The Demon Lord Wants a Vacation - Chapter 9: Heavenly Spiritual Root

Words carried weight.

The more Duanmu Wuqiu spoke, the more assured he became. Gradually, the awkwardness that had initially clung to him dissipated.

It’s already rather dignified that this Lord didn’t lick the plate, he consoled himself with a huff.

He turned slowly toward the small stone table, casting a deathly glare at the boxes and platters as though they were cadavers.

He’s not going to smash them, is he? Luo Xianyun thought warily.

Judging from Duanmu Wuqiu’s earlier declarations, there was indeed a non-negligible chance that he might obliterate the dishes—merely to maintain his pride.

Luo Xianyun disliked waste. At first, he considered stopping Duanmu Wuqiu, but when he caught sight of that chilling, murderous gaze, he silently decided to let nature run its course. He inwardly mourned the fate of the innocent porcelain.

Duanmu Wuqiu extended a single finger, spiritual energy gathering at its tip.

Luo Xianyun closed his eyes in resignation, mourning the doomed tableware.

Yet instead of the expected shattering, a gentle stream of water coiled from Duanmu Wuqiu’s fingertip, sweeping over the dishes and dessert boxes. The flow cleansed every speck of residue, leaving behind gleaming, pristine porcelain.

Duanmu Wuqiu coolly turned his gaze away, secretly pleased.

If this Lord can’t see the crumbs, he won’t be tempted to lick the plate. Hah!

The Beichen Sect is insidious indeed, resorting to such childish ploys to test this Lord and stir his inner demons.

This Lord has unshakable willpower! Impeccable discipline!

After mentally praising himself thrice, Duanmu Wuqiu’s spirits lifted significantly.

During the indulgent moment earlier, his “benevolent inner demons” had arisen in full force.

He had devoured several boxes of sweets, and afterward, lingered at the table in silent reminiscence, savoring their taste in his mind.

Then came the hallucination.

From the remaining crumbs, a horde of plump, white pig-shaped sweets emerged. They wriggled their jellylike bodies and chorused provocatively, “If the mortal world is an illusion, why do you shy away from me?”

Provoked, Duanmu Wuqiu had turned back to the plate, face darkening.

The lead pig sweet snorted, “I wager you lack the courage to eat me.”

“I’ll eat you all, you presumptuous beasts! Why would this Lord ever back down?” Duanmu Wuqiu roared, slamming the table.

He knew it was an illusion—an inner demon—but still, he willingly played along.

That was the scene Luo Xianyun had walked in on.

Now that Duanmu Wuqiu had personally cleansed the dishes and erased the last vestiges of his confectionary delusions, his mental state stabilized, and clarity returned to his eyes.

“Luo Xianyun, how’s your injury?” he asked, recalling the matter.

Luo Xianyun struggled to keep pace with Duanmu Wuqiu’s ever-shifting line of thought.

He had just finished scrubbing the dishes—why was he suddenly bringing up injuries?

Nevertheless, Luo Xianyun followed his lead. “It’s nothing fatal. Over the years, it’s fluctuated between better and worse. I won’t die, but recovery is beyond my reach.”

His wound was no ordinary affliction. He had lost half his spiritual root.

Were he to lose the remaining half, he would become akin to a mortal, incapable of cultivating or retaining true essence.

At over three hundred years of age, losing his cultivation would cause him to wither and die instantaneously.

As things stood, with only half of his spiritual root intact, he could still retain some spiritual essence and preserve his life, but his body was essentially crippled.

If spiritual essence were likened to water, then his current body resembled a fractured bowl.

Though a heavenly spiritual root naturally drew in vast amounts of spiritual energy, his vessel could no longer retain it.

Qi entered swiftly—and leaked just as quickly.

While he could maintain his cultivation level at the Mahayana Stage, he constantly teetered on the edge of spiritual depletion.

With his half-broken bowl, he could hold a little essence—enough for trivial techniques that demanded minimal energy. But as for combat, formation-setting, alchemy, or artifact refinement—he was no longer capable.

He was, in essence, a hollow shell.

“If you help this Lord confront his inner demon, he won’t cheat you,” Duanmu Wuqiu declared. “He will assist with your injuries in return.”

