Otherworldly Medicine King

Chapter 15: Blazing Flame Scorching Heart Fist

“Nolan King! If you’re a man, nod your head!”

The shout cut across the training grounds and lingered in the warm afternoon air.

Several young members of the clan had gathered beneath the wide canopy of an old spirit oak. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, laying strips of gold across the packed earth. At the center of the circle stood a broad-shouldered youth with dark, sunburned skin and a thick neck that strained against the collar of his training robe. He crooked a finger toward Nolan and grinned as if the outcome had already been decided.

He was enjoying the attention. Anyone could see that.

Off to one side stood a crimson spirit pillar planted deep into the ground. Faint patterns glowed across its polished surface, pulsing gently like a sleeping heart. It was a common strength-testing tool in the clan, used to measure power and technique. Nothing rare, but useful enough to draw a crowd when someone decided to show off.

Nolan stood opposite the youth, hands resting loosely at his sides. He did not clench his fists. He did not narrow his eyes. If anything, he looked mildly curious.

Instead of responding to the insult, he asked in an even tone, “What cultivation rank are you?”

The question caught a few of the spectators off guard.

The dark-faced youth laughed. “Spirit Gathering Rank Seven.”

He stepped toward the pillar without hesitation and drove his fist into it.

A heavy impact echoed across the clearing.

Crimson light burst from the carved spirit patterns, flaring bright for a moment before settling. Heat rolled outward in a visible ripple. A few nearby youths nodded approvingly. The pillar had responded strongly. It was not an empty display.

The youth withdrew his hand slowly, flexing his fingers as though warming up for something greater.

“Relax,” he said, voice thick with mock sympathy. “I will go easy on you. And if you are too scared, you can lie down and meow three times. I might even give you this spirit pillar afterward.”

The laughter came instantly.

“A Spirit Master needs courage!”

“If he cannot accept a friendly spar, what is the point of cultivating?”

“He should kneel and apologize before he embarrasses himself!”

The teasing overlapped, rising louder and louder.

The youth lifted his chin, soaking it in. He even let out a roar and struck his own chest for emphasis. It was theatrical, but the crowd seemed to appreciate it. When he looked back at Nolan, his gaze held nothing but open contempt.

And still, Nolan did not react.

No anger flickered in his expression. No tension tightened his posture.

In his previous life, he had faced far worse than laughter. He had stood before crowded lecture halls filled with renowned physicians who dismissed him openly. After saving a terminal patient abandoned by several prestigious hospitals using the Nine Turn Golden Needle Technique, he had published his findings with confidence.

The backlash had been swift and merciless.

Medical journals questioned his credibility. Commentators mocked him in interviews. Colleagues smiled politely while whispering doubt behind his back.

Compared to that storm of hostility, this scene felt almost trivial.

When the laughter began to fade, Nolan asked calmly, “What is your name?”

The youth tilted his head and replied, “Marcus Vale.”

He glanced around at the others, smirking. “Well? Are you going to meow?”

Nolan’s lips curved slightly.

“You belong to the Vale branch,” he said evenly.

A faint murmur passed through the circle.

“By seniority,” Nolan continued, “that makes me your uncle.”

Silence fell so quickly that even the leaves seemed to pause.

Within the clan, generational order was not a mere formality. It defined hierarchy. It determined respect. Members of Nolan’s generation stood one rank above those of Marcus’s generation. Titles were not optional. They were expected.

Marcus blinked once.

Then his eyes widened.

“You expect me to call you Uncle?”

Nolan’s gaze sharpened just enough to show authority without anger.

“Were you never taught to respect your elders?”

Several of the onlookers shifted uneasily. He was correct. Regardless of personal feelings, the rules were clear.

Marcus’s face darkened, red creeping up his neck. His jaw tightened so severely that the muscles stood out.

Nolan exhaled softly. “To be honest, I have little interest in sparring with a child who does not understand his place.”

The implication was obvious.

If Marcus refused now, he would appear frightened. If he complied, he would swallow humiliation.

