Otherworldly Medicine King

Chapter 12 : Frenzied Cultivation

 first strike landed with a deep, hollow thud that rolled through the grove like distant thunder.

Nolan did not flinch.

He knew they were watching him. He could feel their eyes on his back, their curiosity pressing in from all sides. A few whispered behind their hands. Others stared openly, not even trying to hide it. It did not matter. Right now, none of them existed in his world. There was only the red-bloodwood training log before him and the steady rhythm of his own breathing.

His right palm drove forward again.

Then again.

And again.

No wasted effort. No wild bursts of strength. Every movement was deliberate, almost patient, as though he had all the time in the world. Each impact echoed through the clearing and bounced off the surrounding trees. The log trembled under the force, yet it did not crack. The faint carvings along its surface shimmered, absorbing and dispersing the energy he poured into it.

At first, the onlookers watched with interest.

Then that interest shifted into confusion.

Then into something closer to unease.

Just days ago, Nolan had been confined to his bed, pale and barely able to stand. Many had quietly assumed he had pushed himself too far and paid the price. Some had even believed his cultivation path was finished.

Yet here he stood, upright and steady, striking the log with a rhythm that did not falter.

A sharp sound rang out again.

A ripple of emerald light spread across the surface of the red-bloodwood.

“He is still using Flower Burst?”

“That is what it looks like.”

“But why repeat it so many times? What is he trying to achieve?”

No one stepped forward to interrupt him. There was something in his expression that discouraged interference. His face was calm, almost distant. His eyes were not truly focused on the log. They seemed fixed on something beyond it, as if he were fighting an unseen opponent.

Gradually, the crowd thinned. One by one, the other trainees drifted back to their own practice posts.

Still, their movements lacked focus. Their ears strained toward the steady rhythm behind them.

Strike.

Strike.

Strike.

Eventually, even that pretense collapsed. Training was abandoned. Small groups slipped away from the grove, already exchanging stories.

By midday, the entire estate was whispering his name.

Nolan, who had risen from the third rank to the sixth in only two days.

Nolan, who had nearly died.

Nolan, who now trained with relentless intensity.

The rumors spread quickly.

Nolan heard none of it.

His awareness had already turned inward.

The strikes changed.

They were no longer about brute force. They became about precision. He adjusted the angle of his wrist slightly. He loosened his fingers, then tightened them at the exact moment of impact. He shifted the flow of energy within his palm by the smallest margin.

Tiny corrections. Subtle refinements. The kind of changes no spectator would ever notice.

But he noticed.

Flower Burst responded.

What once required careful concentration now formed more naturally in his palm. The phantom bloom gathered faster. Its shape sharpened. Its core condensed with greater density. The explosion that followed grew cleaner and more controlled.

Without realizing it, Nolan slipped into a state of heightened clarity, the same rare focus he had once experienced while refining medicinal essence. The world seemed sharper. Sounds faded into the background. Even the air felt clearer against his skin.

He ensued  every thread of energy moving through him. The wood-aligned power within his core no longer felt chaotic. It flowed with purpose, responding to his will almost instantly.

His palm struck again.

The emerald ripple that spread across the red-bloodwood was thicker than before. Brighter. The carved markings glowed intensely for a moment before dimming.

Nolan withdrew his hand and closed his eyes.

He did not strike again immediately.

Instead, he stood there, breathing slowly, replaying the sensation in his mind. The instant the bloom formed. The exact point at which it compressed. The precise moment pressure shifted into release.

He held onto that feeling carefully, as though afraid it might slip away.

When he opened his eyes again, a faint smile appeared.

“So that is the missing piece.”

His arm snapped forward.

The explosion came the very instant the flower formed.

The red-bloodwood shook violently. Emerald light burst outward and scattered into fading sparks.

Nolan exhaled, satisfied. “Perfect timing, Ravena.”

Within him, the small spirit stirred in quiet delight. He could feel her response, light and pleased, like leaves trembling in a gentle breeze.

“Again,” he murmured.

He did not feel tired.

He did not feel hungry.

He felt awake in a way he had not felt in years.

The sun rose higher.

Sweat rolled down his temples and soaked into his robes. He ignored it. His right palm struck. Then his left. The rhythm tightened, growing faster.

He shortened the interval between forming the bloom and detonating it. Each attempt demanded more energy than the last. His cultivation technique circulated steadily, refining wood-aligned energy and guiding it through precise pathways.

