Ning Rongrong delivered her verdict with absolute certainty.
“To survive in the Douluo Continent, you rely on strength and background.
So what if you can turn into a bird, a snake, or a rabbit?
To perform as a street juggler?
Like a monkey in a circus?”
She sneered.
“I, the young lady of the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Sect, apprenticed myself to a street-performing entertainer.
Wouldn’t that make people laugh their teeth out?”
There was a moment of silence behind the table.
Then Yang Xing stood up.
In human form.
A complete, eighteen-year-old young man’s form.
He had somehow already transformed back from a rabbit.
His clothes and hair were perfectly neat, as if he hadn’t just been chased, slammed into a wall, or smashed against a cutting board.
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he simply spread open his hands.
Palms facing upward.
Ning Rongrong instinctively looked.
Then her pupils contracted slightly.
In Yang Xing’s left palm, a cluster of orange-red flame was dancing.
It wasn’t an illusion—she could feel the wave of heat brushing against her face.
The flame flickered twice, then abruptly extinguished, replaced by a fist-sized water droplet hovering above his palm, smooth as a mirror.
The water droplet shattered.
Transforming into a sharply angled ice crystal.
The ice crystal melted.
A clump of yellowish-brown earth materialized out of thin air.
The earth dispersed.
A cluster of dazzling blue-white electric arcs crackled and sparked at his fingertips.
His right hand performed simultaneously.
A visible vortex of wind swirled in his right palm, sweeping up dust and debris around it.
The wind dissipated.
A pure white sphere of light appeared, gentle as a small sun.
The light vanished.
Finally, a pitch-black sphere that devoured all light appeared, silently suspended in his palm.
The entire process took less than ten seconds.
Fire, water, ice, earth, lightning, wind, light, darkness.
Eight completely different elements took turns appearing between his two palms, flowing as naturally as breathing.
Ning Rongrong’s lips parted slightly.
Yang Xing looked at her expression and spoke unhurriedly.
“This Soul Skill is called Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate.”
He withdrew his hands, his tone flat, as if stating something utterly ordinary.
“It is the pinnacle of Mystic Gate.”
Ning Rongrong might not know what Mystic Gate was.
Yang Xing didn’t intend to be cryptic either, explaining in the simplest terms.
“To put it simply, I can establish a domain beneath my feet.
Within the area covered by this domain, I determine all changes of all things.
The interplay of the five elements, the flow of time, spatial positions, material forms—all obey my will.”
He looked at Ning Rongrong.
“The reason I could transform into a bird, a snake, and a rabbit earlier is because within this space, I can even freely alter the form of my own body.”
Ning Rongrong’s brow was furrowed.
Her gaze shifted between Yang Xing’s face and the hands that had just manipulated the elements, her expression clearly spelling out two words: disbelief.
“How can there be such an exaggerated Soul Skill?”
Yang Xing smiled.
The next moment, his body transformed into a mass of flame.
Not a small fist-sized flame in his palm.
His entire being, from head to toe, became a human-shaped, dancing inferno.
The scorching heatwave forced Ning Rongrong to take a step back.
The flames extinguished.
A human-shaped body of water appeared in the same spot.
The transparent water figure’s outline was clearly visible, its surface refracting the dim light in the room.
The water body collapsed.
Yang Xing returned to human form, but only for half a second.
His body transformed once again—bones stretching, wings spreading—until a massive avian Soul Beast materialized in the center of the room.
Its beak opened.
With a whoosh, a sharp wind blade shot straight up from its mouth, piercing through the wooden planks of the roof.
Crash!
Splinters flew.
A beam of light poured down through the newly made hole, illuminating Yang Xing as he reverted to human form.
He stood there, the hole carved by the wind blade directly above him, wood fragments still drifting down.
The hem of his clothes swayed gently in the lingering airflow.
His expression was calm.
As if nothing had happened.
Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate.
A lifetime’s enlightenment achieved by Zhou Sheng in The Outcast.
All the myriad forms in this world cannot escape the concept of change.
Whoever masters change, masters everything.
By anchoring the Central Palace in the heart and commanding the Seventy-Two Solar Terms of the Heavens with Primordial One Qi, one transforms into the Term King.
The Four Plates shift at will, and all phenomena within the domain follow one’s intent.
Even after this power was adapted into a Soul Skill in the Douluo Continent, it retained its most essential nature.
Unrestrained freedom.
Moreover, the system had automatically endowed him with the mental fortitude to withstand the backlash of Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate.
Though, truth be told, he didn’t feel much of that fortitude himself.
Ning Rongrong’s jaw hung open.
She stared at the hole in the ceiling, then at Yang Xing, then at the lingering water stains and scorch marks on the floor.
In ten seconds, her expression completed a triple jump from disbelief to half-belief, and finally to utter bewilderment.
“This…” Her voice wavered.
“This is one Soul Skill?”
She shook her head, as if denying her own words.
