Chapter 7: Becoming a Disciple at the Martial Arts School

Ling Chi gave his instructions to Huanhuan, then shouldered his blade and set off for the martial arts hall.

In his previous life, Ling Chi had spent several years training in the national arts under a martial master, excelling in Bajiquan and the Taiyi Duer Saber technique. Unfortunately, he had been unable to cultivate back then; otherwise, this saber art would certainly have contained greater mysteries. Just a few days ago, he had watched his senior brothers demonstrate the Seven Stars Saber form, the signature technique of the Seven Stars Martial Hall, but it required the Meridians Opening Realm to practice.

Ling Chi did not wish to reveal the martial skills from his past life, so he used the pretext of training the Golden Thunder Body Tempering Technique to request permission from his master to practice alone in the mountains outside the city.

Moreover, he wanted to further explore his “golden finger”—after a month of testing, he was certain it was not a system, but something more akin to the “bestowed merit or fortune” found in mythic tales.

When he killed Dog Master, he’d felt a searing current pour from his forehead into his body, and instantly his strength increased noticeably. Yet, when he killed that wretched woman, the sensation was absent. He was beginning to form his own theories.

By the time Ling Chi arrived at the hall, students were already training in the martial yard.

“Good morning, Senior Brother!”
“Fifth Brother, morning.”
“Brother Li, you’re early as always,” Ling Chi greeted them all.

“Oh, Little Martial Fanatic, you’re a bit later than yesterday,” Senior Brother Xiao Zhan, a gentle young man of just over twenty, greeted him. He had already reached the third level of the Meridians Opening Realm.

“Kid, you didn’t last through three incense sticks yesterday and cost me five copper coins. You’d better make it up to me today,” boomed Fifth Brother Zhao Shanhe, who had reached the eighth stage of the Body Tempering Realm.

Li Wu, a registered disciple, nodded at Ling Chi, his face flushed and veins bulging on his forehead as he hefted a stone lock.

Ling Chi, being the youngest at Seven Stars Martial Hall, addressed everyone as “senior brother.” Li Wu had joined three months earlier and was now at the third stage of the Body Tempering Realm.

Ling Chi shed his shirt, grabbed a stone lock, and climbed onto the plum blossom stakes, swinging it with lively vigor. Soon, he was drenched in sweat; when focused, time always slipped away quickly.

“Little Ling, put down what you’re doing and go apply your salve,” Uncle Hai came over carrying a large bowl.

Ling Chi tossed aside the stone lock, leapt from the stakes, and followed Uncle Hai to the utility room. There, a massive earthen jar brimmed with a sickly multicolored liquid.

He stripped quickly, and Uncle Hai slathered him with a greenish ointment. In no time, Ling Chi was transformed into a little green man.

He needed to immediately begin circulating his energy to absorb the salve, then, as vapors began to rise from his body, he plunged into the vat to soak, continuing his cultivation.

If applying the ointment felt like countless needles pricking his skin, then soaking in the medicinal bath was akin to being scraped by knives—especially the first time, when the excruciating pain was almost unbearable even for someone as resolute as Ling Chi.

He continued until the liquid lost its warmth.

“Whew—” Ling Chi exhaled deeply, sprang from the vat, and pinched his skin, marveling at its newfound toughness. Satisfaction lit his face.

He returned to the training yard to continue tempering his body. Since the hall didn’t provide lunch, Ling Chi pulled out the steamed buns he’d brought, gulping down six or seven before feeling full.

After bidding farewell to his master, he headed straight out of the city, into the depths of Wo Niu Mountain.

Ever since he’d begun practicing the Supreme Yang Spring Thunder Method, Ling Chi had become especially sensitive to thunderstorms. Sensing this morning that a storm was coming, he knew it was the perfect time to cultivate the Golden Thunder Body Tempering.

In a mountain hollow, Ling Chi dug up what he’d buried last time—a bundle of iron rods, each several yards long. Tied together, they made a lightning rod—his “treasure” for drawing lightning.

He’d already used this method twice before.

He found the jujube tree he’d used last time, drove in the rods, and began practicing his breathing technique beneath the tree. With each breath, thunder rumbled in his chest. After a full cycle, he felt on the verge of breaking through the barrier to refining essence into energy.

It was late autumn, and the night wind bit with cold.

Wearing only a thin shirt, Ling Chi felt no chill. Above, dense black clouds gathered; golden currents roamed within them. Ling Chi drew a deep breath. It was time.

Recalling the agony of his first lightning-drawing attempt, he’d always believed himself tough—until he suffered that all-consuming, inescapable pain, his mind wiped blank by the lightning’s searing force. He could only grit his teeth and persist with his breathing method, and when at last he came to, he found his trousers soaked. It took hours before he could rise, trembling, and clutching the tree for support.

Even with two experiences behind him, Ling Chi was still nervous. At last, as golden lightning crashed down, a massive current poured through the rod into his crown. The Supreme Yang Spring Thunder Breathing and the Golden Thunder Body Tempering worked ceaselessly. Lightning pulp spewed uncontrollably from his mouth and nose.

This time, the pain was different—the lightning seemed to break into countless ions, tearing at every nerve ending, every cell screaming between death and rebirth. His organs felt flooded with the deadliest poison, agony so intense he nearly fainted. He knew the moment of transformation had come.

Impurities were forced out through his pores, foul fluids instantly evaporated by the heat, and this cycle repeated until the lightning’s energy was spent.

Now, Ling Chi felt only one thing: hunger.

He reckoned he could devour ten buns and a whole sheep in one sitting. The provisions he’d brought were already gone. Sitting cross-legged, he regulated his breathing.

Refining essence into energy—broken through without conscious effort.

This body tempering session had yielded immense gains. Refining essence into energy was a notoriously difficult hurdle. Ling Chi didn’t know what stage this corresponded to in his past life’s cultivation levels, but as his breathing technique drew energy into his body, he now produced a strand of blazing spiritual energy laced with lightning.

“What’s this?” Ling Chi guided the thread of energy through his dantian, only to discover, deep within, a silvery-white pearl wreathed in lightning. Wasn’t this the keepsake left by the old martial master? How had it ended up inside him?

The old master had belonged to a sect whose name he’d never revealed. During times of chaos, his master had fled overseas with him and settled there. Later, his daughter was abducted by gangsters and took her own life. The old master spent his life seeking revenge but died unfulfilled. After Ling Chi avenged him, the master passed all his knowledge to him, but by then Ling Chi was already twenty, having missed the prime years for martial cultivation.

“Are you the one who brought me to this world?” Ling Chi whispered softly.

He tried guiding his spiritual energy around the thunder pearl, but nothing happened. He had to let it be.

After the lightning tempering, Ling Chi’s cultivation had leapt directly from the First Stage, Skin Tempering, to the Third Stage, Tendon Tempering, skipping over the Second Stage, Flesh Tempering. No doubt the repeated death and division of his muscle cells had rapidly honed his body.

Ling Chi caught his breath, packed up the iron rods, and prepared to find a cave for the night.

Just then, he heard someone calling his name.

“Ling Chi—”
“Ling Chi—”

He turned instinctively, and at that instant, every hair on his body stood on end. Somehow, without his noticing, an old man dressed in burial robes was standing right behind him—or rather, a corpse in funeral garments.

The figure’s skin was ghastly pale, covered in corpse spots, and he stood so close his face was almost pressed to Ling Chi’s back. As Ling Chi turned, their eyes met, their noses nearly touching.

The old ghost in funeral robes wore a grotesque grin, revealing a mouth of yellow teeth, as if greatly amused by Ling Chi’s reaction.