Pain. It was the first thing he remembered.
Not a gentle ache or dull throb—but bone-snapping, muscle-cracking, lung-flattening pain that arrived with each blow, as if some god above had assigned him a special role in suffering.
"Ouch! My ribs! My everything! Are you trying to turn me into soup, Senior Brother?!"
The training field of the Saint Morrow Sect echoed with his shouts. Some disciples laughed. Some rolled their eyes. But most just kept hitting him.
Arin didn't know who he really was. That was the truth. There were flashes—a screen, glowing letters, something called Wi-Fi, and a man in glass who said, "System error. Recalibrating soul." Then nothing.
He awoke in this hellhole with no status, no prestige, and no pants. Just a bruised body dumped among other miserable teenagers—all designated as official human punching bags for outer sect disciples to train on.
No, seriously.
He was an actual punching bag.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Every morning, he'd line up on the bloodstained dirt of the outer sect training field, slap on a polite smile, and wait for arrogant disciples to take turns treating him like a sandbag that could scream.
Today was no different.
"Use your core! I'm not a damn feather!"
The tall outer disciple in front of him grunted, his fists flying. Arin flew back and hit the post behind him, cracking the wood.
+1 EXP.
Arin blinked.
There it was again. That strange, faint screen only he could see, floating in the corner of his vision. He hadn't spoken to anyone about it. Not because he was cautious, but because the last time he mentioned floating text, the medic assigned him an exorcism cleanse.
+1 EXP.
Every time he got hit, that number rose. At first, he thought it was some hallucination brought on by trauma. But after three months of beatings and watching numbers rise whenever his bones cracked, he'd accepted it as his only friend.
[Skill: Flesh-Forging Manual - Level 2 (763 / 1000)]
Name could use work, Arin thought. It was the only cultivation method given to the punching bags. A useless technique meant to build resilience to pain, basically an excuse for disciples to break them slowly without killing them outright.
Officially, it had only 3 levels.
Unofficially, Arin's system didn't care.
He was almost at level 3.
And he had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't stop there.
"Hey, meatshield!" the disciple barked. "You better scream when I hit you, or Master won't give me credit!"
Arin groaned and forced out a moan that was half sarcasm and half opera.
"Aiyaaaa~! Senior Brother, your fists are like—like steel dragons ravaging my weak, mortal flesh!"
The disciple froze.
"…Are you mocking me?"
"I would never," Arin replied, eyes sparkling. "I'm simply appreciating your delicate strength. Like being punched by a tofu block."
"You little—!"
The next blow came faster. Stronger. Arin grunted. His ribs protested. The world tilted.
+3 EXP.
He smiled through the blood in his mouth.
Almost there.
---
In the corner of the field, hidden in shadow, a pair of violet eyes watched him. Cold, calculating, and amused.
"Interesting," the girl murmured. "He's smiling while getting beaten. Either insane, or…"
"Or?" her companion asked.
"Or worth watching."
---
After two more hours of being beaten into various geometric shapes, Arin limped to the side of the training ground, collapsed, and stared at the sky.
The system blinked quietly.
[Skill: Flesh-Forging Manual - Level 3 (1000 / 1000)]
Ding.
[Hidden Condition Met. Manual Evolved: Bone-Iron Constitution - Level 1.]
[Passive Trait Gained: Damage Absorption +5%. Muscular Regrowth Rate +15%. Pain Resistance Increased.]
Arin blinked. Then laughed.
Not the laugh of a hero. Nor the laugh of a maniac.
It was the dry, broken chuckle of someone who'd been stepped on so many times that even progress felt like a scam.
"I see… so I'm not here to save the world. I'm here to get beaten until I become its weapon."
The other punching bags looked at him.
"Is he okay?"
"No. He's talking to himself again."
"Should we help?"
"No. He bites."
Arin pushed himself to his feet.
Today was the day.
He wouldn't rebel. He wouldn't fight back.
He would provoke everyone.
If getting beaten made him stronger, then he'd become the most hated bastard in the entire outer sect.
He limped into the center of the training ground.
The disciples were mid-punch. A few paused. Curious.
Arin cupped his hands like a polite servant, then screamed:
"HEY! YOU BRAIN-DEAD FIST MONKEYS!"
Silence.
"…What did he say?"
"I think he insulted our fists."
"I think he insulted our mothers."
Arin smiled, arms outstretched.
"I just wanted to say… you all hit like pastry chefs. If I wanted to feel disappointment, I'd read your cultivation logs."
Ten disciples charged him at once.
He closed his eyes and welcomed the storm.
+2.
+4.
+3.
Behind him, the girl with violet eyes smirked.
"…Definitely worth watching."
---
By the time the instructors came to break it up, Arin was unconscious.
But in the corner of his vision, floating proudly:
[Bone-Iron Constitution - Level 2 (349 / 2000)]
[Title Earned: Masochistic Maniac]
[Hidden Path Progression: 1%]
His lips twitched upward.
And thus began the legend of the punching bag who punched back.