"What exactly are martial arts and Martial Soul?"
Quinn looked over the god‑descendant youths around him. These people truly had an extraordinary bearing—a spirit of charging forward and breaking through all obstacles.
This was different from the exuberant spirit of the Everpeace Empire’s divine‑arts practitioners.
Though the Everpeace practitioners were also brave and daring, their temperament and spirit were lively and ever-changing, like boiling oil—each bubble a different color. That was the spirit their era’s reforms had bestowed upon them: a hundred flowers blooming, a hundred schools contending.
But the spirit and vitality of these god‑descendant youths was not that of an era—it was the spirit of the martial path itself.
Their spirit wasn’t like Butcher’s—vast, sweeping knife‑dao genius; nor like Village Chief’s—subtle and restrained sword‑dao mastery; nor like Granny Sue’s—clever and eccentric divine‑arts mastery. It differed from Deaf’s talent expressed in painting, from Grandpa Blind’s insight and unrestrained spirit, and from the Mute Smith’s hidden fire buried in his volcanic forge.
They were more like ascetics—like Grandpa Mark before he attained Buddhahood.
Quinn’s eyes lit up.
Yes—just like Grandpa Mark!
Grandpa Mark back in Oldridge Village.
Back then, Grandpa Mark was stern and unsmiling, his expression serious—he took everything to heart. Quinn’s own focus and dedication were learned from him.
Grandpa Mark’s posture was always ramrod straight, yet he gave the impression of moving under a great burden—as if carrying Mount Sumeru on his back, that mountain pressing down on him.
That pressure became his driving force.
Of course, pressure only becomes motivation if it doesn’t break you—if it grows too great, it can crush a person entirely.
There was a time when Grandpa Mark was crushed by it. Only after Quinn arrived in Oldridge Village did he withstand the weight and press forward again.
The young god‑descendant warriors here in War‑Ox Palace were the same—they too bore immense pressure.
But their burden wasn’t Mount Sumeru—it was the utter severing of their race’s Divine Bridge, the complete disappearance of the Divine Bridge Realm, and the despair of never being able to reach godhood.
That despair could become motivation, forcing them to move forward and seek out a solution.
Or it could become a crushing mountain that utterly destroys their spirit and will.
"They’re warriors!"
Quinn Shepherd’s gaze grew brighter and brighter, and a faint smile appeared on his face. “Once upon a time, before I ever learned divine arts, I was just such a martial artist. But after opening my Spirit Embryo Treasury, I gradually forgot that spirit.”
‘Martial artist’ was the name for those who had not yet stepped onto the cultivation path—able to use only fists, feet, and weapons, the most basic means. Grandpa Mark in Oldridge Village was also a martial artist in his day; the Battle Skill school used pure flesh and blood to unleash effects like divine arts, often even stronger and fiercer!
At last, the crowd began entering South Heaven Gate. Quinn stood unmoving, unsure what Celestial Teacher Warfist wanted them to gain by entering. What did ‘entering the Dao through martial arts’ have to do with stepping into the Heaven Palace?
Suddenly, beneath South Heaven Gate, a young woman gave a muffled groan as overwhelming pressure snapped her bones and tendons. Her whole body shrank drastically, forced to the ground and coughing up blood nonstop!
Another youth, walking forward, suddenly had his leg bones snap.
Others had their bodies burst open with tiny holes, fresh blood spurting out in streams.
Some suddenly spat blood in great mouthfuls—their organs ruptured by the immense pressure!
Others seemed to be carrying the entire South Heaven Gate on their backs, their bodies shrinking under the weight as they pressed forward. With every step, the pressure suddenly increased, forcing them down to less than five feet tall.
As they kept moving, their bodies grew even smaller—soon, most were crushed to under a foot tall.
Some collapsed, kneeling on the ground, hands braced against the earth as they coughed blood. Soon their arms could no longer support South Heaven Gate’s pressure—their arm bones snapped.
More of them roared defiantly, fists and feet swinging wide, using their flesh and blood as divine art to withstand the pressure. Their blows were like axes splitting the sky, hacking open a path step by step.
Quinn frowned deeply, watching South Heaven Gate in shock and doubt. Was this gate truly an Emperor’s‑Throne portal, with pressure only a true god could withstand?
Could divine art practitioners in the Life‑and‑Death Realm really endure such crushing force?
If this were truly an Emperor’s‑Throne South Heaven Gate, only a true god would have the power to cross it. Without becoming a true god, they’d be crushed—or even killed!
Surely Celestial Teacher Warfist wouldn’t use such a method just to eliminate them?
“The runes and markings on South Heaven Gate aren’t fully lit.”
Quinn observed—the patterns on the gate, the lit portions barely reaching one percent. The pressure was far from true god level.
Clearly, Celestial Teacher Warfist was holding back.
Though these god-race descendants had walked a long way, South Heaven Gate was so high and wide that they had yet to reach halfway. With the pressure mounting, even just this gate would eliminate most divine art practitioners.
Quinn stripped off his shirt, bared his chest, tied up his pant legs, and laughed: “Dragon-Qilin, you don’t need to go in. Watch my clothes for me.”