306: Chapter 300 Cultivation

Song Yang stood under that old locust tree.

He took a deep breath; the newly realized Will surged within his chest, and his body was filled with an unprecedented sense of power.

Was it not just catching a leaf?

He gripped his long spear tightly, and the shaft hummed, as if responding to his fighting spirit.

A gust of autumn wind blew past, and several withered yellow leaves detached from the branches, spinning as they drifted toward the ground.

Song Yang shifted his feet, his figure moved slightly, and the black long spear in his hand turned into an Afterimage, accurately meeting one of the largest falling leaves.

He did not use the spear tip to pierce it, but instead, imitating the old man, tried to use the spear shaft to catch it.

A soft sound rang out.

That withered leaf seemed to collide with an invisible wall of blades, instantly being sliced to pieces and turning into a few insignificant fragments.

Song Yang's movements froze.

He looked down at the empty spear shaft, then at the leaf fragments on the ground that were smaller than a fingernail, and his brows furrowed involuntarily.

He had clearly restrained his strength just now.

Yet his "Will," filled with the intent to kill and destroy, was completely uncontrollable.

As soon as he exerted power, this "Will" would naturally attach itself to the spear, tearing apart everything that came near.

He refused to accept this.

Another leaf drifted down.

This time, he slowed his speed further and reined in his strength even more, carefully meeting it with the spear tip.

As a result, the leaf was directly pierced by the black-red aura lingering on the spear tip, and then shattered into powder by the subsequent force.

"..."

Song Yang fell silent.

He turned his head to take a look.

The old man had already returned to the recliner under the eaves, his eyes closed as if he were asleep, completely indifferent to everything happening in the courtyard.

He set aside the trace of irritation in his heart and refocused his attention on the falling locust leaves.

One leaf. Two leaves. Ten leaves. One hundred leaves.

Throughout the entire morning, Song Yang repeated the same action.

Thrusting the spear, then watching the leaves turn to dust before him.

The ground in the courtyard was covered with a thin layer of yellowish-green powder.

The feeling of frustration—having strength with nowhere to apply it, and being stumped by a tiny leaf despite all his skills—made his chest feel tight.

The afternoon sun became somewhat scorching.

Song Yang's forehead was covered with fine beads of sweat that slid down his cheeks, but he was completely unaware.

In his world, there remained only the constantly falling leaves and the long spear in his hand that felt increasingly heavy.

Why?

What on earth was he supposed to do?

Control his strength?

He was already controlling it.

But that Will, that killing intent, was like the breathing of the long spear; as long as the spear moved, it existed.

Did he have to give up his "Will"?

No.

Song Yang immediately dismissed this thought.

That was something he had found with great difficulty; it was the soul of his martial path.

If he abandoned his soul, no matter how high his technique was, he would just be an empty shell.

Since he could not give it up, he had to master it!

A thought flashed through his mind like lightning.

Yes, mastery!

Not suppression, not restraint, but complete control as he desired!

If he wanted it to be violent, it would burn the heavens and earth.

If he wanted it to be gentle, it would be as quiet as a maiden.

This was true dominance!

Dominating his own power, dominating his own Will!

Having figured this out, Song Yang's entire aura changed once again.

That previously outward-flowing, violence-filled aura began to retract inward and settle.

Another gust of wind blew.

A withered leaf drifted down leisurely.

Song Yang's eyes were startlingly bright.

He thrust his spear again.

This time, he did not deliberately reduce his strength, but instead immersed his mind completely into the point of the spear tip.

He could feel that black-red intent to kill still condensing on the spear tip.

But this time, it did not spread outward recklessly as it had before.

Instead, under Song Yang's will, it was forcibly compressed, and compressed again.

Eventually, that aura capable of tearing steel apart was twisted by him into an extremely thin thread, coiling around the spear tip and forming a small vortex of force.

The spear tip met the falling leaf slowly and steadily.

