body and the external space, and combined with Taoist theory, he gradually came up with a new interpretation—the five iron pillars correspond to the five elements and directions, which is in line with the Taoist principle of mutual generation and mutual restraint of the five elements. This may be the key to the five spiritual energy flows not interfering with each other.

"The Wall of Iron Sand"—The iron sand is first dispersed in a scattered form. In the Five Elements of Taoism, the Earth element governs "gathering and scattering without form," and the dispersion and aggregation of the iron sand perfectly aligns with the virtue of Earth. When dispersed, it is like dust filling the sky; when aggregated, it is like mountains pressing down on the ground. The changes in form are entirely within the practitioner's intention.

"The Monk-Shaped Pagoda"—the monk-shaped form represents the downward sweeping motion of five fingers spread wide; the pagoda symbolizes suppression from above. This phrase clearly defines the direction of the falling iron spikes, requiring the mind to guide the spiritual energy, like the growth of wood, gathering from the scattered iron sands upwards, and then suppressing them from above. In Taoism, the image of the pagoda belongs to the element of wood, which represents growth, upward movement, and rooting into the earth. The *Taishang Dongxuan Lingbao Wuxing Xu* states: "The virtue of wood is benevolence; its energy flows downwards, like a canopy or a pagoda, covering and sheltering all things."

"Burning Iron Gleaming"—Burning iron refers to iron in a molten state at high temperatures; glimmering refers to a faint glow, corresponding to the "melting and polymerization" of the fire element. Iron sand melts and polymerizes at high temperatures, transforming from dispersed particles into a single solid iron pillar. This is the transformation of the fire element. The fire element, through smelting and burning, melts and forges the dispersed iron sand of the earth element into a single iron pillar. The iron sand, tempered by fire, transforms from loose to solid, perfectly embodying the principle of fire refining metal.

"Because of its resoluteness"—"because" refers to the practitioner's unwavering will, corresponding to the "upright and stable" nature of the metal element. Like many Taoist practices, the key to maintaining the iron pillar's form lies in the practitioner's intention; the stronger the will, the more stable the iron pillar. This is the core of the metal element. The virtue of metal is unyielding and indestructible, but metal cannot melt without fire, cannot gather without earth, and cannot be suppressed without wood.

"Finally, silence"—the iron pillar pierces the target, and all returns to stillness, corresponding to the water element's "silent nourishment," marking the culmination of the entire ghost path and the final sedimentation of spiritual power. The five elements thus form a closed loop: earth gathers iron sand, fire melts the iron sand, wood suppresses the iron pillar, metal solidifies its form, and water nourishes the iron—the gathering and dispersing of iron sand is earth, melting and coalescing is fire, suppression from above is wood, will maintaining form is metal, and finally, harmony and lubrication come from water. As the culmination of the entire ghost path, the power of the five elements at this moment transitions from movement to stillness, returning to its root.

At this point in the deduction, Xuan's fingertips paused slightly.

The greatest challenge of this demonic path is to simultaneously manipulate the spiritual power of five attributes in a short period of time and to jointly create the Iron String.

Simultaneously controlling hand gestures of five different spiritual energies, spiritual particle density gradients, the spiritual energy intensity required for the temperature transition from "iron sand" to "scorching iron," and multitasking while maintaining the form...

The wind blew across the wilderness, and he leaped over a dry ditch.

Suddenly, a chilling spiritual pressure pressed down from directly in front of him, instantly shattering his deductions. Immediately afterward, a thick, heavy stench of blood filled his nostrils, mingling with the grassy scent of early summer and the metallic stench lingering from the clash of Zanpakuto.

Xuan snapped back to his senses, suppressing his spiritual pressure and slowing his pace. His fingertips gently gripped the hilt of his sword, his spiritual senses spreading out to carefully detect every movement ahead, his eyes filled with vigilance.

Depression.

Surrounded by low hills on all sides, it resembles a shallow bowl embedded in the center of the wilderness. The yellow soil at the bottom of the bowl has been soaked in dark red blood, congealing into mottled, dark, hard lumps.

A dozen or so corpses lay scattered among the rubble, all dressed in Shinigami uniforms. Their clothes had been torn apart at the seams by immense force, the cuffs and collars rolled up to reveal the pale lining beneath. Each wound was the result of a swift and clean slash. The most conspicuous corpse lay on its back with a massive gash down its back, slashing diagonally from its left shoulder to its hip, deep enough to expose the bone. The Shinigami uniform, along with the flesh, had been cleanly severed, the blood soaking through the entire garment, drying and turning black, stiffening the fabric into a strange shape. Half of its face was buried in the rubble, the other half facing the sky, its eye sockets reflecting the slowly moving clouds, utterly lifeless.