Duanmu Wuqiu abided by a strict code of reciprocity—debts must be repaid.

Luo Xianyun smiled faintly. “Daoist Duanmu need not go to such lengths. I will do my utmost to aid you, but you needn’t offer anything in return.

“Cultivators are blessed with longevity and power by Heaven and Earth. It is our responsibility to give back. To save another is to fulfill one’s duty, not to earn reward.”

“If this Lord insists on repaying you, you are not permitted to refuse,” Duanmu Wuqiu said firmly. “Explain the nature of your wound.”

Luo Xianyun: …

This Demonic Sovereign was truly domineering.

He decided to conceal the matter of the Heavenly Pillar, only mentioning the loss of half his spiritual root.

After all, a spiritual root was something innate—it could not be healed or restored through ordinary means.

But just as he was about to speak, the Savior System chimed in.

[Recommendation: The host is advised not to reveal the nature of his injury.]

Why not let him understand that there’s nothing he can do? Luo Xianyun asked mentally.

[Doing so may increase task volume and delay the final stage of Route Two,] the system warned.

Delay the final step? Luo Xianyun brightened.

To him, an indefinite delay would be a blessing.

He had long since developed a habit of selective hearing where the Savior System was concerned—and this time, he chose not to heed its advice.

“I lost half my spiritual root during the catastrophe two centuries ago,” he said mildly. “I’ve been physically frail ever since and can only remain on Lingdu Peak to recuperate.”

Duanmu Wuqiu pondered for a moment. “That’s no great issue. We merely need to steal someone else’s spiritual root, refine it, and transplant it into your body. This Lord recalls reading of such techniques in a few stolen books. Just return with him to the Taoyuan Sect, and we shall research this matter together.”

Luo Xianyun: …

Their thought processes truly belonged to different worlds.

[See? This is what happens when you ignore the system’s guidance,] the Savior System remarked dryly.

Luo Xianyun quickly said, “Daoist Duanmu, I possess a heavenly spiritual root. The roots of others are incompatible. Even if they were not, I would never resort to something so immoral.”

Duanmu Wuqiu tilted his head. “Heavenly spiritual root? What’s that?”

Luo Xianyun fell silent.

Wasn’t that the most basic knowledge in all of cultivation? How could someone at the Mahayana Stage not know?

“A heavenly spiritual root is… Daoist Duanmu, may I ask what kind of spiritual root you possess?” Luo Xianyun asked cautiously.

“Wait a moment.”

Expression blank, Duanmu Wuqiu began rummaging through the archives of his memory, searching for any mention of spiritual roots.

He had heard of them before.

It was rudimentary knowledge—something cultivators were taught before they even reached Foundation Establishment. Crucial during the Qi Refining Stage, in fact, as it determined how one guided qi into the body.

To draw in external qi, a cultivator first had to refine the qi within their own body—converting it into true essence compatible with their nature. The spiritual root was what performed this conversion, allowing qi to circulate, open meridians, and activate apertures.

Once their body’s apertures were opened, they could connect to the world beyond.

A cultivator’s spiritual root absorbed external qi of matching elemental attributes and refined it into true essence.

Those with five-element roots drew in too many conflicting types of qi, leading to chaotic internal strife. Cultivation was excruciating and advancement painfully slow.

Dual-element roots were more manageable—so long as the elements didn’t clash. If the two harmonized, cultivation became easier.

A single-element, or “pure” root, allowed for even smoother progress.

But a heavenly spiritual root was a different matter altogether.

It disregarded the distinctions between elemental energies entirely.

No matter what type of qi entered the body, a heavenly spiritual root would convert it into primordial chaos—the original, undifferentiated qi that predated the creation of Heaven and Earth.

Because of this, those with a heavenly spiritual root followed the smoothest, most blessed path in all of cultivation.

Duanmu Wuqiu had broken through the Qi Refining Stage within the arena of that demonic cultivator.

The man had flung cultivation manuals at them as if discarding scraps to dogs, without so much as a word of instruction on qi refinement. He had no interest in whether the children’s spiritual roots were compatible with cultivation—only whether they survived. Those who couldn’t keep up perished. Simple as that.

