"Pass me your hand," the Fifth Elder said. Wuji immediately extended his arm. The elder gripped his wrist and injected a burst of internal energy into his body.
Immediately Wuji felt a fiery energy surge through his arm. But before it could even reach his elbow, the sensation dulled. By the time it reached his shoulder, it had faded completely.
Beneath the skin, his cells had gone to war—rejecting the foreign energy, devouring it. A deep, searing pain rippled through his arm, but Wuji didn't flinch. He bit back the grunt that wanted to escape his throat.
The Fifth Elder furrowed his brow. "Tch. That's odd." he mused.
He pushed a little more energy into the arm. "Strange," he thought again. "I can trace his hand's meridians just fine, but the moment I reach the shoulder, the energy goes dark. It's like the connection is severed. What kind of body is this?"
The Fifth Elder continued injecting for several minutes, forcing more internal energy into Wuji's arm.
The searing pain didn't fade, it spread, intensified, and became a steady fire gnawing through his nerves.
Wuji bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent. His arm swelled visibly. The skin turned blotchy and red.
Finally, the Elder grunted and let go. "Tch. What a trash body. No active or usable meridians, just wasted my time," he said, brushing his hands off like he'd been touching spoiled meat.
Wuji clutched his arm, the limb now throbbing with heat and pain. "What do you mean by 'trash body'?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
The Elder snorted. "Trash is trash. What else could I mean?"
He stood up, cracking his neck with a dull pop. "You'll never be a first-rate warrior. That's beyond you."
"If you're lucky—and I mean lucky—you might crawl to third-rate by your fifties. Maybe reach second-rate in ten years after that. And that's the bottom of the barrel."
He looked Wuji over one last time. "My advice? Find a wife. Raise pigs. Live a small, quiet life. The martial path isn't for you."
"How do you know I don't have talent in martial arts?" Wuji asked, "What if I'm just a hidden prodigy?"
The Fifth Elder looked at him, his expression that of disappointment. "He's gone mad," he thought. "Refusing to accept reality. What a waste."
He exhaled sharply. "Fine. Let me educate you, before you drift further into delusion."
"Without strong meridians, reaching first-rate is impossible," he said flatly.
Wuji blinked. "So… it's like a spirit root?"
"Yes and no," the elder replied. "Everyone has meridians, just like everyone has bones. But spirit roots? That's one in a thousand. Rare as phoenix feathers."
"One in a thousand?" Wuji thought, startled. "No wonder mortals cling to martial arts. Cultivation is all but a myth to them."
"I probed your meridians. Not the whole body, your body is too strange for a full read, but your arm was enough. Your meridians are thin, brittle. Too weak for first-rate."
Wuji clenched his jaw. "Why are you so obsessed with first-rate? Isn't second-rate good enough?"
The Fifth Elder's lips twitched. "Do you aim for mud because you can't touch the sky?" he asked.
"Every martial artist worth the title strives to become first-rate. That's where strength begins. Everything below that? Background noise."
Wuji lowered his eyes, frustration creeping into his breath. "I don't know much about martial arts…"
The Fifth Elder rolled his eyes. "No kidding. Even the village brats know more than you."
He waved a hand dismissively. "Go find Wang Da. Tell him I said to give you the basics. And stop asking questions like a cabbage with a mouth."
He sat again closing his eyes, and returned to stillness like nothing had ever interrupted him.
Wuji stood there for several seconds, motionless. His thoughts churned like a storm behind his eyes.
"No talent for martial arts. No spirit root for cultivation. This world really is stacked against me."
"Is this it, then? Am I fated to be just another villager? Get married. Raise kids. Work the fields for these arrogant bastards. And then die of old age—forgotten."
His fists clenched at his sides. He turned and walked toward the center of the training ground.
"No. I refuse. I won't die a nameless mortal. I won't end like Yin Li was supposed to; buried and broken."
"I don't care if it takes years. I will become a martial artist… or a cultivator. I will carve my own path, even if I have to bleed every step."
Ahead, Wang Da was hammering his fists into a thick wooden post, the base buried deep in stone. Each strike thudded with power, the wood shaking from the impact.
Wuji slowed his pace as he approached. Wang Da stopped mid-punch and turned around. Sweat still glistened on his fat arms.
"Well, well," Wang Da sneered, cracking his knuckles. "The cripple finally shows up to learn martial arts. Took a beating and found enlightenment, did you?"
Wuji didn't respond. He stood still, his chest aching but his eyes calm.
"I need to learn the basics," he said. "The Fifth Elder told me to learn from you."
Wang Da tilted his head slightly, a smirk curling his lips. "Oh? Do you think you're ready to walk the martial path with weak body like yours."
"I don't care how it looks," Wuji said, jaw clenched. "Just point me to the book."
Wang Da studied him for a second longer, then pointed his thumb toward the dojo.
"Far east corner. Shelf. It's there."
Wuji didn't thank him. He simply turned and walked into the dojo.
Inside, candlelight flickered against the old wooden walls. He scanned the shelves—rough planks crammed with parchment-bound books.
After minutes of searching, he found the book tucked in the far corner, half-buried under old scrolls.
He limped to a seat and opened the book.
"Good thing Yin Li taught himself to read," Wuji thought as he flipped the first page. "Otherwise, I'd be crammed in the village school with ten-year-olds right now."
He adjusted his posture, pulled the book closer to the candlelight, and began to read.
