After They Changed My Spiritual Root, I Decided to Go Mad - Chapter 3

8.

Rumors about me soon reached the foot of the mountain.

Apparently, a piss cultivator had joined the Qingxu Sect, one who could control every latrine within thirty li without going near it.

I read the rumors and felt deeply inadequate.

My current range was only ten zhang.

The public had generously increased my cultivation for me.

Some said you had to empty your bladder before meeting me, or your body would explode.

Others said you must never fight me near a latrine, because I could escape through urine.

Still others claimed I could travel through excrement, moving freely between different latrines.

Like an earth god, only without using earth.

Some people with constipation began worshipping me like a bodhisattva.

If the rumors continued much longer, I suspected I would become a god presiding over the mortal world, with incense offerings and everything.

When Su Miaomiao heard, she finally came to see me.

Standing outside the courtyard gate, she forced a smile. “You needn’t give up on yourself, Sister. With people saying all this, it’s bad for your reputation.”

I rolled up my sleeves. “What’s my bad reputation got to do with you?”

She glanced at my sleeves, then toward the septic tank, and took a step back.

I took a step forward.

She retreated again.

After three steps, she backed into a ditch Senior Brother had just dug and landed in the dirt.

I hadn’t even finished rolling up my sleeves.

“Junior Sister, you need to work on your understanding of the terrain.”

She finally dropped the act and demanded through gritted teeth, “Don’t you want your water spiritual root back?”

“I do. Can you change it back for me?”

Her eyes flickered. “How could I have an ability like that?”

I nodded and tapped the recording pearl in my hand.

“Remember. You’re the one who said you couldn’t.”

9.

At the sect’s first minor tournament, Pei Qiao made sure to draw me as his opponent.

He was already at late-stage Foundation Establishment. I was only at the ninth level of Qi Refining. In theory, his sword energy should have sent me flying the moment I stepped into the ring.

Clearly, he wanted to recover the face he had lost on the day of our induction.

Before going up, I hung eight little stoppered flasks from my belt.

Every eye was on me. Nobody cared about the chief disciple.

Everyone was wondering whether those were piss flasks.

The tournament rules prohibited killing your opponent. They said nothing about making people guess what was in your flasks.

“Must you use that stuff?” Pei Qiao asked.

“You can use a sword. Why can’t I use my spiritual root?”

He said no more. Raising his sword, he put up three layers of shields.

The first blocked spells. The second, concealed weapons.

The third, human excretions.

At first the spectators laughed. When they realized Senior Brother Pei was taking this very seriously, they shut their mouths and laughed secretly instead.

I did not attack him directly.

I simply guided a stream of yellow liquid around his shield.

He went left; I went left. He flew higher; I flew higher.

Never underestimate the precision of a supreme-grade spiritual root.

After half an incense stick had burned, sweat appeared at Pei Qiao’s temples.

Maintaining three shields consumed too much spiritual energy, and he refused to let me come even half a step closer.

Suddenly, I raised the other seven flasks.

Without hesitation, he flew his sword thirty zhang out of the ring.

“Out of bounds,” the referee announced. “Ning Zhao wins.”

He stood in the distance, his expression complicated.

The yellow liquid chased after him. Beyond ten zhang, controlling it became difficult, so it pattered down along his path.

Disciples farther away stared uncertainly and began discussing whether he had wet himself.

I cupped my hands. “Thank you for the match.”

For a long time, the disciples below the platform were silent. At last, someone murmured, “I couldn’t compete with that. Never mind ability—the psychological pressure alone is too much.”

10.

Pei Qiao was no fool.

Before the second match, Sword Peak worked through the night to develop a fully enclosed protective robe. It had a transparent face shield, filtering arrays at the openings, and talismans even on the soles of the boots.

I was gratified.

How many years had it been since the cultivation world had shown this much initiative in innovation?

My new opponent stepped into the ring in the full protective outfit. He pointed his longsword at me, his expression resolute.

I turned and took an iron staff from my storage pouch.

He froze.

“Aren’t you a piss cultivator?”

“I have a urine spiritual root. That doesn’t mean I don’t have hands.”

Senior Brother had been training me in hand-to-hand combat every day.

I couldn’t beat Pei Qiao. But another Qi Refining disciple, his vision restricted by a cumbersome robe? I could put up a fight.

Terrified of leaks, he had wrapped himself so tightly that he fought like a rice dumpling far from home.

I circled behind him and swept the staff across his waist.

The dumpling rolled off the platform.

Two matches, two victories for Hundred Uses Peak.

Master sat in the spectators’ seats, grinning so widely his false teeth nearly fell out.

The hall master could not help saying, “Old Wu, your disciple’s moves are hardly refined.”

“Which rule did she break?” Master asked.

No answer.

Master patted his knee. “Then let’s put refinement aside for now. We’ll collect our prize.”