The surrounding youths began signaling him with urgent glances.

Just say it.

You can settle it afterward.

Marcus’s fists clenched. His knuckles turned pale.

Finally, through gritted teeth, he forced out the word.

“Uncle.”

It sounded as though it cost him something.

Nolan nodded, as if approving a student’s effort. “Good. Now come. Let your uncle offer you a few pointers.”

The humiliation snapped whatever restraint Marcus still held.

“Take this!”

He lunged forward.

His right fist ignited in blazing red light. Heat surged outward in waves, drying fallen leaves and distorting the air. The temperature in the clearing rose noticeably.

Several spectators instinctively stepped backward.

Blazing Flame Scorching Heart Fist.

It was a recognized low grade spirit technique within the clan. Across the continent, cultivation methods and spirit techniques were divided into four ranks: low, middle, high, and heaven. Higher ranks demanded greater control and stronger foundations. For most practitioners below Spirit Fusion Rank Nine, low grade techniques were the practical limit.

Yet even among low grade techniques, this one carried impressive force.

Marcus’s burning fist cut through the space between them with surprising speed. Despite his large frame, he moved quickly. The heat struck Nolan’s face like the breath of a furnace.

Nolan did not retreat.

For the past two days, he had trained relentlessly. Repetition had carved reactions into muscle memory. In true combat, hesitation could be fatal. Thought often slowed a fighter.

His mind cleared.

His left arm snapped forward.

His fingers thrust outward with precise intent.

Flower Burst.

A faint green radiance shimmered at his fingertips. It looked fragile compared to the roaring blaze before it.

Their fists met.

For the briefest instant, the green light condensed into a single point.

Then it exploded.

The crack of impact rolled through the clearing like thunder.

A shockwave burst outward. Leaves spun into the air. Dust scattered in every direction.

Marcus’s heavy body lifted clean off the ground. For a heartbeat, he seemed suspended against the fading light of the sky.

Then he crashed beneath a tree several meters away.

The earth trembled faintly.

Silence swallowed the clearing.

No one laughed.

No one spoke.

Marcus had been defeated in one move.

Moments ago, the outcome had seemed obvious. He possessed higher cultivation. Greater physical strength. A refined offensive technique. Nolan had only recently advanced and had not displayed a formal wood element combat method.

On the surface, Marcus held every advantage.

Reality disagreed.

Marcus struggled upright slowly, clutching his right arm. It hung awkwardly at his side.

Sweat formed along his brow. His breathing grew uneven.

“You are not Spirit Gathering Rank Six,” he said hoarsely.

Nolan glanced briefly at his own fingers. Even he had underestimated the explosive power of Flower Burst. The technique did not simply block energy. It destabilized it at the point of contact and forced it to detonate.

It was efficient.

And dangerous.

He looked back at Marcus with a faint smile.

“Rank Six?” he repeated lightly.

He brushed invisible dust from his sleeve.

“That was yesterday.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

His tone remained calm.

“Now,” he continued, “your uncle is Spirit Gathering Rank Seven.”

Those words struck harder than the explosion.

Several faces paled. Whispers spread quickly.

He had advanced again. Quietly. Without ceremony. Without announcement.

A chill crept into the gathering.

Because if Nolan could progress at such speed, what would stop him from rising even higher?

The sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the ground. The mood had changed completely. What began as entertainment now felt tense and uncertain.

Marcus lowered his head slightly. For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes.

But Nolan was no longer looking at him.

He was staring toward the stone path that led deeper into the clan grounds.

He had felt it.

A presence.

Heavy. Controlled.

Watching.

Not another youth. Not a curious spectator.

Someone stronger.

The air seemed to tighten around the clearing. The earlier noise had vanished, replaced by an uneasy stillness.

Nolan’s faint smile faded.

If someone important had witnessed this exchange, then this spar might not end here.

Somewhere beyond the trees, unseen eyes observed quietly.

And Nolan understood, with a clarity that sent a faint chill through his spine, that this victory was only the beginning.

A larger challenge was approaching.

The real test had not yet begun.