Shapeshifting, fire control, water control, lightning control, wind blades… all from one Soul Skill?”
Yang Xing nodded.
Utterly unperturbed.
“One Soul Skill.” He raised a single finger.
“Just one.”
Ning Rongrong glared at him, her expression incredibly complex.
Shock, confusion, disbelief, and the dazed blankness of a mind overloaded by repeated bombardments.
Seeing her like this, Yang Xing felt the timing was right.
He lowered his finger, and his tone suddenly shifted—from the earlier flatness of demonstration to a casual, almost self-deprecating air.
“But no matter how incredible this Soul Skill is, it ultimately has nothing to do with you.”
Ning Rongrong’s dazed expression faltered.
“What do you mean?”
Yang Xing tilted his head, spread his hands, and adopted a “just what it sounds like” demeanor.
“I mean, no matter how heaven-shaking or earth-shattering my Soul Skill is, it’s still my Soul Skill.
Miss Ning, you can’t use it.
Knowing about it is useless to you, right?
Just treat it as watching a circus act.”
After speaking, he even sighed.
A sigh so deliberately exaggerated it was almost theatrical.
Ning Rongrong stared at him.
The emotions in her almond-shaped eyes shifted rapidly—from bewilderment to suspicion, from suspicion to wariness.
By now, she was starting to see through this swindler’s tricks.
First, he shows you something amazing, then says it has nothing to do with you.
It’s blatantly dangling bait.
But she didn’t voice it aloud.
Because a thought had indeed been planted in her mind.
A Soul Skill that could shapeshift, control the five elements, and manipulate space.
If she could learn something like that…
No.
Stay calm.
Don’t fall into this swindler’s trap.
“What exactly are you trying to say?” Ning Rongrong crossed her arms tightly, her tone cold.
“Spit it out.”
Yang Xing glanced at her.
Then he delivered the most important line of today’s scene.
“What I want to say is…”
He spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly.
“This Soul Skill of mine—I can pass it on to you, my disciple, as your master.”
The air fell silent.
Ning Rongrong’s mind went blank for about three seconds.
Can be taught.
Those four words echoed in her mind.
In her twelve years of life and understanding, a Soul Master’s Soul Skill was bound to their Soul Ring.
Whatever Soul Ring you obtained, that was the Soul Skill you possessed.
Each person’s Soul Skill was unique, like a fingerprint—impossible to replicate or transfer.
This was common knowledge.
An ironclad rule that had never been broken for thousands of years across the entire Douluo Continent.
But then, a term surfaced from the depths of her memory.
Self-Created Spirit Skill.
Her father, Ning Fengzhi, had once mentioned this concept to her late one night.
It was something she had overheard unintentionally while pestering her father for a story.
A Self-Created Spirit Skill was something only a rare few Soul Masters of exceptional talent could comprehend.
It did not rely on a Soul Ring but was instead the Soul Master’s own unique understanding of power.
And precisely because a Self-Created Spirit Skill was created by oneself, it could theoretically be taught to others.
Ning Rongrong’s eyes lit up for an instant.
“A Self-Created Spirit Skill?!” she blurted out, unable to suppress the excitement in her voice.
“Is this a Self-Created Spirit Skill?
That’s why you can teach it to others?”
Yang Xing shook his head.
Ning Rongrong’s excitement visibly dimmed.
“This is not a Self-Created Spirit Skill,” Yang Xing corrected her.
“This is my proper, genuine Soul Ring skill.”
Ning Rongrong frowned.
“Then what did you mean when you said it can be taught?
How can a Soul Ring skill be taught?”
Yang Xing did not answer immediately.
His expression shifted.
His brows slightly furrowed, his gaze grew profound, and the corners of his mouth curled into an almost imperceptible arc.
His entire demeanor abruptly switched from the playful grin of a moment ago to an indescribably mysterious and profound aura.
“To put it in simple terms,” Yang Xing’s voice lowered half a tone as he spoke slowly, “the core of this Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate lies in the understanding of change.
It is not a fixed technique but a method.”
He looked at Ning Rongrong.
“A method, by its nature, can naturally be taught to others.”
He raised a finger.
“As long as you learn this way of understanding change, you can apply it yourself.
You don’t need my Soul Ring or my Martial Soul.
Using your own Soul Power and following the path I teach, you can achieve the same thing.”
Ning Rongrong stared at his raised finger, her mind racing.
Yang Xing suddenly tilted his head, adopting a puzzled expression.
“By the way,” his tone was as if he had just casually remembered something.
“Miss Ning Rongrong, haven’t you always wanted to be a Power Attack System Soul Master?”
Ning Rongrong’s breath hitched.
“Controlling fire, controlling lightning, wind blades, transformation.” Yang Xing counted on his fingers, his tone light.
“If you learned these, do you think you’d still be purely a support?
In fact, if used well, it’s entirely possible you could surpass even those specialized Power Attack System Soul Masters.”
