Normal cultivators in this world absorbed Dou Qi passively, like sipping water through a straw while meditating. Their Qi remained in a gaseous, misty state—loose and inefficient.
But Yoriichi was different.
"Compress," he commanded his own biology.
He forced the massive volume of Dou Qi into his blood vessels, using the pressure of his breathing to squeeze it down. He packed the energy tight, layer upon layer.
"Turn the mist into rain. Turn the rain into mercury."
His veins bulged against his pale skin, turning a dark, vibrant red. The Dou Qi inside him was being pressurized. Even though he was only at the 8th Stage of Dou Disciple, the density of his energy was skyrocketing. Where others had a bucket of steam, he was creating a cup of liquid fire.
He dropped to the ground.
"Push-ups," he decided. "To integrate the density."
He assumed the position. Hands shoulder-width apart. Back straight as a sword.
He activated the Transparent World.
Suddenly, his vision shifted. He saw his own anatomy—the weak pectoral muscles, the flimsy triceps, the misalignment of his spine.
"Adjust," he commanded.
He shifted his hands two inches inward. He rotated his elbows. He engaged his core, pulling his navel toward his spine until his skeletal structure was perfectly aligned to handle gravity.
He lowered himself.
Inhale. The sound was like a bellows fanning a forge.
Push.
He exploded up. But he didn't just push with his arms; he pushed with his lats, his core, his toes.
"One."
He lowered again.
"Two."
By the fiftieth repetition, the old Xiao Ning would have collapsed. But Yoriichi was using Total Concentration Breathing to manually flush the lactic acid from his muscles before it could build up. He was oxygenating every cell, forcing them to perform beyond their biological limits.
The heat began to rise.
As he reached one hundred, the pressurized Dou Qi he was inhaling began to saturate his meridians. It was wild, untamed energy. It heated his blood. His skin began to turn a flushed crimson, steam rising from his shoulders into the cool morning air.
"It burns," Yoriichi gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his nose onto the grass. "The energy here... it is far more potent than oxygen. It wants to tear the muscles."
"Good. Let it tear. Then I will rebuild it stronger."
He finished the set at two hundred. He collapsed onto the grass, his chest heaving. His arms felt like jelly, trembling violently. But inside that trembling was the spark of growth.
He rested for exactly sixty seconds, maintaining a lower level of Total Concentration Breathing to recover. This was Recovery Breathing—a subset of the technique used to halt hemorrhaging and knit fatigue.
Then he stood up.
He walked over to a decorative rock near the pond. It was a jagged piece of limestone, meant to look like a mini-mountain. It weighed perhaps forty kilograms. For a cultivator, it was nothing. For the current Xiao Ning, it was heavy.
Yoriichi gripped the rough stone.
"Lift," he commanded.
He cleaned the stone to his chest, then pressed it overhead.
"Total Concentration: Constant."
He forced his lungs to maintain the high-pressure state even under load. The Dou Qi swirled in his arms, dense and heavy, reinforcing the bone structure.
He began to squat.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
The monotony of the training lulled him into a trance state. This was his sanctuary. No clan politics. No arrogant young masters. Just the purity of gravity and the will to defy it.
He saw the muscle fibers in his legs tearing under the microscopic lens of the Transparent World. He saw the bone density increasing by fractions of a millimeter as the compressed Dou Qi fused with the calcium.
An hour passed. Then two.
The sun climbed high into the sky, bathing the courtyard in golden light. Yoriichi was drenched. His white undergarments were translucent with sweat, clinging to his frame. His hair was plastered to his neck.
He dropped the stone with a heavy thud that shook the ground.
He stood there, swaying, his vision swimming with exhaustion. His physical stamina was at zero.
But as he stood there, gasping for air, he felt it.
A tiny, almost imperceptible thread of true strength weaving itself through his arms. A hardness in his calves that wasn't there yesterday. And most importantly, his Dou Qi storage felt... deep. Despite the exertion, he wasn't empty. The Total Concentration Breathing had pulled in more energy than he had spent.
"It works," Yoriichi panted, a feral grin touching his lips. "This method... creates a reservoir. While others are puddles, I will become a lake."
Suddenly, a sound louder than the dropping stone echoed through the garden.
GRRROOOOWL.
Yoriichi clutched his stomach, doubling over.
It wasn't just hunger; it was a ravenous, predatory emptiness.
The Total Concentration Breathing came with a cost. By forcing his body to operate at such a high metabolic rate, and by compressing the Dou Qi so densely, he burned through calories like a furnace burns coal. The light breakfast Xiao Yu had brought was incinerated in minutes.
His body was screaming for fuel. Proteins, fats, carbohydrates—it needed everything.
"I am... starving," he wheezed. "This technique... it eats as much as it gives."
He looked around the garden. The koi fish swam lazily in the pond.
For a split second, the predator in him calculated the caloric value of the fish.
"No," Yoriichi shook his head violently, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I am not a cat. I will not eat my sister's pets."
He needed real food. And he needed a lot of it.
He walked to the gate, unbolted it, and stepped out. The midday sun was blinding.
He didn't have money on him—Xiao Ning had spent his monthly allowance on gifts for Xun Er before the fight. He couldn't buy food at the market.
"The Clan Kitchen," he realized.
It was risky. The main kitchen was the domain of the servants and the strict Head Chef, but it was also where the food for hundreds of disciples was prepared. There would be leftovers. There would be ingredients.
Yoriichi pulled his sweaty robe tighter around his thin frame and set off.
He navigated the corridors, his stomach growling with every step. He avoided the main paths, using the shadows and the Transparent World to sense people before they saw him. He didn't want to explain why the "crippled" young master was skulking around looking like a drowned rat.
Finally, the scent hit him.
It was the smell of steaming rice, chopped scallions, and... tofu.
Yoriichi's eyes lit up.
He rounded the corner and saw the back entrance of the Cooking Hall. It was a massive wooden structure, steam billowing from the vents. Carts of vegetables were lined up outside.
He crept toward the open door, his footsteps silent.
He peeked inside. The kitchen was a chaotic battlefield of chefs shouting, cleavers chopping, and woks flaming. It was the lunch rush.
Yoriichi scanned the room with his enhanced vision.
There, near the back, on a cooling rack unattended. A basket of freshly steamed mantou (buns) and a large wooden bucket of soy milk.
It wasn't a feast, but to a starving practitioner of Total Concentration Breathing, it looked like the nectar of the gods.
"Stealth mission," Yoriichi thought, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his breathing to silence his footsteps completely. "Objective: Secure the buns. Avoid detection."
He took a breath, lowering his presence until he was nothing more than a shadow in the bustling room.
He stepped over the threshold.
The Cooking Hall raid had begun.