Zhou Ming had been playing wildly above the sea of clouds for the whole day. It wasn't until the setting sun sank low and the evening glow burned through half the firmament that he returned to Wuying Hall, still feeling unsatisfied.

When he landed, his feet still felt a bit unsteady. He stood at the entrance of the hall for quite a while before he could readapt to the feeling of having his feet on solid ground.

After having dinner, he used his Divine Sense to scan the Imperial Palace as usual.

Emperor Yongchang was in Qianyuan Hall, lying listlessly on the table with dull, vacant eyes, looking like a walking corpse.

Su Mingli was in the back office of the Prefectural Governors Mansion, trying on the third way to wear his prefectural official robes in front of the mirror.

Grand Duke Su was sitting alone in Wenhua Hall, staring blankly at the chessboard. Everything was normal; there was nothing unusual.

Zhou Ming sat down behind the desk and began to ponder seriously.

He already knew how to fly, but he was still a blank slate when it came to techniques.

Thinking it over, the simplest way to start was with a Flying Sword.

Whether it was Flying Sword flight or using a Flying Sword to harm others, both were mandatory courses for cultivation.

But where should he go to get a Flying Sword?

He looked left and right, then casually pulled a long sword from the antique shelf behind him.

Ever since he took charge of the Imperial Palace, court officials and local noble families all knew that he was the favorite in front of Empress Su Mingyue.

His words carried more weight than anyone else's, so they didn't skimp on sending things to him.

Famous paintings and calligraphy, rare ancient books, precious medicinal herbs, and some swords of excellent quality.

Zhou Ming was not someone who refused all favors; if he encountered something he liked, he would casually accept it.

This long sword was one of them. Its ebony scabbard was edged with copper, and the hilt was wrapped in silver thread; it looked quite valuable.

He gripped the hilt and drew it; the blade slid out of the scabbard, and a chilling, somber gleam reflected onto Zhou Ming's face.

The blade was thin and sharp. When he lightly flicked the spine of the sword with his finger, it emitted a clear, long-lasting Dragon's roar, the resonance lingering in the spacious hall for a long time.

It was a good sword.

Zhou Ming gripped the hilt and tried to slowly infuse a wisp of magical power into it.

As soon as the magical power was released from his fingertips, the sword body hummed and vibrated, and a sword light, brighter and colder than when it was first drawn, flowed along the blade.

The entire sword seemed to come alive, emitting an excited low hum in his hand.

He had only infused a single wisp of magical power, not even one-ten-thousandth of the amount in his Dantian's purple-gold Nascent Soul.

Then, the light on the surface of the sword suddenly became unstable, and countless cracks as fine as spiderwebs appeared simultaneously from the crossguard to the tip.

The cracks spread rapidly within the sword light, and accompanied by a series of faint, crisp shattering sounds, the entire sword broke into pieces in his hand.

The broken blade clattered onto the desk and the gold-brick floor, and in the end, Zhou Ming was left with nothing but the silver-threaded hilt in his hand.

Zhou Ming looked down at the shattered iron on the floor and shook his head.

No matter how sharp mortal swords were, they were ultimately just ordinary iron and could not bear his magical power.

Even though he only infused a single wisp, the blade couldn't withstand it and shattered instantly.

After thinking about it, Zhou Ming felt that he should refine a Magical Artifact himself.

In his past life reading novels, those at the Qi Refinement Stage could use Earth Fire to refine Magical Artifacts. He was now at the Nascent Soul Stage, and with such a large purple-gold Nascent Soul in his Dantian, logically, he shouldn't be unable to even refine a Flying Sword, right?

Artifact Refining required fire.

In the novels he read in his past life, Golden Core Stage Cultivators nurtured Pill Fire within their bodies, and by the Nascent Soul Stage, the Pill Fire sublimated into Nascent Fire, its power doubling, capable of melting even Heaven And Earth Treasure.

The Nascent Fire should be within the Nascent Soul, one with it, just like his magical power—summoned at will.

Zhou Ming sat cross-legged and sank his mind into his Dantian.