Wuji ran his fingers over the old parchment. The ink had faded, but the strokes were carved with force, as if the author had written with fists instead of brushes.
Leaning closer, he began to read aloud under his breath.
"What is a martial artist?"
He paused. The question echoed louder than it should have.
Then he continued reading, "A martial artist is not merely someone who throws fists. Rather, he trains his flesh until it becomes iron. Tempers his bones until they ring like steel, and he sharpens his will until fear itself retreats."
Wuji swallowed, each line landed like a hammer in his mind.
"It's not just the body, it's the resolve," he thought. "Discipline carved into the bones."
He turned the page more slowly this time.
"The difference between a man and a martial artist is intent. One moves to survive, the other moves to dominate."
The words burned in his chest. "To dominate..." Wuji repeated silently. "I've only ever moved to survive, guess I have to change my ways if I want to be a martial artist," he said.
He read on. "The three pillars of the martial path are; Strength, Endurance and control."
His eyes narrowed. "Strength is forged through resistance; lifting, striking, and carrying weight beyond your comfort level."
"Endurance is built through repetition—stances held for hours and breath controlled under pressure."
"Control is born from awareness of your body, your limits, and your enemy's intent."
Wuji exhaled sharply, but continued reading. "He who builds strength without control becomes a beast. He who seeks control without strength becomes a puppet."
Wuji turned the page. The next title read "Body as Weapon."
"Body as a weapon huh?" He murmured but continued reading.
"The human body is a battlefield of muscle, blood, and breath. Understand it, and you can turn every limb into a weapon."
"Punch stone walls. Slam your fists into logs. Bleed on sandbags. Let your hands forget what softness is."
"Kick tree trunks until your bones tremble, then strengthen them again."
"Run with a weight. Break your breath. Harden your spine. Your back must carry pain like armor."
Wuji leaned back in his seat, feeling a faint ache in his knuckles just from thinking about it.
"It sounds like torture. But I guess it works," he thought. "There's no mystical shortcut. Just flesh and discipline."
He flipped to the next page again. A new title:
"Immortal cultivators vs. Martial artist."
Wuji's breath caught. This was the knowledge he had been craving.
He had never seen a cultivator in action, either in these few days or in Yin Li's memories. Cultivators were myths wrapped in flesh, walking legends spoken of in hushed tones.
The village chief, the only known cultivator except Chen Yi who is amature, rarely displayed his power and he didn't have to.
He may have been the lowest rank among immortal cultivators, but that was still enough. Enough to terrify. Enough to kill.
Wuji's eyes scanned the next line, and the words carved themselves into his mind like scripture:
"True martial artists may never touch qi, but their bodies alone can split trees and shatter stone. Qi empowers. Flesh endures."
He paused, the phrase echoing in his chest.
Qi empowers. Flesh endures.
That was it. That was the divide, the cruel line the heavens had drawn.
"Cultivators borrowed power. They summoned it from the world, the heavens, and things beyond."
"But martial artists? They bled for it. They suffered for it. They shaped their own bodies into weapons through agony and repetition."
"A martial artist must not chase Qi. His goal is not clouds, but granite Train the body until it creates internal energy on its own."
"Though internal energy is weaker than Qi, it is pure. It is yours. Who knows what the true peak of internal energy is, or if anyone has ever reached it?"
Wuji's fingers gripped the book tighter.
"Not chase Qi?" he thought. "Then maybe...maybe there's still a path for someone like me, with my cell dominion talent."
His mind surged with possibility. "If I can't reach heaven, then I'll build something from the ground up. If cultivators stand above me, then I'll become the storm beneath their feet."
He flipped to the next pages. They showed how to train, the body forms, and the herbs. It also showed how many kilograms of meat one needs to eat in the third rate stage book.
"Ranks of Martial Mastery."
Wuji read slowly, letting each line weigh on him like iron.
Third-Rate: Can fight dozen grown men and win easily.
Second-Rate: Can crush hundred men, leap over walls, and shatter thick wooden poles.
First-rate: Muscles like armor, speed like the wind, and strength like siege weapons. Can fight five hundred men and remain unscathed. They are equal to a hundred second-rate martial artists. Internal energy is locked in the body.
Acquired Martial Artist: Has Internal energy worth a Century. A single strike can split boulders. They are known as "one-man armies"—a thousand men would fall at their hands.
Wuji paused. "If an acquired martial artist is that strong, how strong is the chief at stage three Qi refinement? Could he kill a thousand with a flick of his finger?"
He turned the page. The next words weren't instructions. They were a warning and a vow.
"Martial strength is not a gift. It is a punishment you choose. It's blood in your teeth. Fire in your lungs. Sleep you never earn."
"In a world where cultivators can fly and shatter mountains with a glance, what good is a clenched fist?"
"None. And yet, this is the only path mortals can take. We don't train to defeat gods. We train to survive under them."
Wuji swallowed hard. He could almost hear those words spoken aloud on some distant battlefield.
"The martial path does not lead to heaven. It grants no long life. But when heaven rejects you, walk the earth until it splits beneath your steps. If we are born to die young, then we will die fighting. One day, all life shall be equal."
Wuji slowly closed the book, and his hands trembled, inside him anticipation, excitement for the future bloomed in his heart.
"Then let this be my path. Even if I die on it, at least I won't die on my knees," he said standing up.