"The pain is information," Yoriichi thought, watching his own blood splatter. "The bone is hardening. Micro-fractures are forming and healing instantly under the influence of the residual pill energy in my marrow. This is not self-harm; this is forging."
To an observer, it would look like madness. A sixteen-year-old boy, silently destroying his own hands against a tree, looking as peaceful as a monk in prayer.
An hour passed. The sun had fully risen, casting golden light into the courtyard. The city of Wu Tan was waking up; the distant sounds of merchants hawking wares and carts rolling on cobblestone drifted over the walls.
Yoriichi stopped.
He stepped back from the tree, his chest heaving slightly in a controlled rhythm. He looked at his hands. They were a mess of raw flesh and blood. The knuckles were swollen, the skin hanging in tatters.
"Good," he whispered. "The hesitation of the flesh is gone."
He took a deep breath.
"Now. With Qi."
He widened his stance. The air around him seemed to grow heavier.
"Total Concentration."
He channeled the milky white 9th Star Dou Qi from his meridians. He didn't just coat his skin; he forced the dense energy through the bones of his hand, pressurizing the limb until it felt like a hydraulic piston.
"Iron Fist. Refined."
He didn't touch the tree. He stood five feet away from it.
He punched the empty air.
BOOM.
It sounded like a cannon shot.
The air in front of his fist compressed instantly. The Dou Qi, mixed with the sheer physical acceleration of the punch, created a vacuum projectile—an invisible hammer of condensed pressure.
CRUNCH.
The invisible force slammed into the ironwood tree.
Splinters exploded outward. The tree shook violently, leaves raining down like green confetti. A bird nesting in the upper branches squawked and fled in terror.
Yoriichi walked up to the trunk to inspect the damage.
There, in the center of the crimson bloodstains from his earlier practice, was a massive indentation. The bark had been blasted away, revealing the pale wood underneath. The gash was eight, maybe ten inches deep—enough to cave in a human chest or shatter a skull.
Yoriichi nodded, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes.
"The Iron Fist technique is Low Rank," he analyzed, touching the splintered wood. "But when powered by dense Qi and perfect biomechanics, it becomes a mid-range projectile. It is... acceptable."
He looked at his hands. The Qi discharge had cauterized some of the smaller cuts, but they were still bloody and swollen.
"I should clean this," he sighed, the adrenaline fading. "If Grandfather or Big Sister sees this, they will think I have lost my mind. I do not need them summoning a physician for self-inflicted wounds."
He grabbed his robe from the bench and walked over to the water bucket near the wall. He dipped a cloth in the cool water and began to scrub the raw knuckles. The water turned pink instantly.
High above, perched on the curved eave of a nearby pavilion roof, a shadow watched.
He was cloaked in black, his body blending perfectly with the dark tiles. Even in broad daylight, he was hard to spot, like a smudge on a painting.
Ling Ying, the Dou Huang protector of Xiao Xun Er.
He had been passing by on his return to his hidden post after checking the perimeter. The repetitive thudding sound had drawn his attention—a sound too consistent, too rhythmic to be ignored.
He had watched the whole thing.
He had watched the boy punch a tree for an hour with bleeding hands without showing a flicker of pain. He had watched the deadly calm in those red eyes. He had seen the blood dripping onto the roots, and the boy's absolute indifference to it.
And he had seen the final, explosive air punch.
Ling Ying's eyebrows, hidden under his cowl, rose slightly.
"Brutal," Ling Ying whispered, his voice barely a breath.
He had seen many geniuses in the Gu Clan. He had seen the elite Black Army soldiers training. They trained hard, yes. But they trained with the best resources, the best armor, and healers standing by. They treated their bodies like temples.
This boy... this Xiao Ning... treated his body like a piece of iron on an anvil. He hammered it until it took the shape he wanted. He didn't care if it cracked; he only cared if it worked.
"9th Star Dou Zhi Qi..." Ling Ying noted the aura radiating from the boy. "He broke through last day. And that air punch... that was just a basic Huang technique, Iron Fist. But the density of his Qi made it hit like a Xuan technique."
Ling Ying nodded slowly, a rare look of appreciation on his weathered face.
"He is not the waste the rumors claim. He is a wolf cub sharpening his claws on stone. He fights as if he has no retreat."
Ling Ying checked the position of the sun. Xun Er would be waking soon.
"A pity he is born in this small place," Ling Ying mused. "With that mindset, he would have made a fine vanguard in the Central Plains."
He checked the surroundings one last time, ensuring no other spies were watching, and then dissolved into the morning light, vanishing as if he never existed.
Down in the courtyard, Yoriichi froze.
He was midway through wrapping a clean white bandage around his left hand. The cloth was tight, compressing the swelling.
He slowly turned his head.
His gaze fixed unerringly on the roof of the pavilion to the east—the exact spot where Ling Ying had been crouching seconds ago.