Chapter 5: The Fox with a Spirit

The fox was grayish-white, its fur gleaming and immaculate, as if it were often groomed. Most striking were its eyes—pure, brimming with a light of intelligence, clearly not those of an ordinary wild fox, almost human in their depth.

It hid quietly in the thicket, watching Zhang Kai without a sound, its thoughts unreadable. But after a short while, the fox nearly jumped in shock.

The man it observed, Zhang Kai, suddenly sprang into action, his figure darting across stones, borrowing their force to leap lightly—each movement carried him five or six meters at a time. The fox, mouth agape, stared fixedly at Zhang Kai as if witnessing a miracle. If it could speak, surely an exclamation would have slipped out.

After a few moments, as Zhang Kai grew more adept, his movements became even more graceful. With a tip of his toes, he floated upward, his feet swinging as he walked in midair for over ten steps, flipped, and landed with his feet touching the water, sending ripples outward. He leaped again, soaring seven or eight meters high, his hands outstretched, inner strength gathering in his palms. His figure lingered in the air for two breaths before gently descending, drifting to the bank.

Though it was merely ordinary lightness skill, its marvel was beyond imagination.

Zhang Kai was exhilarated. Humankind had always dreamed of flying freely like birds, thus came the lightness skills of martial heroes, cloud-riding in myth, sword-flight in immortal tales, and airplanes in technology.

Apart from airplanes, the other feats were nearly impossible—yet now, Zhang Kai had achieved what was once fantasy, and his heart surged with excitement.

But it was not enough.

What Zhang Kai truly desired was flight upon a sword, or riding clouds and mist—true flight, to roam from northern seas to distant peaks, carefree among mortals, immortal in spirit.

He continued to experiment.

From flying over grass to crossing water on a blade, then to the Eight-Step Cicada Chase.

None of these were true flight, but methods of elevating the body. Without a hundred and fifty years of inner strength as foundation, the results would be ordinary; inner strength was a source of power—sufficient power turned the mundane into the miraculous.

Take, for instance, Qiao Feng in the "Heavenly Dragon Eight Chapters," who possessed no supreme lightness skill, yet after crossing a bridge, carried his beloved for forty miles in one breath.

Perhaps carrying a girl could inspire a man's potential further, but deep inner strength was indispensable.

He tried several lightness skills in turn, and with the bug of a century’s worth of power, mastered them swiftly. In less than three hours, he had grasped each one, and by combining their traits with his immense strength, his technique transcended the original forms, sensing even greater depths yet to be explored.

Once his enthusiasm for flight waned, Zhang Kai picked up the Divine Palm of Tathagata.

Martial arts, after all, are nothing without martial. Who as a child hadn’t playfully mimed the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms on adults, or wielded a golden staff, chasing chickens and dogs, fighting tiny monsters?

Zhang Kai, too, had been silly; now his dreams had come true, and he was eager to begin.

The modern Divine Palm of Tathagata, as found in the book, differed from its television counterpart.

This version could emit light and fire, but its special effects were too obvious, and its movements rather ridiculous.

It lacked the solemnity of the televised version, with chanting and Sanskrit symbols, culminating in the manifestation of the Buddha’s form—like immortal or Buddhist magic, enough to slay monsters in a fantasy world.

Zhang Kai had considered snatching the version from the TV series, but the secret was carved onto eight great cauldrons—not impossible to retrieve, but impractical to place anywhere.

So he decided to glean experience from the current version, then pursue the other; perhaps by merging the two, he could master it even faster.

He even imagined, once he mastered the Divine Palm, showing off in Buddhist circles—the effect would surely shock those old monks.

With anticipation, Zhang Kai began to study the manual.

The modern Divine Palm of Tathagata came with preset effects and was easy to learn; after all, Hua Tsai had mastered it by imitation after gaining thirty years of inner power.

As for the Seven-Spiral Slash, even Hua Tsai’s silly friends could learn it—surely he could as well.

He flipped through the manual, imprinting its contents in his mind. Soon, he memorized the nine moves, but the gestures were—truly absurd: Buddha moves mortal heart, Buddha gets angry—one move produced hearts, another flames like a barbecue.

