Lyssar folded his arms behind his back, his crimson eyes reflecting the faint glow of the campfire.
"There are nine realms in the path of martial arts," he said slowly. "Each realm has three grades — Third Grade, Second Grade, and the Peak. Together, they form the ladder every cultivator must climb."
He raised a finger as he began listing them:
"First, the Body Tempering Realm.
Second, the Inner Meridian Realm.
Third, the Martial Artist Gate.
Fourth, the Peak Martial Artist Realm.
Fifth, the Body Realm.
Sixth, the Earth Realm.
Seventh, the Heaven Realm.
Eighth, the Transcendent Realm.
And ninth…" His tone deepened. "The Supreme Realm — the Realm of Gods. Only a handful in history have ever reached it."
Lyssar looked at Ming, his expression unreadable.
"The first step on this path is Body Tempering — strengthening your flesh, bones, and blood. It's the foundation of everything that follows." His voice was calm but sharp, each word cutting into Ming's thoughts. "If your body isn't properly tempered, then no matter how much energy you pour into it, it'll crumble — like trying to fill a cracked glass with water."
He paused, letting the words linger like an unspoken warning.
"Your body is the glass," he continued. "Your internal qi is the water. If the glass isn't strong enough, the water will simply leak out… and you'll destroy yourself from within."
Lyssar's crimson eyes narrowed. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Ming?"
Ming swallowed hard and nodded. "Y–Yes, Master. I understand… but how am I supposed to temper my body?"
Lyssar smiled.
That smile alone made Ming flinch. There was something in it — a cruel amusement, a promise of pain.
"It's simple," Lyssar said, cracking his shoulders as he rolled his neck. "By beating you… and making you train until even your bones beg for mercy."
Before Ming could react, Lyssar vanished and reappeared in front of him — his fist slamming into Ming's stomach like a hammer.
"W–Wait! That's not what I—!" Ming shouted, stumbling back.
Lyssar laughed, chasing after him. "Hahaha! It's been a thousand years since I've had someone to punch! This feels like heaven!"
Ming start running, clutching his bruised ribs, but Lyssar was faster — appearing behind him again, still smiling like a madman.
"Come on, disciple! If your body survives this, it'll be well-tempered!"
While Ming was being "trained" by Lyssar, far away in the province of Henan, something new was unfolding.
A merchant caravan rolled down a dusty road, its wagons creaking under the weight of goods. The merchant at the front, a man named Baek Sang, rode with an irritated look on his face.
"How much longer until we reach Shanxi?" he asked sharply.
The escort beside him straightened up.
"At this pace, sir, we should arrive in about two weeks."
Baek Sang clicked his tongue in frustration.
"Two weeks? Tch. Why don't you do something to speed it up? I need to complete this mission before my brother cuts me off from the inheritance!"
He exhaled, muttering under his breath.
"Father gave me this job directly. Maybe he's testing whether I'm worthy to lead the merchant group…"
A few moments later, the escort leader — a man named Min-jun — rode up from behind.
"Sir," Min-jun said, "there's a village nearby. We can rest there for the night."
Baek Sang's eyes lit up slightly.
"A village, huh? Fine. Maybe they'll have decent food for once."
The caravan turned toward the faint lights of a small village in the distance, unaware that fate was already stirring in their direction.
The caravan reached the small village just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was unnaturally still.
Min-jun, the escort leader, slowed his horse and rode up beside Baek Sang.
"Sir… something's wrong here we can not see any person in site."
Baek Sang frowned.
"What do you mean, wrong? Maybe everyone's just inside their homes."
Min-jun shook his head. His hand rested instinctively on his sword.
"No. Villages this close to the trade route always keep a few people outside — guards, farmers, someone watching for bandits. But here… nothing. Not even a dog barking."
Baek Sang clicked his tongue.
"Whatever. When we go we will Check it out anyway. I don't have time to waste."
Min-jun signaled his men. They moved cautiously into the village. The deeper they went, the more unsettling it became — every house gate hung open, and strange drag marks streaked the dirt road, as if people had been pulled away.
Years of experience made Min-jun's instincts scream.
"We're leaving!" he shouted suddenly. "Protect the young master!"
The guards reacted instantly, turning the wagons around. Baek Sang's heart pounded as he realized something truly wasn't right. He opened his mouth to order a retreat—
—but a cold voice came from behind them.
"If you've come this far… you don't get to leave."
Dozens of figures stood surrounding them from every direction, cloaked in blood-red robes. Their faces were completely hidden beneath deep hoods, and the air around them was thick — heavy with the stench of blood and something far fouler.
One of them stepped forward, his tone calm yet chilling.
"I was worried we'd run short of materials for tonight's ritual," he said, his gaze sliding toward Min-jun. "But how fortunate. You brought us fresh offerings… and a few of high quality, no less."
Min-jun drew his blade, his eyes narrowing.
Bak Sang's face turned pale. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to breathe, to think. Slowly, he stepped out of the carriage, clenched his fists to stop the shaking, and bowed slightly toward the red-robed figures.
"It's… nice to meet you, sirs," he said, his voice careful and strained. "From your attire, you don't seem like mere bandits. And the aura you carry… it's powerful. If there's something you want from our caravan, please — take it. We'll hand it over willingly."
Inside, Baek Sang's thoughts raced.
We're surrounded from every side… These people aren't ordinary. Only Min-jun might be able to hold them off, but even he can't fight so many. In a situation like this, handing over what they want is the only advantage we have. Life is more precious than anything.
The man in red turned his gaze toward Baek Sang. His voice was calm, almost curious.
"You're quite interesting," he said softly.
His hood tilted slightly, studying the young merchant — the trembling hands, the pale face, the forced composure.
"Fine," the red-robed figure continued. "We'll only take what we need."
Baek Sang let out a shaky sigh of relief.
"Ah, thank heavens. Then—"
But the man's next words froze him where he stood.
"And what we need… is your life."
Baek Sang's eyes widened in disbelief.
"M–My life? What do you mean? We're giving you everything you want — the goods, the gold, everything! So why—?"
The red-robed figure tilted his head.
"I told you already. We want your life."
For a moment, the world went silent. Then realization struck Baek Sang like a blade to the chest. There would be no negotiation.
He clenched his fists and shouted,
"Do you fools even know who I am?!" the man shouted, his voice trembling between fear and arrogance. "If you harm me, you'll bring the wrath of the Baek family upon yourselves! And this caravan—" he jabbed a shaking finger toward the wagons behind him "—these goods are all meant for the Shaolin Temple! Do you understand what that means?!"
The moment the name Shaolin Temple left his lips, a ripple passed through the red-robed figures surrounding him. Their movements faltered, their eyes narrowing beneath their hoods. Even among heretics and wanderers, that name carried weight — a symbol of divine discipline and power few dared to provoke.
Bak Sang pressed on, voice trembling but loud.
"My family is one of the greatest merchant houses in Jianghu! We have connections you can't even imagine! If you kill me, you'll doom yourselves!"
For a heartbeat, hope flickered in his eyes.
But then — one of the cultists began to laugh. Low at first, then louder, echoing through the empty village.
"Shaolin Temple?" he sneered. "Let them come. Tonight, even the God won't hear your screams."