At the moment of contact, Song Yang's heart leaped to his throat.

The withered leaf trembled slightly on the spear tip.

The vortex-like force field guided it, and it began to rotate slowly.

It did not shatter.

It remained intact, resting on the spear tip like a dancer performing an elegant dance.

Success!

A great surge of joy welled up in Song Yang's heart.

He carefully controlled the long spear, steadily delivering the leaf to the ground.

Although he had only succeeded once, this breakthrough was of extraordinary significance.

With the first time, there would be a second and a third.

From unfamiliarity to proficiency, Song Yang gradually mastered the trick.

By dusk, when the last leaf was steadily caught by his spear tip, he was already able to make his heart follow his will, with the spear thrusting and the leaf falling.

In the courtyard, not a single leaf was torn to shreds anymore.

The old man had awakened at some point; he did not look at Song Yang but walked to the eaves and pointed at a row of crystal-clear dewdrops hanging there.

"Leaves are too simple."

The old man's voice was flat and waveless.

"Use your spear to catch those dewdrops and fill that water vat in the courtyard."

Song Yang looked in the direction his finger pointed, and his pupils constricted sharply.

Catch dewdrops?

And fill that large water vat that could hold two of him?

How was that possible!

Dewdrops are liquid, without a fixed form, relying entirely on that tiny bit of surface tension to maintain themselves.

Let alone catching them with a spear tip, even touching them with a finger would cause them to shatter instantly.

This difficulty was more than a hundred times greater than catching leaves yesterday!

"Senior, this..."

"If you can't do it, it means you have no talent."

The old man dropped this sentence, turned back into the house, and closed the door, clearly not intending to say another word.

Song Yang stood in place, looking at the dewdrops shimmering in the morning light, speechless for a long time.

After a long while, he exhaled a breath of stale air, and his eyes became sharp once again.

He walked to the water vat and gripped his long spear tightly.

A drop of dew slid off the eaves.

Song Yang thrust his spear.

"Pop."

The dewdrop burst in mid-air, turning into a tiny mist.

Failure.

Try again.

"Pop."

Failed again.

Song Yang was not discouraged; he calmed his heart and poured all his energy into the micro-manipulation of his power.

He knew the requirements this time were higher.

Not only did he have to condense his "Will" into a thread, but he also had to use this thread to weave a platform on the spear tip capable of bearing liquid.

This process was extremely tedious.

Failure, failure, and failure again.

One day, two days...

Song Yang did not sleep or rest, did not eat or drink.

His focus was unprecedentedly concentrated.

Every time he thrust his spear, it was steadier and more precise than the last.

The invisible force field on the spear tip was also honed to be increasingly smooth and stable through repeated failures.

The dawn of the third day.

When the first ray of morning light illuminated the courtyard, a dewdrop dripped from the eaves.

Song Yang's figure moved.

The black long spear, as if weightless, appeared silently beneath the dewdrop.

This time, the dewdrop did not shatter.

Like a pearl with life, it landed steadily on the spear tip, swaying gently, yet never scattering.

Success!

Suppressing the excitement in his heart, Song Yang's arm remained motionless as he moved the long spear extremely slowly to above the water vat, his wrist slightly tilted.

"Drip."

A crisp sound, appearing exceptionally pleasant in the quiet morning.

The first drop of water fell into the vat.

This was a beginning.

Next, Song Yang's movements became faster and faster, more and more proficient.

"Drip."

"Drip."

"Drip."

The crisp sound of dripping water became the only melody in the courtyard.

Not knowing how long had passed, when the last dewdrop was sent into the vat by him, that huge water vat was finally filled.

Song Yang leaned on his long spear, panting heavily, his body long since soaked with sweat, yet he began to laugh.

"Creak—"

The heavy door was pushed open.

The old man walked out; he came to the water vat, took a look at the full clear water, and then looked at the almost exhausted Song Yang, his eyes filled with praise.