He lowered his hand.
“Or perhaps, you don’t like the idea?”
Ning Rongrong’s lips moved.
Her breathing quickened.
The obsession buried deepest in her heart since awakening the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda at age six now felt as if it had been yanked out and laid bare before her.
She wanted to be an Attack System Soul Master.
She had wanted it since she was six years old.
On the day the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda awakened, everyone was cheering.
Her father spun her around three times in his arms, and Grandpa Sword and Grandpa Bone both broke their usual demeanor to smile.
The entire Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Sect was in an uproar, calling her a once-in-a-century genius with Innate Level Nine Spirit Power, destined to lead the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Sect to new heights.
But six-year-old Ning Rongrong, standing at the center of the crowd, only felt that the glazed pagoda floating behind her, while beautiful, was not what she wanted.
What she wanted was a Martial Soul that could hit people.
The kind that could shoot fireballs, throw lightning, or punch villains flying.
Not one that stood in the back buffing others.
She had never voiced this thought to anyone.
Although she had been spoiled and willful since childhood, she knew that matters involving her father and the sect’s fundamental principles were non-negotiable.
The Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda was a Support System Martial Soul—an unchangeable fact.
Thousands of people in the entire sect were counting on her to carry forward the legacy of the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda.
No one would care whether she wanted to be an Attack System.
So, she buried this thought deep in her heart.
Ning Rongrong stared intently at Yang Xing.
Her face was a canvas of inner conflict.
Reason told her this man was a fraud.
A complete fraud from start to finish.
The public fortune-telling was a scam, the apprenticeship contract was a trap, and even this demonstration before her eyes might be some kind of illusion.
But another voice whispered.
Those flames, water currents, lightning, and wind blades were real.
The hole torn in the ceiling by the wind blade was real.
The little bird she had touched with her own hands was real.
If all of this was real…
If she could truly learn it…
Ning Rongrong’s throat moved.
She found she couldn’t utter the words “I don’t like it.”
Yang Xing watched her expression and said nothing.
He didn’t even curl the corner of his mouth.
He simply stood there, hands hanging naturally at his sides, his gaze calm.
Because if he said one more word now, Ning Rongrong would reflexively refuse.
That was her nature—the more you pushed her, the more she resisted.
But if you remained silent…
If you placed the choice entirely in her hands…
She would have no one else to blame for a refusal.
Ning Rongrong clenched her skirt.
The silence lasted about five seconds.
Then she spoke.
Her voice was soft, so soft it was almost like a whisper to herself.
“You…
can really teach me?”
Yang Xing heard her but didn’t reply directly.
He just looked at Ning Rongrong, a faint, inscrutable smile playing on his lips.
First, he slowly nodded.
A flicker of light flashed in Ning Rongrong’s eyes.
Then, he shook his head.
The light in her eyes froze.
Ning Rongrong’s brows immediately furrowed.
The slight softening, the almost expectant vulnerability that had briefly touched her face, visibly cooled and hardened.
She gritted her back teeth.
What did he mean?
She, Ning Rongrong, the esteemed young lady of the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Sect—how had she just spoken those words?
It was practically the first time in her life she had used such a low posture, such a soft tone, to seek confirmation from someone.
And in response, he gave her a nod and a shake of the head?
Like he was playing with a monkey?
A surge of anger flared in Ning Rongrong’s chest.
The humiliation of being treated like a fool mixed with the frustration of having lowered her guard only to be seemingly rejected, shooting straight to the top of her head.
“What exactly do you mean?”
Her voice rose, her delicate little face taut and pale, her almond-shaped eyes filled with displeasure.
“Either you can teach it or you can’t.
What’s with the nodding and shaking your head?
Can’t teach or won’t teach?”
She took a step forward, her finger almost poking Yang Xing’s chest.
“Then why did you drag this out so long?!
Turning into birds, snakes, controlling fire and lightning—putting on a whole show!
Just to make a fool of me, is that it?!”
Yang Xing looked at the little face flushed with anger in front of him, completely unruffled.
He had long since figured out Ning Rongrong’s explosive temper.
It came fast and left just as quickly, like the weather in June—changing faster than flipping a page.
He spoke slowly.
“I never said I wouldn’t teach.”
Ning Rongrong’s anger faltered.
“Nor did I say I would teach,” Yang Xing added, his tone carrying that infuriating calmness that made people want to punch him.
Ning Rongrong clenched her fists.
Yang Xing waved a hand and continued unhurriedly, “The Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate I just demonstrated is only one of the eight Soul Skills I can impart.”
He raised a finger.
“One.”
Ning Rongrong’s anger was momentarily diverted by his words.
Watching the shift in her expression, the corner of Yang Xing’s mouth curved up slightly.
“I have seven other Soul Skills.
Each is no less impressive than Wind-Queen’s Mystic Gate.
Are you sure you don’t want to see them all?
You can make your choice after seeing everything.”