A Farmer's Journey To Immortality Chapter 579: Revisiting Martial World Sharang

Chapter 579: Revisiting Martial World Sharang

Aksai began placing talismans around the entrance, one after another, murmuring Mantras and performing a series of Mudras as he worked.

The talismans activated, spreading thin lines of runes across the stone walls until the entire entrance shimred faintly with layers of Spirit essence.

After a few monts, Aksai stopped and took a step back. His sharp eyes scanned the glowing lines of runes for a long mont.

“That’s not enough,” he murmured to himself. Even though he had beco a late-stage Foundation Establishnt Expert with a lot of trump cards, he placed vital importance to his safety as well as safety of his secrets.

Nobody could know about the Everwood Farm and Myriad Worlds Painting. These were his core secrets that he was willing to go to any lengths to protect.

He turned his palm and brought out several small Array Disks—each engraved with intricate formations. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them flying across the room. They embedded themselves in the walls, floor, and ceiling, humming quietly as they connected to one another.

A web of faint blue light spread throughout the hall, forming a multi-layered defense array that sealed the chamber completely. Now, not even a Core Formation cultivator could enter without triggering the alarm.

Only when he was satisfied did Aksai nod. “Now it’s good enough.”

He walked past the glowing defensive lines and moved deeper into the underground hall. The light from the Spirit lamps dimd the farther he went, and soon the only thing visible was a single stone platform in the center of the last chamber.

It looked like a bed carved from an ancient block of jade stone. Aksai stepped up and sat cross-legged upon it. The surface was cold, but it quickly ward as Spirit essence began to gather around him.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed until it matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. The flow of Spirit essence inside him began to circulate according to the Sun-Moon Duality technique.

Ti passed quietly. When Aksai finally opened his eyes again, they were calm and sharp, like still water hiding great depth.

“I’ll need to go through Pain Penance before even attempting to break through into the Core Formation realm,” he muttered under his breath. “Otherwise, with my poor Spirit Root talent, not only will I fail, but I might also harm my cultivation base… and my body.”

He fell silent for a mont, his expression thoughtful.

“There’s only one way to go through Pain Penance before the Core Formation breakthrough event.”

His eyes narrowed, a faint light flashing within them.

“Ti to go back to Martial World Sharang and have a look,” he said quietly.

***

Martial World Sharang.

The sound of fists striking wooden posts echoed through the courtyard. The sll of dust and sweat filled the warm morning air.

Rows of young students were practicing their forms under the sharp eyes of their teachers—veteran martial warriors who had once road the battlefields.

Zinnia stood at the edge of the open ground, leaning lightly on a wooden staff. Her silver hair was tied into a neat bun, though a few strands had escaped and danced with the mountain breeze.

The years had changed her face, softening the sharp lines of her youth, but her eyes still carried the sa cold clarity that could make even experienced fighters straighten their posture.

Her martial arts school stood on a quiet plateau– at an isolated valley surrounded by pine trees and waterfalls. It was peaceful here, a place where young people ca to learn the ways of the Qi.

In the center of the courtyard, an instructor barked orders at a group of students who were struggling to keep their stances. “Lower your hips! Feel the ground beneath your feet! Don’t rush the movent!”

Zinnia’s gaze followed one particular boy, about fifteen years old, whose punches lacked rhythm. His movents were stiff, his balance weak. Another student in the next row overcompensated with too much force, toppling forward.

A sigh escaped Zinnia’s lips.

“Not a lot of good seedlings this year as well,” she murmured quietly to herself.

The instructor nearest to her, an older man with scars running down his arm, overheard her and smiled faintly. “You always say that, Master Zinnia. Maybe we just need to give them ti.”

“Ti doesn’t grow talent,” Zinnia replied, shaking her head. “It only shows who truly wants to improve.”

She walked forward slowly. The students froze as her shadow passed among them. Even after all these years, her presence carried a weight of authority.

“Show your stance,” she said to the boy who had fallen earlier.

He hurried to position himself, lowering his body and tightening his fists.

“Too tense,” Zinnia said imdiately. She tapped his shoulder lightly with her staff. “Relax. Strength doesn’t co from locking your body. It cos from flowing with intent. You need to feel your Qi and direct in the right direction using your movents as the driving force.”

She guided his elbow slightly, adjusted his feet, then nodded. “Better. Now again.”

The boy exhaled and threw another punch. This ti, the strike was smoother.

Zinnia smiled faintly. “Good. Rember that feeling.”

She turned away and looked toward the distant peaks beyond the courtyard. The wind carried faint echoes of training shouts, mixed with the hum of cicadas in the sumr heat.

It had been many years since the Devil Tree incident—so long that most young martial artists today had only heard of it as a story. The world had changed, calr perhaps, though Zinnia often wondered if peace had made it weaker.

Her eyes softened as she watched the young faces before her. There was pride there too, buried beneath her stern expression.

“Even if the seedlings are weak,” she whispered under her breath, “as long as so of them take root, it’s worth the effort.”

Then, turning back toward the training ground, she raised her staff slightly and called out, “Form lines again! We begin with breathing drills. The body follows the breath—rember that!”

Zinnia watched the schoolyard for a while longer. The rhythm of punches and kicks, the grunts of effort, the barked corrections—it all blended into a sound she had co to love. A sound that spoke of order, discipline, and life continuing on.

But as she stood under the shade of the veranda, a sudden thought passed through her mind. Her eyes grew distant, and her grip on the wooden railing loosened.

Aksai.

Her old lord. Her teacher in more ways than she liked to admit.

Was he still alive sowhere? Or did he die in the hands of the Tree Devil?

Zinnia exhaled slowly, her gaze wandering toward the horizon. The Devil Tree incident had buried more than just people that day—it had buried mories, promises, and half-told stories.

The world had moved on, yet her heart still wondered. Did he truly die there, in that chaos? Or had he escaped, vanishing into the unseen corners of the world like he always did?

She smiled faintly. “You always liked doing things your way, didn’t you… my lord?” she muttered softly.

With that, she turned around and walked into the two-story school building. The teachers in the courtyard continued their work, handling the students and daily affairs as she disappeared inside, the door sliding shut behind her.

A few minutes later, the school’s calm routine was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from the main gate. A young man entered—a stranger to most.

He had jet-black hair and eyes of the sa deep shade, carrying a quiet charm that seed at odds with his modest clothing. His presence drew a few curious looks, but he walked straight toward the courtyard where one of the senior instructors was guiding a group of Bronze Body students through basic stances.

The man stopped near the edge of the training area and spoke politely. “Excuse . I’m here to et with Lady Zinnia.”

The veteran instructor, a burly man with a thick beard and scars along his jawline, turned to him. For a mont, he just stared, then broke into a booming laugh. “Ha! Boy, don’t tell you ca here to ask Lady Zinnia to take you as her direct disciple!”

The students nearby snickered quietly. The instructor pointed toward a line near the school’s inner hall. “See those youngsters standing there? Each one of them said the sa thing! They’ve been waiting for months for a chance to even et her—and she hasn’t accepted a direct disciple in years.”

The young man looked at the queue. There were nearly a dozen people—noble sons, young martial talents, even a few rich rchants’ children—waiting patiently with gifts and hopeful faces. He frowned slightly.

“I’m not here for that,” he said calmly. “I actually know Zinnia personally.”

The instructor roared with laughter again, holding his belly. “Oh, sure you do! Guess what? Every one of those hopefuls said the sa thing. One of them even claid to be her long-lost nephew!”