"Aunt Bu, let's stop here for today—I really can't go on."
"Heh-heh, how can a man say he can't? You're lasting another ten minutes at least before I let you quit."
...Under the moonlight, eighteen-year-old Zhao Mu, bare-chested, was panting from exhaustion, yet still forced to keep matching her moves.
Facing him stood a gorgeous woman with a seductive face and proud figure, wearing a tank top, hot pants, and flip-flops.
Bu Yanhuan flicked the twig in her hand and, with a teasing curve on her lips, told Zhao Mu, "Again! Unless you run through the Seven Kills Battle Method I taught you one more time, I'm not letting you rest!"
Zhao Mu drew a deep breath; his muscular upper body was clearly defined, though on the left of his chest a hideous scar ran clean through from front to back.
Anyone who saw the wound would shudder—by rights it should have pierced his heart and killed him outright!
Yet here Zhao Mu still stood, alive and well—nothing short of a miracle.
"Then bring it on!"
Zhao Mu raised his wooden saber, roared, stamped so hard the ground dented, lowered his stance, and charged at the woman.
Bu Yanhuan's smile turned even more playful, though admiration glimmered in her eyes.
Xiao Mu's fundamentals are getting solid; the basic chapter of Seven Kills has reached Perfection.
Even thinking that, she showed no mercy.
"Hah!"
A casual twig became a razor-sharp blade in her hand, stabbing like a viper—fast and deadly.
Their moves were far from elegant: no wasted motion, every strike aimed straight at a vital point.
Groin kicks, monkey steals peach, thousand-year kill, toe-stomps—every dirty trick flowed flawlessly.
Bu Yanhuan's Seven Kills Battle Method cared only for killing quickly; born on blood-soaked battlefields, it was the most practical combat style.
Zhao Mu's technique was already slick, yet compared with Bu Yanhuan he still lagged in fine details.
Each of her attacks tapped a lethal point before snapping back.
Used to her teaching style or not, Zhao Mu still blushed crimson.
After fifteen grueling minutes he was gasping, wooden sword knocked aside.
Bu Yanhuan looked the youth over approvingly. "Good—your physique and strength are ripe. You lasted three hundred moves; all you lack now is real slaughter practice."
"There's nothing more in the basics of Seven Kills I can teach you."
Zhao Mu brightened. "So today's punishment is—"
Bu Yanhuan beamed, eyes narrowing. "Nope! Down—one thousand push-ups, not one less!"
Zhao Mu rolled his eyes in defeat and dropped to the ground.
Ten years ago, when Zhao Mu's parents died in the war against the Dark Race, this woman—claiming to be their comrade-in-arms, Bu Yanhuan—took him in.
For a decade they lived together while she drilled him in Martial Skills.
This was the Xuanfeng Empire.
A world stalked by the Dark Race and savage beasts, where humanity had fought these dark, powerful creatures since history began.
The Dark Race are cruel and bloodthirsty, feeding on humans.
For ages people scraped by in the cracks of the world.
Until a group of human champions who could draw Spirit Power from Subspace appeared and slowly turned mankind from livestock into warriors.
Even now, the war between humans and the Dark Race has never ended.
In Xuanfeng Empire, every citizen is a soldier.
At eighteen, man or woman, all must enlist to fight the Dark Race.
In this world the weak have no rights—not even the right to live.
Therefore Zhao Mu had to pass the school's Awakening rite at eighteen, awaken Spirit Power, and become a mighty Spirit Power User, or he would die at Dark Race hands.
He complained aloud, yet his push-ups were flawless; he knew Bu Yanhuan's training was for his own good.
Without a strong body, once on the battlefield you couldn't even run if you failed to beat a Dark Race foe.
This brutal regimen had gone on for ten years, the load increasing as he grew.
"One-twenty-seven, one-twenty-eight..."
His form stayed perfect, reps still rapid.
To him, a thousand push-ups, a ten-kilometre lap round town, and five runs of Seven Kills Battle Method were daily staples.
Bu Yanhuan looked down at the grown Zhao Mu—grey track pants, bare torso, back muscles sharply defined.
Push-ups cost him no effort.
"Oh? Stronger again. Let Auntie add some weight!"
She kicked off her flip-flops and plopped square onto his back.
Over a hundred pounds landed at once—pressure mountain-high!
Though curvy, at five-foot-nine with hidden muscle, Bu Yanhuan weighed no feather.
The sudden load clenched Zhao Mu's jaw.
She crossed her legs, fished sunflower seeds from her pocket, and casually swung her bare feet.
"What, can't take it?"
She teased, deliberately sinking her weight and spiking the load on his back.
Those words ignited the hot-blooded youth.
"Can't take it? I'll show you what I can take!"
With a roar Zhao Mu steadied under the new weight and kept pumping push-ups.
Bu Yanhuan hid a giggle: boys this age fall for reverse-psychology every time.
"Oh? Then let Auntie see just how tough you are!"
Dozens of minutes later Zhao Mu lay like a dead dog on the backyard dirt, sucking in huge gulps of air.
Moonlight bathed him in quiet beauty.
Bu Yanhuan gazed down, satisfied; the boy's heaving, energetic chest told her ten years of toil had not been wasted.
She turned toward the kitchen, and soon the rich smell of meat drifted from the house.