If he really used these in battle, the enemy would be laughed to death before they could be struck.

No, this could not be practiced—better to remember it and focus on the TV version instead, the true Buddhist martial art.

Then Zhang Kai picked up the Seven-Spiral Slash.

This move was rather impressive—condense a wheel of light, throw it to attack, and guide it within a certain distance, striking where desired.

Such a ranged skill resembled a spell.

If he trained the Seven-Spiral Slash to perfection, with wheels of light whirling about, what could withstand them?

Thinking thus, Zhang Kai began learning without hesitation.

Compared to the Divine Palm, this was even simpler: just condense the wheel of light and slash everywhere.

Holding the manual in one hand, gesturing with the other, his century-and-a-half of inner strength transformed instantly, and a stream of light appeared in his palm.

In the modern version, the wheel of light was green.

But Liu Jin had cultivated the Purple Glow Divine Skill, so his wheel was purple, its color deep and nearly tangible.

The wheel of light coiled in his palm like a spinning disc.

After staring at it for a while, Zhang Kai flicked his hand. The wheel flew out with a whoosh, moving so fast it flashed past a large tree—crackling, the tree was felled in an instant, sliced cleanly.

Then the wheel whirled in all directions, cleaving through the air with a whistle, splitting stones and water alike.

Suddenly, as the wheel cut through the grass, Zhang Kai heard a sharp cry.

He looked closely—the wheel had passed, breaking the foliage, and a fox emerged, a patch of fur missing from its head, frozen in place, unable to move.

His expression changed briefly, then returned to normal.

As long as it wasn’t a person.

Damn, for a moment he feared that even hiding deep in the mountains he could not escape discovery.

But where had this fox come from?

It didn’t flee despite the commotion caused by his training—could it be no ordinary fox?

A thought occurred, and Zhang Kai darted over, landing and staring at the fox with a blank face: “Spying on another’s cultivation is a crime deserving death.”

His voice carried a trace of inner strength, like muffled thunder, startling the fox into a shiver; then, to Zhang Kai’s astonishment, it performed an unexpected act.

The fox lay flat, its forebody repeatedly rising and lowering—it was kowtowing for mercy!

My god, this fox had become a spirit!

Shocked, Zhang Kai suppressed his reaction and probed, “You wild fox, you’re rather clever—but spying on cultivation cannot be forgiven easily. What do you propose?”

The gray-white fox paused, then crawled to Zhang Kai’s feet, rubbing against his ankle, looking up at him with pitiful eyes.

Yes, pitiful indeed—those pure eyes held none of the cold ferocity of wild beasts, but rather a lively intelligence, even brimming with tears, whimpering softly.

Zhang Kai was even more stunned.

No doubt about it, this fox had truly become a spirit.

As expected, this world was not so simple—extraordinary beings did exist.

But such creatures must be rare, or else most people wouldn’t doubt ghosts and gods.

Perhaps he could observe and study it.

Pondering, Zhang Kai smiled, “You’re clever enough to curry favor—I’ll forgive you, considering how hard it is to cultivate, and how rare your intelligence. You may go.”

The gray fox was overjoyed, scrambled to leave, but after a few steps, turned back, lifted its body, waved its paws, and squeaked, gesturing something.

Zhang Kai’s mind stirred. “You want me to follow you?”

The gray fox nodded eagerly.

Zhang Kai pretended to hesitate for a moment, then said, “Very well, I’m tired from training—let’s walk together.”

The gray fox squeaked happily and led the way, running ahead.

Zhang Kai followed, and after ten minutes, came upon a cave. Around it were signs of artificial excavation, and fields that had grown wild with weeds, abandoned for who knows how long.

The fox slipped into the cave, and soon, light appeared within.

Zhang Kai entered, finding it not large, arranged like a bedroom. An oil lamp was lit—it was the fox who struck the match.

But what drew Zhang Kai’s attention most was a skeleton in Daoist robes, seated cross-legged upon a bed.