"Ancient Seal Script Imbued with Celestial Essence"

At the break of dawn, a trace of pure demonic energy surged within the confines of Yang Fan's warded room, stirring an eerie disturbance in the air that could chill the soul.

"Could it be that I am a rare prodigy of demonic cultivation?" Yang Fan opened his eyes, a flicker of strange light flashing in his gaze.

He had already delved into the "Nine Nether Demonic Scripture" twice before, a cultivation method so profound and abstruse that it far surpassed any technique he had practiced at Yang Fortress by at least tenfold. Even for the so-called geniuses of the cultivation world, mastering this scripture would be no small feat. According to the tome's own claims, once mastered, this art could grant one dominion over an entire realm, rendering them peerless. Of course, whether this was an exaggeration or not remained uncertain. But one thing was undeniable—the "Nine Nether Demonic Scripture" was a cultivation method of such unparalleled magnitude that it could shake the very foundation of the Eastern Victory Continent.

Suppressing his excitement, Yang Fan rose to his feet and walked to a corner of his room. His eyes gleamed with a sharp light, and he suddenly extended a single finger toward the wall before him. 

With a soft *thud*, as if piercing through tofu, his finger easily sank into the wall. The domineering power that surged through him made even Yang Fan's heart tremble.

This was true strength—the power of the demonic path!

He inhaled deeply, thinking to himself, "No wonder countless cultivators throughout history have abandoned the righteous path, falling into the demonic way, never to return." The allure of such power was now evident.

Of course, this also had much to do with the grade of the demonic art itself. High-level righteous cultivation methods could wield equally astonishing power. 

Once he had calmed his emotions, Yang Fan began to circulate his "Withered Wood Art" once more, sealing off all traces of his energy, reducing the aura of his presence to almost nothing. Before long, his body felt empty again, as if even the demonic energy in his dantian had completely dissipated.

The concealing effects of the "Xianhong Manual" were indeed extraordinary—so much so that even a cultivator an entire stage higher than him would struggle to see through his facade. However, Yang Fan couldn't help but wonder why, during his demonic cultivation last night, the restrained aura from the "Withered Wood Art" had suddenly released itself.

As dawn broke, Yang Fan stepped out of his room, his senses expanding outward and detecting something amiss. His eyes narrowed with surprise as he cast his gaze toward his brother's room. Despite the protective wards set around it, Yang Fan could still sense his brother's condition.

At that moment, Yang Lei was seated cross-legged, his face pale, clearly using his energy to heal himself. The medicinal power within him was still working its way through his system.

"My brother is injured?" Yang Fan was taken aback.

He approached the door and, after lightly tapping the warding barrier, announced, "I'm coming in."

Stepping into the room, Yang Fan found Yang Lei opening his eyes, his voice calm but edged with coldness. "I didn't expect that Yang Guang and Li Fatty would still be lingering in Mist Willow Town. I crossed paths with them last night, took a minor hit, but they didn't get off unscathed either."

"Need any help with your recovery?" Yang Fan asked, a hint of concern in his tone.

"No need. I've already taken an expensive healing pill. After another half-day of meditation, I'll be fine," Yang Lei responded firmly, his tone carrying an undercurrent of pride and stubbornness.

"Very well," Yang Fan shrugged. "I'll check on the medical clinic and put my plan into action. You should all head back to Yang Fortress soon, before the elders get suspicious."

With a nonchalant wave, Yang Fan exited the room. It was clear his brother's injuries weren't too severe. After a brief chat with his sister, Yang Huixin, he made his way to the Pu'ai Medical Clinic.

It was still early, but the clinic was already seeing injured patients coming for treatment, a sight that pleased Yang Fan. He nodded in approval but then felt that something was missing.

Standing before the clinic, his gaze settled on the signboard hanging above the entrance. "That's it! The clinic lacks the proper symbol of a cultivator's medical establishment." 

He had suddenly realized that in the world of cultivation, medical clinics differed from their mortal counterparts. The absence of a certain mark set them apart. The reason Yang Fan had overlooked this was likely because, within a thousand-mile radius, while there were a number of low-level apothecaries, true cultivator-run clinics were rare gems.

With this revelation, Yang Fan set about finding a large brush, dipping it into a special ink used by cultivators, and focused his energy. Standing still for a moment, he allowed his life force to blend seamlessly with the environment, attuning himself to every subtle shift in the wind and earth around him as if becoming one with the cosmos itself.

Suddenly, his robes fluttered in the absence of wind, and with a low shout, his body floated gracefully into the air, moving with the ethereal ease of a transcendent immortal. In that instant, time seemed to slow as he rose to the level of the signboard. 

With a fluid motion, Yang Fan wielded the large brush with elegance and precision. His strokes danced across the wood, the ink flowing freely, faintly imbued with a trace of celestial energy. The result was a single, ancient character that embodied boundless mystical essence.

The word he had written was "仙" (Immortal).

Yet, it wasn't in a common script. It was an ancient seal script, a form unfamiliar to most mortals, though its meaning could be found in the ancient tomes of the cultivation world.

The addition of this singular character instantly transformed the atmosphere of the entire clinic. This was no longer just an ordinary clinic—it now carried the aura of a celestial medical sanctuary.

Landing lightly on the ground, Yang Fan gazed at the sign, his heart inexplicably stirred. "Did I really write that?" he wondered, almost in disbelief.

In writing that word, he had unconsciously poured the vast mysteries of the "Xianhong Manual" into the strokes. The simple act of inscribing a single character had elevated the entire clinic, reshaping its presence.

His mind snapped to attention, and he hurriedly stored the brush away. Glancing around, he saw that dawn had only just broken, and no one seemed to have noticed his unusual actions.

Letting out a soft sigh, Yang Fan studied the sign again. Even if he were to attempt it again, he doubted he could replicate the same ethereal, otherworldly essence. In truth, the word's true creator was not him alone, but the deeper powers within him—his "Xianhong Manual" and the profound insights it had bestowed upon him.

Moments later, Lin Zhong arrived at the clinic. The instant his eyes fell upon the sign, he froze, entranced by the character. He stood there, dazed, for a long while, clearly captivated. When he finally snapped out of it, his eyes seemed to shine brighter, as if some hidden understanding had dawned within him.

Noticing this, Yang Fan's expression shifted. Could it be that the sign had induced a state of epiphany in Lin Zhong, deepening his comprehension of the Dao?

"Master, who inscribed the word '仙' on the sign?" Lin Zhong asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Hehe, that's a secret I cannot divulge," Yang Fan replied with a mysterious smile. Naturally, he wasn't about to admit he had done it himself.

"Could it be… the hidden master who taught you your unparalleled medical skills?" Lin Zhong speculated.

"Exactly," Yang Fan chuckled, taking the easy way out, attributing the work to that fictional master.

Even if Yang Fan had admitted to writing it himself, few would have believed him. Besides, he doubted he could ever replicate such a word infused with boundless celestial charm.

"Did last night's matter get resolved?" Yang Fan changed the subject, his smile fading.