Most of the abducted children possessed five-element spiritual roots, and for them, cultivation was agony. The energies of metal, wood, water, fire, and earth clashed violently within their dantians, and drawing in spiritual power felt like having their meridians shredded by blades. Some fainted from the pain alone.

Before most of them could even step into the Qi Refining Stage, they were slaughtered by their fellow captives—children forced to treat each other as obstacles to survival.

None of them had understood anything.

Only after Duanmu Wuqiu killed that demonic cultivator did he uncover a few rudimentary texts on cultivation among the man’s hoarded possessions.

By then, Duanmu Wuqiu had already reached the Golden Core stage. He merely skimmed over the foundational knowledge, just enough to confirm he hadn’t gone astray. The rest, he dismissed.

Fortunately, cultivators possessed extraordinary cognitive recall. If they wished, they could remember things from seventy or even eighty years past with perfect clarity.

With some effort, Duanmu Wuqiu dredged up fragments of knowledge on spiritual roots. Yet even then, there was no mention of the rare and exalted heavenly spiritual root.

That demonic cultivator had been a scavenger, stealing cultivation methods wherever he could. His path to power had been blind groping in the dark. Beyond the Golden Core stage, he had nothing—no manuals, no guidance—only a bloodthirsty formation to forcibly break through his limits.

Among his collected texts, only the five elemental roots were mentioned: metal, fire, water, wood, and earth. These were common knowledge among rogue cultivators. But heavenly spiritual roots—those gifts bestowed by fate once in a century—were recorded only in the grand archives of the major sects, carefully guarded through generations. Demonic cultivators knew nothing of them.

From what Duanmu Wuqiu could recall, each elemental spiritual root colored a cultivator’s true essence: gold for metal, red for fire, blue for water, green for wood, and black for earth.

By examining the hues flowing through one’s meridians, one could determine their spiritual root type.

Once he managed to piece all this together, Duanmu Wuqiu let out a long breath of relief.

Then, lifting his chin proudly, he proclaimed, “Naturally, this Lord is of supreme aptitude. Just as the sea embraces all rivers, this Lord’s spiritual root must encompass all five elements.”

More elements meant greater strength—wasn’t that obvious?

No wonder he had come to rule over the demonic path.

Luo Xianyun: …

He stared at Duanmu Wuqiu’s eyes—so bright, so untouched by education—and was briefly at a loss for words.

Duanmu Wuqiu, completely serious, added, “Of course this Lord knows spiritual roots must be compatible. If it’s a heavenly spiritual root we need, then we simply find another cultivator with one and take it for you.”

“Who else in the world possesses a heavenly spiritual root?”

Luo Xianyun said nothing.

“I knew it. You’re too soft-hearted,” Duanmu Wuqiu muttered. “Everyone in your Beichen Sect is. If you were part of my Taoyuan Sect, I’d just pick someone from my disciples—surely at least one would willingly donate their spiritual root to you.”

He sneered. “So many disciples in Beichen Sect, yet not one was willing to offer help. What a stingy sect.”

He exhaled. “No matter. Since Song Gui has no shame, I’ll ask him who in Beichen possesses a heavenly spiritual root—and harvest it myself.”

Duanmu Wuqiu had always been a man of action. When he’d decided to seek out Luo Xianyun, he had departed instantly. Now, with Luo Xianyun’s recovery in mind, he acted just as swiftly.

Without waiting for a reply, he transformed into a streak of light and shot toward the Beichen Sect’s main hall.

Luo Xianyun: …

Could you, for once, let me finish a sentence?

Savior System: [Didn’t I tell you not to speak? Didn’t I warn you that words were useless with this man? Next time, listen to your system. Choose the first method. The second will be far more difficult.]

Even its emotionless voice carried a hint of schadenfreude.

Luo Xianyun leapt onto his flying boat, channeling spiritual energy to its limit as he sped off in pursuit.

But Duanmu Wuqiu’s movement technique could cover a thousand li in a breath, while Luo Xianyun’s fastest speed barely managed eight hundred li in a day. Even with his boat’s enhancements, it would take fifteen minutes to reach the main peak.

