Chapter 2: Rising from the Coffin (Revised)

The burial pit was about five feet deep. Ling Chi gripped a chisel in each hand, digging upwards above his head. Even when his arms burned with exhaustion, he dared not stop. He knew that, given the state of his weakened body, the moment he ceased, he might never rise again.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. Earth kept falling from above, yet Ling Chi used it to bolster his footing, making a staircase towards freedom. With every strike, the soil above grew looser, and finally, after one decisive blow, the earth collapsed in a landslide, burying half his body.

Yet he could not help but laugh, breathless and elated.

Fresh air rushed into his lungs. Night’s starry sky unfolded above him. He had escaped.

Ling Chi, newly freed from his grave, remained vigilant. He dug himself out completely, then quickly fled that accursed place. He desperately needed food and rest. Fortunately, his former self had once grazed sheep near this desolate grave.

The place lay close to Ling Family Village. Ling Chi crept toward the settlement, ensuring the bandits had departed before sneaking home.

The courtyard was in shambles, and his parents and siblings lay dead in pools of blood. Dizzy with hunger, Ling Chi had no choice but to sate his stomach before tending to the bodies.

Every valuable and scrap of food had been looted, not even a piece of iron remained. Ransacking the house, he finally found a few coarse wheat cakes hidden where his little sister used to stash things.

He wolfed them down with the last drops of water from the jar, choking on each bite. The long-forgotten feeling of fullness filled his body, and life slowly returned to him.

Wasting no time, he dug a large pit in the soft vegetable patch by hand and buried his parents and siblings. Then he set the house ablaze.

With over a hundred households and more than six hundred souls, the village had been utterly slaughtered. Ling Chi could not bury them all. Once he confirmed no one survived, he torched the entire village.

“Lian Mountain Bandits, you’d better not die before I come for you. I’ll butcher every last one of you, or I’d betray my own name.” Watching the flames roar, Ling Chi swore silently in his heart.

A few coarse cakes hardly filled his belly; after such labor, hunger gnawed at him again. He needed a plan to survive.

He decided to make for Crane County, to learn martial arts, to survive, to become stronger.

Suddenly, a memory struck him, and his whole body trembled. “How could I forget that breathing method?”

He spread his legs, circled his arms, and drew a deep breath, lips slightly parted—

“Hiss!”

He pressed his tongue to his teeth, inhaling sharply through the gaps, forceful and swift, willing the pure energy of heaven and earth into his dantian. Then, he exhaled through his nose with explosive force, closing his mouth, tensing every muscle, gripping the earth with his feet, body taut—like a furious bull expelling steam.

“Humph!”

After the forceful exhale, he relaxed and breathed out. Twelve repetitions made a small cycle; one hundred eighty, a large cycle.

This breathing technique was called the Extreme Yang Spring Thunder Method, taught to him by an old martial master in Chinatown, San Francisco. Ling Chi had once slain the scum who had insulted the master’s daughter, earning the old man’s gratitude and the teachings of many lost martial arts.

According to the master, one must forge sinew, bone, and skin externally, and temper the body through hardship. Internally, one must cultivate breath to strengthen the five viscera. Only by combining the inner and outer could one excel in true combat. Ling Chi had been saved by this “single breath” more than once.

The old master claimed that, at its highest level, this inner skill could refine both spirit and intent. Spirit was the will of the martial artist. Yet, in the modern world, such arduous cultivation had nearly vanished. No one was known to have reached the level of refining spirit, let alone true intent—those were but legends.

He completed a small cycle, sensing nothing amiss with his organs—just some acid in his stomach, trembling hands, and the dizziness of hunger.

Ling Chi’s head throbbed. Penniless, he had no choice but to find a way in the county seat.

Fortunately, it wasn’t far. He set out slowly for Crane County, searching for water along the way.

He also needed something to defend himself—walking into town unarmed would be perilous. After four or five miles, he finally found a small stream by a black stone cliff at the mountain’s edge.

The water was clear, fish and shrimp darting within. Were conditions better, he would never have drunk raw water, but necessity outweighed caution. He plunged his face into the stream and drank his fill.

Raising his head, he saw a stranger’s reflection shimmering on the surface: an angular face, high nose, sword-like brows, and bright eyes. Years of malnutrition had left the body gaunt.

Refreshed, Ling Chi set off again, but after a few steps, he stumbled back.

“Isn’t this obsidian!”

He had searched high and low, only to stumble upon it by chance. With a stone, he struck at the rock wall, and after a dozen blows, he broke off several pieces. Obsidian made excellent knives and needles; once sharpened, they would be razor-sharp.

He fashioned a small stone knife and a few chopstick-thick needles, wrapping the handles with strips torn from his clothes to prevent slipping in use.

Armed, Ling Chi felt a sliver of security—if only his stomach were not still empty, he might have felt even safer.

But he now had a plan to eat his fill.

Crane Hill lay a dozen miles from Crane County. By the time Ling Chi arrived, the late autumn sun was about to set.

“Good thing I made it before the gates closed, else tonight would have been rough.”

He dusted the ground’s dirt onto his handsome face. His clothes needed no such effort—they were filthy enough. From past experience, he knew that in dangerous times, survival favored the low-key and inconspicuous.

In an instant, the handsome youth transformed into a ragged beggar, smearing mud even on his neck and hands. He knew that any exposed skin was a potential fatal flaw. He was still much too weak—once safe, he could take his time learning about this world.

Dusk approached, and those who had left the city during the day hurried back before the gates closed. A long line waited to enter.

The empire was in turmoil, north and south, with grain and taxes demanded everywhere. Even relatively peaceful border counties like Northwestern Dao’s Ying Prefecture faced extra levies.

Unfortunately, Ling Chi was penniless, and the city entrance tax was two copper coins per person.

The Divine Zhou Empire used only gold, silver, and copper coins: one gold coin exchanged for twenty silver, and one silver for five hundred copper at official banks.

Four soldiers guarded Crane County’s gate, collecting the tax from each entrant as Ling Chi shuffled forward in the crowd, seeking his chance.

“All people listen—the entry tax is two copper coins per head. Pay up if you want in!”

“This money isn’t for us, nor for the magistrate—it is for His Majesty. As subjects of the Divine Zhou, you must contribute, so His Majesty can suppress the southern barbarians…”

Ling Chi paid no heed to the bearded guard’s bluster. His moment arrived as several horse carts tried to enter at once, blocking the gate and causing an uproar.

Seizing the chance, he slipped through the throng like an eel—a technique he had learned from a Brazilian in his former life, perfect for assassinations and escapes in crowds.

His present body was weak, unable to perform perfectly, but while the soldiers’ attention was on the carts, Ling Chi ducked under one, gripping the underside with his fingers and bracing his toes on the central beam.

He was four and a half feet tall—tall for his age—clinging to the carriage like a gecko.

As the cart rolled into the city, he clenched his teeth and watched the streets with the corner of his eye.

Once the cart passed a narrow alley, Ling Chi let go, flipped his body, and slipped into the shadows.