The sun did not rise suddenly over Wu Tan City; it announced itself with a gradual, majestic lightening of the eastern horizon. The ink-black sky dissolved into a canvas of bruised violet, which then bled into soft gold as the day reclaimed the world from the night.
Inside the infirmary, Yoriichi Tsugikuni opened his eyes exactly as the first true ray of light crested the distant Magic Beast Mountain range.
He sat up in bed. The air in the room was stale, filled with the lingering scent of old medicine. He slid the wooden door open and stepped out onto the veranda.
The morning air of the Dou Qi Continent was crisp and chilly, biting at his exposed skin. It carried the scent of damp earth, dew-soaked grass, and the distant, sweet fragrance of mountain flowers.
To Yoriichi, it smelled like potential.
He stood there for a moment, watching the sunrise. In his old life, the sun was a weapon—the only thing that could kill the monsters he hunted. He had worshipped it, chased it, and embodied it. Here, in this new world, the sun was merely a star, but the spiritual connection remained unbroken.
"Inhale."
He took a deep breath.
"Total Concentration Breathing: Constant."
He didn't flare his power. He simply shifted his respiratory rhythm. It was a subtle internal click, like a gear shifting in a high-performance machine. The oxygen—and the dense atmospheric Dou Qi—rushed into his lungs with a quiet hiss.
He guided the energy down. He felt it wash through his newly expanded meridians. The 9th Star Dou Qi was fundamentally different from the 8th. It was no longer a thin, gaseous mist. It was a thick, milky white fog, heavy and potent. It flowed like mercury through his veins, waking up every cell, every muscle fiber, washing away the stiffness of sleep in seconds.
He stripped off his sleeping robe, folding it neatly on the bench, leaving only his loose trousers.
He looked down at his body in the pale morning light.
It was no longer the skeleton wrapped in silk from two days ago. The combination of the Jade Marrow Pill, the intense protein intake (stolen or otherwise), and the constant pressure of Total Concentration Breathing had begun to reshape Xiao Ning's frame.
The ribs were no longer protruding sharply like the bars of a cage. A layer of lean, wire-like muscle had begun to form over his chest and arms.
He didn't look bulky like a bodybuilder; he looked like a whip—compact, flexible, and capable of generating terrifying kinetic energy.
"I have no sword," Yoriichi thought, looking at his empty hands. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons ripple. "The iron sword shattered last night. A common blade cannot hold the Sun. Until I can forge a Nichirin blade... I am unarmed."
But a warrior is never truly unarmed.
"If I have no blade, I must become the blade. My bones must be the steel. My skin must be the sheath."
He walked into the center of the small, private courtyard. The grass was wet with dew, cooling his bare feet.
He decided against the heavy weight training he had done previously. That required too much caloric intake, and he was currently broke and relying on charity for food. He needed to refine his technique—efficiency over brute exhaustion.
He searched the memories of the original Xiao Ning.
The boy had been lazy, preferring to chase girls rather than train, but as a Main Clan disciple, he had been forced to memorize the basics by the strict clan instructors. Two Low-Huang Rank Dou Techniques surfaced in Yoriichi's mind.
Iron Fist (Tie Quan): A basic hardening technique that focused Qi into the knuckles and wrists to create a surface as hard as iron.
Shatter Rock Hand (Sui Shi Shou): A palm technique meant to deliver internal shockwaves to crumble objects from the inside.
"Crude," Yoriichi critiqued the memories, analyzing the flow of Qi required. "The pathways are inefficient. But the foundation is sound."
He walked over to an old ironwood tree growing in the corner of the courtyard. Its bark was rough, thick, and notoriously hard—often used by senior apprentices to condition their shins. It was ugly, knotted, and unyielding.
Yoriichi took a stance.
"First, the vessel."
He didn't circulate his Dou Qi to his hands. He deactivated the protection. He wanted to test the raw durability of his bone structure.
Thud.
He punched the tree.
It wasn't a hard punch. It was a test. The bark felt like sandpaper against his knuckles.
Thud. Thud.
He began a rhythm. Left. Right. Left. Right.
He focused on the alignment of his wrist. If the wrist was bent even a fraction of a degree, the force would dissipate, or worse, the wrist would snap. He focused on the rotation of his shoulder. He focused on the driving force of his hip.
Thud. Thud. Crack.
He increased the speed. He increased the force.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty.
The repetitive sound of flesh striking wood echoed in the quiet morning like a metronome.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The skin on Yoriichi's knuckles began to split. The rough bark acted like a cheese grater, tearing away the dermis. Blood began to well up, turning his knuckles a stark, bright red.
Pain radiated up his arms. It was a sharp, stinging fire that throbbed with every impact.
But Yoriichi's expression did not change.
His face was a mask of dead calm. His eyes were half-lidded, focused not on the tree, but on the sensation of impact. He didn't wince. He didn't grit his teeth. He punched the tree with the same indifferent detachment one might use to chop vegetables.
Drip.
Drops of blood began to fall onto the tree roots. The gray bark was now stained a vivid crimson.