Plenty of time for Song Gui’s body to go cold.

During his two centuries of seclusion, Luo Xianyun had not been entirely cut off from the world.

Each year, the Sect Master sent disciples bearing snacks—and snippets of sect gossip.

He could hear, though he could not reply.

After Song Gui became the Sect Master’s personal disciple, he had been the one to make the deliveries.

Before leaving on his undercover mission, Song Gui had visited Lingdu Peak, informing Luo Xianyun of his departure.

When he received no answer, Song Gui began treating the peak as a confessional, pouring out thoughts he shared with no one else—not even the Sect Master.

He was terrified of becoming a spy.

Afraid of contempt from his peers, of being tainted by the demonic path, of being forced into moral compromises for the sake of his mission.

He spoke through the night, half of it in tears.

Luo Xianyun, unable to offer comfort with words, summoned a gentle mountain breeze to swirl around Song Gui, like an embrace.

Gradually, Song Gui’s sobs subsided.

Despite his fear, he left with resolve.

Afterward, the Sect Master visited too. He cried even harder than Song Gui, inconsolable with worry, terrified that he’d sent Song Gui to die.

He wept through the night.

The next morning, he cast a spell to banish the puffiness from his eyes, then walked away with the same composed dignity as ever—disciplined, upright, a paragon of virtue.

But Luo Xianyun knew: if anything happened to Song Gui, the Sect Master would take up his sword and personally raze the demonic path to the ground.

If Duanmu Wuqiu harmed Song Gui, it wouldn’t just be a skirmish. It would be war.

And given Duanmu Wuqiu’s habit of “cleaning the plate” even when served dessert, Luo Xianyun had no doubt he would exterminate Beichen Sect without hesitation.

Panic gripped him.

And yet, at that moment, the Savior System coldly issued more instructions:

[Step Two: Prevent Duanmu Wuqiu from extracting Hè Jinglun’s spiritual root.]

[Step Three: Prevent Duanmu Wuqiu from destroying Tianshou Sect.]

Luo Xianyun’s vision darkened for a moment.

Hè Jinglun. The second heavenly spiritual root cultivator. He had been only sixteen when Luo Xianyun last saw him, a promising youth of Tianshou Sect.

Now, he was the only one who could truly restore Luo Xianyun’s cultivation.

But conversely—if Luo Xianyun chose to sacrifice himself—he could help Hè Jinglun reach the Mahayana realm instantly.

Hè Jinglun was the beloved son of Tianshou’s Sect Master. His birth had ushered in a radiant dawn for the sect, and on his first birthday, the celebrations had drawn cultivators from across the land. Luo Xianyun himself had cradled the child in his arms.

Hè Jinglun had once been poised to lead Tianshou Sect to a new era of glory.

Then came the heavenly calamity.

Though he survived, his cultivation was ruined. A peerless genius reduced to mediocrity.

Luo Xianyun had always believed that, should one life need to be sacrificed, it ought to be his—to preserve Hè Jinglun’s future.

He should have anticipated this outcome.

He should have obeyed the system.

Now, would two sects be extinguished because of one careless remark?

This wouldn’t be Duanmu Wuqiu’s fault. It would be his. Luo Xianyun’s arrogance, his stubborn pride, had brought them to this precipice.

If he could still reach them in time… then even if it meant resorting to the first method—

He would do it.

He steeled himself like a martyr facing death.

[It’s too late,] the Savior System said icily. [Without a physical bond, once Duanmu Wuqiu succumbs to his inner demons, even a kiss won’t reach him.]

[Only if you’ve known each other’s bodies—if your presence is etched into his psyche—will you be able to reach him within the storm of his madness.]

“I understand,” Luo Xianyun whispered. “This was my failing. I will use my life to stop him.”

His flying boat crashed through the entrance hall of the main peak.

There, he found Duanmu Wuqiu, eyes blazing like twin stars, lifting Song Gui by the collar.

“So it was you who destroyed this Lord’s valley!?”

Luo Xianyun was struck speechless.

What was happening now?

Weren’t they supposed to be asking about the other heavenly spiritual root cultivator?

What valley? When had Song Gui destroyed Duanmu Wuqiu’s valley?