The purple-gold Nascent Soul was sitting cross-legged in the void of his Dantian, eyes slightly closed, motionless.

Zhou Ming tried to use his will to mobilize the Nascent Soul, letting it release the Nascent Fire.

The Nascent Soul opened its eyes and raised its hand to make a gesture, but nothing happened.

He tried again, repeatedly imagining the scene of flames gushing from the Nascent Soul's fingertips in his mind, but let alone flames, not even a wisp of blue smoke appeared.

Zhou Ming changed his approach.

Perhaps the Nascent Fire shouldn't come from the Nascent Soul's fingertips, but rather the entire body of the Nascent Soul should turn into flames?

He tried using his will to make the Nascent Soul burn, but the Nascent Soul remained motionless.

He also tried forcing magical power out of the Nascent Soul to condense into the shape of a flame within his Dantian.

His Dantian felt hot for a while, but there was no follow-up.

Zhou Ming opened his eyes, frowning as he recalled the settings of the novels he had read in his past life.

Nascent Fire was the Origin fire of a Nascent Soul Stage Cultivator; logically, every Nascent Soul Stage Cultivator should have it naturally.

But why couldn't he produce it? Was his method wrong?

For the entire night that followed, Wuying Hall was brightly lit.

Zhou Ming sat cross-legged on the low couch, sometimes closing his eyes to concentrate, sometimes stretching out his fingers to gesture at the air.

The hall was quiet, with only the faint crackling sound of the lamp wick occasionally popping.

But no matter how he tried, not a single spark of flame appeared at his fingertips.

After struggling for most of the night, until it was pitch black outside the window and the night-watch lanterns under the eaves had dimmed.

Zhou Ming still hadn't managed to produce a single spark. Finally, he leaned back against the chair, exhausted, and closed his eyes, feeling even more tired than when Dongmei had forced him to squat in Horse Stance for an afternoon at the Martial Arts Training Ground.

A fish-belly white light appeared on the horizon.

The first ray of morning light passed through the carved lattice window, hitting Zhou Ming's profile at an angle, casting a long, narrow, pale golden spot of light on the floor and the desk.

Zhou Ming squinted his eyes, as if he had realized something.

Sunlight brought light and heat; it didn't emerge from inside any object, but penetrated from a higher source outside, directly illuminating the entire room.

Zhou Ming suddenly thought, why must he force the Nascent Soul itself to produce the Nascent Fire, instead of using the energy of the Nascent Soul body to catalyze it?

Sitting cross-legged properly, Zhou Ming sank his mind into his Dantian once again. He no longer commanded the Nascent Soul to "spit out flames," but instead truly merged his mind with the Nascent Soul.

He no longer viewed himself as a Physical Body sitting cross-legged on the low couch, but as that little purple-gold figure in his Dantian.

The little purple-gold figure extended its tiny right hand, and a wisp of extremely fine and pure magical power surged from its fingertip.

The little figure raised its left hand, guiding the magical power surging from its right hand between its two hands. Using its own Divine Soul as a guide, it carefully, focusedly, and slowly rotated and ground it.

Just at the moment when the magical power was ground to its limit, a faint, pale purple-gold flame silently appeared between the Nascent Soul's hands.

Zhou Ming's Physical Body on the low couch opened its eyes and raised its right hand.

At his fingertip, a small purple-gold flame ignited out of thin air.

The flame was only the size of a candle flame, quietly hovering above his fingertip. It was entirely purple-gold, with an extremely bright center, while the outer flame was as soft as a layer of gauze.

It had no scorching heat waves; he couldn't even feel any temperature. But as Zhou Ming stared at the dancing purple-gold light, his back felt a chill.

He could feel the terrifying power contained within this tiny wisp of flame.

He finally understood why a mortal sword couldn't even bear a single wisp of his magical power; in front of this Nascent Fire, a piece of ordinary iron was probably no more durable than a blade of withered grass.

Zhou Ming grinned, brought his fingertip in front of his eyes, and watched the wisp of purple-gold flame dancing obediently on his fingertip.

He could fly now.

He had fire now.

Next.

It was time to refine a Flying Sword for himself.