For a long while Han Li had been utterly still; then, of a sudden, he lifted his right hand and held up one finger stiffly on end, in a manner that bade a man wonder.
Yet it was not long before, at the height of a half-cun above that upraised fingertip, there rose a stirring in the very space about it, and out of nothing sprang a few scattered sparks. No sooner had the sparks appeared than, with a crackling hiss, they swelled amid the warping of the air into a great ball of red flame, no bigger than a walnut. Small though it was, a scorching heat came close upon its birth and filled every corner of the room.
Upon Han Li's face there yet lay a book; he lay as one asleep and unmoving. Only the little ball of fire at his fingertip kept up its unceasing crackling hiss of high-wrought heat, and beside the stillness of his finger it caught the eye at once.
The minutes crept away one by one, and the fireball still kept up its uncommon, vigorous life, showing not the least sign of dying out; yet at length Han Li gave some sign of change, for the fingertip that bore the fireball began to tremble faintly. At the first it was only the finger; but as the time wore on, the wrist, the whole arm, and at last his entire body fell to shuddering by slow degrees.
All at once Han Li sat up abruptly from the armchair, and the book that had lain upon his face slid to the ground without his even heeding it.
Both his eyes were fixed, with a desperate intentness, upon the little fire at his fingertip, and his face was all swollen and red. From brow to the bare skin at his throat oozed a fine sweat of many small beads, as though he had but just done some violent labor, and every inch of him gave off a steaming heat.
After a space the fireball began to waver amid the violent trembling of his whole frame; its flames would now swell, now die down, unable to keep their calm. Ere long it shrank away at last, turning once more into scattered sparks, and died out into the empty air.
The moment the fireball vanished, Han Li, like one whose very spine had been drawn out of him, sank back straightway into the chair, utterly drained, as though he had just spent his strength upon some great and wearying task.
"How hard this Fireball Technique is to master!" he murmured, his gaze fixed upon the rafters, speaking to himself. "I have studied it now the better part of half a year, and still I have not wholly grasped its secret — I have only lengthened by the merest trifle the time it will abide."
For on the last few leaves of that scroll of the Art of Eternal Youth there were likewise set down several rude and simple arts, things which, at a glance, were naught but the barest doorway-gifts of the immortals' path. These Han Li had seized upon as a treasure beyond price, and for several nights running had lain awake unable to sleep for very excitement.
Small wonder that he was so stirred. Ever since he had seen Doctor Mo work his arts, Han Li had been seized with a great interest in these unbelievable things, whose power was deep and unknowable indeed.
But the pity of it was that, though Han Li now bore in him a body of power at the very crest of the sixth layer of the Art of Eternal Youth, he was like a beggar holding a golden bowl — he knew not one jot of the craft of casting a spell, nor the first principle of any art whatsoever. And yet here, at one stroke, he had alighted upon several formulas well suited to a novice such as he. How could his joy not overflow?
The arts set down at the close of the scroll were these five — the Fireball Technique, the Spirit-Pinning Talisman, the Wind-Riding Mantra, the Object-Drive Art, and the Spirit Eye Art. Every line of incantation in them was, to Han Li, so rough-hewn, so abstruse and deep, that he could not begin to fathom it.
Nor was this any wonder, for the phrasing of these formulas was woven of a certain older and more antique stock of words. Though he had read not a few books in his day, his learning in such matters was shallow indeed, and the meaning could not be taken in at one reading.
Driven thus to his wits' end, Han Li once more called up the same frantic zeal with which he had first taken up the Art of Eternal Youth, and threw himself headlong into a great heap of books upon the ancient tongue, poring over them day and night in search of the true meaning hidden in the formulas, weighing every sentence and every word over and over, a score of times before he was satisfied, resolved that nothing less than a full and certain understanding, free of doubt, would content him.
Though he had never before learned any art whatsoever, he knew full well that power such as this, of boundless might, if it once went astray, would be far more terrible than any mere derangement of the true qi — a single error might well cost him his very life. It was for his own safety's sake that he walked with such wary heed, and dared not slacken in the least.
After three months of profound study, Han Li at length compassed all these formulas in the round, in theory; and so he passed on to the bodily practice of the arts.
This setting of hand to the work dealt Han Li a setback of no small weight.
He had thought that, with the quickness of wit with which he had mastered the Blink Sword Style, the learning of these arts would prove no great difficulty. But his expectations were dashed, for he was become suddenly dull past all believing. Though he knew full well the principle of the thing, yet when he came to the doing of it he could never make it right — either his handwork was amiss, or his incantation miscarried, or his magic power had not gone to the right place; the whole man appeared a hopeless blockhead.
Against this Han Li had no remedy at all. Had the fault lain in a want of power, he could have set it right with a matter of two mouthfuls of spirit medicine. But this was plainly a flaw in his own flaying; and so it seemed his gifts for the arts were not so great as he had fondly fancied. This was the conclusion Han Li drew for himself, after no little toil.
After long, hard labour, Han Li had at last attained some small success in the Fireball Technique and the Spirit Eye Art; but of the other three arts he had not so much as touched the threshold, and could work not the least effect with them.
In his vexation he could do no else but pour his spirit into those arts he could now grasp — the Fireball Technique and the Spirit Eye Art — and set no little store of hope upon them.
Of these, the might of the Fireball Technique did truly not fail Han Li — nay, it overleapt his expectations by a great deal.
Look but once at the Fireball Technique's ball of fire: though small it was, yet the terrible heat hidden at its very core could prove an enemy to well-nigh everything under heaven — melting all, blazing all.
Even a blade forged of the finest steel, were it smitten by this fireball, would have the smitten part turned in a twinkling to a pool of molten iron.
Having beheld this dreadful, more-than-human power with his own eyes, Han Li even cast the fireball upon the surface of the water to try it; and lo, that patch of water caught fire at once like oil, showing not the least sign that water could avail against it.
Now that he understood to the full the might of the Fireball Technique, Han Li at last saw why Yu Zitong had looked down upon mortal men with such proud disdain.
Think but a moment: a cultivator who knew but a smidgen of the arts could, with a paltry art like the Fireball Technique, slay with ease the so-called masters and renowned figures of the jianghu. Were it a cultivator of deeper power who made the stroke, would he not sweep the whole jianghu before him, and be matchless under heaven?
The gulf between their strengths being so vast, it was small marvel that cultivators such as Yu Zitong looked upon common men as men look upon ants and grubs.