Does Anyone Really Think I’m a Demon Lord?

Shortly after transmigrating, before Ning Fan had even figured out what era he was in, an old man hurriedly brought him up the mountain and took him on as a disciple. The old man claimed he had extraordinary bones and unmatched talent, a cultivation prodigy rarely seen in ten thousand years. His senior brothers and sisters doted on him, teaching him everything they knew.

Other than a few things being a little off, there wasn’t much wrong with anything.

For instance, his second senior brother got struck by lightning whenever it rained.

His third senior brother was always holding an embroidery needle and stitching himself up.

His fourth senior sister vanished every year after drinking realgar wine during the Dragon Boat Festival. Dozens of motionless guests often stood in his fifth senior brother’s room.

There were always more bugs than his sixth senior sister could catch in her bed, and his seventh senior brother always wore a strange banner at his waist.

His master often encouraged him to seek the truth of the Great Dao and press forward unwaveringly on the path of cultivation. Ning Fan found his advice deeply enlightening.

“But Master, whenever I circulate my qi, black smoke pours out of the top of my head. Is that normal?”

“Good disciple, don’t doubt it. That’s perfectly normal.”

“And sometimes I stop breathing while I’m practicing.”

“That just means you’ve entered the Dao.”

It wasn’t until Ning Fan descended the mountain and entered the world that he realized the immortality he cultivated seemed rather different from everyone else’s.

“What, you fellow Daoists don’t first take a breath of your opponent’s magic power before you fight?”