Soon, the surrounding energy in the air was no longer enough to sustain him.

That did not concern him.

He had reserves.

Deep within his unopened meridians lay compressed spiritual power, sealed and waiting. Drawing on it was slower without special tools, and it sent faint threads of pain through his limbs. Still, he welcomed the discomfort. It reminded him that he was breaking through limits.

He stopped absorbing energy from the environment and focused inward, unraveling the stored power bit by bit.

The transformation began quietly.

One of the extraordinary meridians responded first. The blockage that had resisted him for months loosened. Then it opened fully, without struggle.

The change was so smooth he almost missed it.

Energy flowed more freely. Cleaner.

His strikes sharpened.

Observers gradually returned to the grove, drawn by the increasingly intense fluctuations.

“He has not stopped since morning.”

“It is already past noon.”

“Was he not bedridden days ago?”

“Two days to advance three ranks. That should not be possible.”

Nolan circled the red-bloodwood now, striking from different angles. His footwork adjusted subtly, grounding him more firmly. The pace increased. Sweat drenched him and dried again under the sun.

Inside him, another shift occurred. A second meridian opened, releasing a fresh surge of power. The sensation was almost intoxicating.

Energy moved through his body without obstruction. Even the lingering medicinal strength within his muscles and bones was drawn out and fully absorbed.

Nothing remained stagnant.

Strike after strike landed in seamless rhythm.

By late afternoon, yet another barrier gave way. The flow within him became smooth and continuous, like a river finally freed from debris.

The sky slowly turned gold.

Spectators gathered again, keeping their distance.

“He has trained from sunrise until now.”

“I could not endure half of that.”

“This is madness.”

“He will collapse at this rate.”

Nolan did not hear them.

His breathing deepened but remained steady. Every exhale carried heat. Every inhale fed the circulation within him.

As the sun dipped toward the mountains, painting the sky crimson, Nolan changed his stance.

His right hand rose slowly. His fingers drew together into a sharp point. Energy condensed at his fingertips, dense and luminous, humming with restrained force.

The grove fell silent.

He thrust forward.

The explosion that followed was thunderous.

The red-bloodwood blazed with emerald light. For a heartbeat, it seemed wrapped in green flame. The shockwave rippled outward, rustling leaves and forcing several onlookers to stagger back.

Then silence returned.

Nolan lowered his hand slowly.

His breath remained steady, though deeper than before. His eyes shone with understanding.

That final strike revealed the optimal form. The perfect alignment of wrist and fingers. The exact compression required for maximum force. Flower Burst was no longer simply a technique he practiced.

It was becoming something uniquely his.

Within him, the final unopened meridian gave way.

No struggle. No dramatic surge.

Just a smooth release.

Energy flowed through his core with quiet strength.

He had advanced to the seventh rank.

Not through seclusion.

Not through ritual.

But through relentless repetition beneath the open sky.

Nolan wiped the sweat from his face and rolled down his sleeves. Night approached, bringing cooler air.

As he walked toward the grove’s exit, he gave a small nod to the stunned group nearby.

“He is finally leaving.”

“That last strike felt like the ninth rank.”

“You are eighth rank. Do you truly know what ninth rank feels like?”

“I may not. But I know I could not produce that force.”

“What technique is that? We do not even have a wood-aligned art like it.”

“Did he create it himself?”

“Even the clan head has not created his own art.”

“Let us go. I am starving.”

Their voices faded into the growing darkness.

The grove emptied.

Crimson skies deepened into indigo. The red-bloodwood stood scarred yet unbroken, faint traces of emerald light flickering before disappearing.

Lanterns began to glow across the estate grounds.

Nolan did not look back.

Within him, Ravena stirred contentedly. The newly opened pathways pulsed with steady vitality. The road ahead felt clearer than ever.

Seventh rank.

And yet, when he replayed that final explosion in his mind, he knew the truth.

Flower Burst was not complete.

What he had glimpsed at sunset was only the threshold.

If he could reach that level today, what might tomorrow bring?

A faint smile touched his lips as he disappeared into the night.

Behind him, the red-bloodwood gave a faint cracking sound.

A thin fracture line spread slowly across its surface.

And beyond the trees, hidden in shadow, unseen eyes had watched everything.

They had not moved.

They had not spoken.

But they had seen it all.