Chapter 11: What Does It Mean to Be Useless?

“You, with neither looks nor strength, still have the audacity to live in this world. Your shamelessness is as thick as a city wall. If I were you, I would have long smashed my head against a wall—better to die than make a fool of yourself.”
“Remember this: as long as I, Zhao Qinchun, am around, you worthless trash will have no peace.”

Trash?

Was she, Zhao Erdong, truly worthless?

Zhao Erdong had never cultivated before; she did not know what it meant to be trash or genius.

In her previous life, since the world no longer held the path of cultivation, she practiced external martial arts. Coupled with her divine strength, if she fought someone one-on-one, she would be nearly unbeatable in her era.

In this life, her body was frail. Though her divine strength remained sealed deep within her soul, she lacked the power to break the seal.

The moment she used her Divine Eye, she drained the last remnants of her vital energy.

Now, she could barely walk a few steps without gasping for breath—is this what being a failure looks like?

Zhao Erdong refused to believe it. She would not accept that she was worthless.

Relying on her memories, she found her way alone to the study of the Listening Rain Pavilion. A whole row of bookshelves emitted a faint scent of ink.

These books had once been her entire world. She read day and night, buried in their depths. She wrote beautiful calligraphy, painted exquisite pictures, and played the zither with skill—but what of it? This world had no use for gifted women.

Here, strength alone commanded respect.

Zhao Erdong searched shelf after shelf, desperately seeking a book on cultivation. She longed to prove that she was not worthless.

At last, on the lowest shelf, she found a book covered in dust. The worn blue cover bore a few crookedly written words. The book had clearly weathered many years; the title was almost erased, leaving only faint outlines of characters.

Zhao Erdong stared hard, finally recognizing the last two characters: “Cultivation Method.”

Though she did not know what kind of method it was, it was surely a treatise on cultivation. On that entire bookshelf, in the whole study, this was the only book related to cultivation. There was no other choice.

She opened the old blue cover. The leather was soft yet somehow gave an impression of great sturdiness.

“To the utmost emptiness, keep steadfast in stillness; all things act together, yet I watch their return. All beings flourish, each returning to its root...”

Zhao Erdong quietly recited the inner method. For some reason, a warm current suddenly rose within her abdomen, flowing into her five viscera, surging through her limbs, filling her seven tendons and eight veins.

She closed her eyes, savoring the transformation, repeatedly contemplating the deeper meaning of the scripture.

When Bai He returned, dusk had already fallen. Not finding Zhao Erdong in her room, she hurried to the study, lighting an oil lamp along the way.

Zhao Erdong was still seated cross-legged before the bookshelf, the blue-covered book at her side. Her eyes were tightly shut, her complexion shifting unpredictably from red to pale, with wisps of azure smoke curling above her head.

Bai He was stunned. She had seen this scene countless times: the young masters and misses of the manor training daily in the martial arena, sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, palms facing upward resting on their knees—just as her mistress was now.

But why did her mistress’s complexion fluctuate? Why did smoke rise from her head?

Most importantly, her mistress was supposed to be a worthless body, incapable of cultivation—how could she suddenly cultivate now?

As the azure smoke dissipated, her complexion finally returned to its usual withered yellow.

Her eyes opened, revealing their sharp black-and-white contrast. A brilliant radiance shone from them, dazzling enough to make one avert their gaze. Moments later, the light faded, returning her eyes to normal—but they were noticeably more lively than before.