Someone asked him, he would say, he wanted to find a battle method suitable for those who refine gods.
Pure Refining God cultivators, even if they go to the frontlines, if they're not strong enough, they're just a burden, holding back their teammates' strength, because they're too weak.
He still spent his days with hands tucked in his sleeves, in others' eyes, he was just a bum.
Only Yu Ziqing saw that he was more determined than anyone, for the sake of researching a battle method suitable for Refining God cultivators, his divine soul had been injured dozens of times.
But he had a naturally powerful soul, extraordinary talents, capable of self-recovery.
He pushed his abilities to the limit, almost always being in an injured state.
More severe than the injuries faced by those on the frontline.
The pain of the divine soul is far beyond what the pain of the flesh can compare, because it can't be reduced, can't be shielded.
But many people don't understand, since the Refining God Dao has just started, no one is familiar with it.
From starting to refining gods to the Seventh Tier, he had never had a dispute with anyone.
Until one day, faced with an army of tens of thousands, bypassing the flank, coming to raid the rear.
Millions of mortals, just right here.
And the defending army here only had two thousand, the strongest Qi Refiner had only reached the seventh tier.
No one knew how the enemy crossed the long battlefield to raid the far rear.
But at this moment, how it happened no longer mattered.
No retreat, he still had his hands in his sleeves, a smile on his face, walking out of the simple city walls.
Others thought he finally summoned the courage at this moment, at least not losing his bloodlust, ready to perish along with these people, yet to die first.
However, he had a sincere expression, looking at the tens of thousands of enemies with a smile.
"Please retreat, I don't like to fight."
Jubilant laughter echoed between heaven and earth, the enemy was amused.
Then, the man who always had a gentle smile towards everyone suddenly stopped smiling.
The others couldn't laugh anymore.
"If you don't leave, then don't."
A song hung on this slacker's lips every day, hummed from time to time, rang out.
The soft melody usually hummed now was full of a killing aura.
He tucked his hands in his sleeves, chanting expressionlessly.
The enemy's eyes turned blood red, their rationality drowned in the chanting.
Tens of thousands of enemies slaughtered each other, appearing mad.
No matter how fierce the sounds of battle were, they couldn't overshadow his low chanting.
When everything returned to calm, amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood, silence reigned.
His lips curled into a smile again, his eyes staring straight ahead, falling stiffly.
Someone took him back, finding his divine soul riddled with cracks, on the verge of collapse.
At this time, no one knew how to treat such severe soul injuries.
Thought he'd surely die, unexpectedly, merely a few months later, he recovered on his own.
Still occasionally humming that lively tune.
Then, everyone knew, when he hummed this tune, his soul would certainly get injured.
He truly was always working, not a loafer.
Just like he said, he didn't like to make a move, his hands always tucked in his sleeves.
When truly needed, he remained the same.
He said his hands were for writing, not for killing.
Because the enemies who died by his words were more than ninety-nine percent of warriors.
The deities named him for execution, even offering territory terms worth three thousand miles just for his life.
The humans naturally mocked such foolish terms.
With him here, humans could obtain thirty thousand miles.
He continued researching, never forgetting his original intentions.
Time trickled away, exposing humanity's greatest flaw.
The lifespan was too short.
Only a few hundred years passed, generations died, some unexpectedly fell in battle.
The loss of knowledge began to occur.
Merely the True Intent Dharma is no longer enough.
Wars started slipping to a losing side, reclaimed lands were snatched away again.
The old generation died, the new generation slowly brainwashed, back under the deities' command.
Just a few generations, past efforts were effaced.
They rose from the bottom, yet now the deities learned, starting from the most ordinary mortals, brainwashing them, countering them, digging their foundation.
A dull knife killing them now, slow, but effective, because the deities can afford it, they can't.
As the wars reached their end, territory constantly diminished.
He slowly aged, his hands still tucked in his sleeves.
At this time, another great battle, alone, he cursed three minor deities to death.
A portion of the Divine King's Dao was snatched, and a new deal was offered.
As long as he died, granting humans a thousand years of peace, no further suppression.
He went to negotiate, adding a condition to the aforementioned terms, henceforth, deities must not interfere with mortals outside of Qi Refiners, nor wantonly massacre mortals.
As the price, he could die.
Should the deities refuse, he would fight desperately, using his life to drag all deities who can be cursed down with him.
Deities didn't wish to see a cornered beast making its last stand, so they agreed to the terms.
A thousand years, to deities, is just a fleeting moment.
Their understanding of time and humanity's understanding of time are completely different.
And this discrepancy created a turnaround from desperation.
He returned to the humans, finally pulling out his hands, lifting the pen.
He wrote down symbol after symbol.