One asahi-tachi lay embedded in the mud, the blade mostly submerged, only the hilt and half of the hilt visible. The diamond-shaped braided pattern on the hilt was clearly discernible, yet it was covered in a mixture of blood and dirt. Another asahi-tachi lay broken about three zhang away from its owner, the break curling up with fine metallic tassels, as if it had been cleaved by a knife—the jagged metal cut gleamed coldly in the sunlight. Beside the broken blade lay a lone finger, its nails embedded with dirt and grass clippings, long since lifeless. Yet another asahi-tachi lay intact on the rubble, its scabbard missing, a thin layer of ash covering the blade, not a single bloodstain. Its owner was two steps away, a clean, sharp gash on his neck.

The fragmented spiritual veins drifted slowly above the corpse, thinner and paler than normal spiritual veins, like burnt paper ash being scattered piece by piece by the wind. Each strand of spiritual vein carried a faint, dying fluctuation, telling of the tragedy that had just occurred.

The wind rose again. Another wave of bloody stench washed over him, and Xuan felt his stomach tighten, cramping in waves. Something deep within his soul trembled slightly, one beat at a time, slightly out of sync with his heartbeat. He forced himself to calm down, his gaze passing over the corpses and settling on the figure in the center of the depression. Undoubtedly, that was the culprit behind this horrific scene.

The person had their back to Xuan. Long black hair reached their waist, the ends of which were soaked in a dark, viscous liquid, sticking together in clumps. Even when the wind blew, the hair remained still between their shoulder blades.

His shihaka robes were soaked in blood from back to cuffs, the fabric clinging tightly to his thin back, highlighting the contours of his shoulder blades. His left hand gripped his zanpakuto in a reverse grip, the tip pointing diagonally to the ground. Blood continued to drip from his cuffs, dark red droplets slowly sliding down the blade, gathering at the tip, falling silently into the cracks in the rubble at his feet, one drop after another. A layer of dark red film had formed on the blade, stretching from tip to tsuba, the blade pattern obscured by the thick blood.

On the hills surrounding the depression, crows perched among the withered branches, tilting their heads to look down. Their bright black eyes reflected the corpses, ready to feed, but they dared not approach.

The figure slowly turned its head.

The cold, white sunlight fell on that face, and Xuan's breath hitched slightly—his eyebrows and eyes were delicate, his cheekbones were soft, and his lips were sickly white from blood loss. There were a few splattered bloodstains on the left side of his face, extending from his cheekbone to his jaw, dry and dark, like solidified tear stains.

Her gaze fell from the shadow of her brow bone, calm and serene. Though she appeared composed, Xuan felt a chilling killing intent envelop him, as if he had fallen into a bottomless pool of icy water.

A spiritual pressure emanated from her body, like a cold tide, gradually engulfing the entire depression. The wind from all directions suddenly stopped, and the air in the depression began to sink, becoming heavy and viscous. The sunlight was still bright, but it was as if it were seen through layers of blood, and when it fell to the ground, it had lost its warmth, leaving only a pale white light that made it hard to breathe.

The shattered corpses, broken blades, and scattered rubble—they were still in their original places, but under this spiritual pressure, the entire depression seemed to sink to the bottom of the water, and even time seemed to slow down.

Xuan knew that this was an illusion created by the overwhelming killing intent and spiritual pressure. He recognized the face.

The flower of the Rabbit is fierce.

No, Unohana Yachiru, the first Kenpachi, is an unprecedented and unparalleled villain in Soul Society.

Xuan unconsciously tightened his grip on the hilt, the blade remaining sheathed, without any intention of drawing it. He was unsure if his opponent would suddenly attack, and he feared that drawing the sword would provoke him and bring about an avoidable disaster.

Their eyes met. Sunlight slowly moved across the edge of the hollow, illuminating the shattered corpses, the shallow stakes stuck in the mud, the severed fingers among the rubble, and the coldness in their eyes. There was no wind, no birdsong, not a single extra sound in the hollow, only the subtle rustling of blood dripping onto the rubble, gradually fading into the deathly silence. The desolate landscape was so quiet it was almost deafening.