Sacrifice

Li Jingzhong was still a qualified martial arts school master.

He was strict, but his strictness had its reasons.

The three-day Vajra Fist entry test assessed comprehension.

If you couldn't even grasp a fist technique in three days, your comprehension was simply too poor.

Opening fifty acupoints and one meridian tested talent and perseverance.

If you couldn't even reach that level in half a year, either your talent was too lacking or your perseverance was weak—you were just slacking off.

The martial path grew harder with each step. If the first step was already this difficult, you might as well not train at all.

Without giving everyone much time to think, Li Jingzhong began demonstrating the "Vajra Fist" to the group.

"The 'Vajra Fist' is the entry-level martial art taught to lay disciples by the Vajra Prajna Temple, a major Buddhist sect in Qingzhou.

I once trained at Vajra Prajna Temple in my early years and was permitted to teach the Vajra Fist after returning to secular life.

Its Fist Intent is Vajra Demon Subduing, with broad, sweeping movements and fierce explosive force.

Pay close attention: when releasing force, you must mobilize the power of acupoints and meridians, letting the strength burst forth suddenly to unleash maximum might."

In the training ground, Li Jingzhong demonstrated each move slowly, seemingly deliberate.

But when his fist landed, the force exploded abruptly, cracking through the air with astonishing power.

Han Zheng watched intently, not blinking, studying carefully.

Whether in his past life or after this transmigration, Han Zheng deeply understood the importance of strength.

In this chaotic era, what could protect you wasn't the law or those lofty officials, but your own fists and the blade in your hand.

Besides, in his current state, Han Zheng absolutely couldn't afford to be eliminated from the martial arts school.

He was destitute now—at least the school provided lunch after morning training. If he left, he wouldn't even have a place to eat.

"Did everyone see clearly?"

Li Jingzhong withdrew his fist stance and exhaled a stream of white breath.

The breath was long and drawn out, faintly whistling.

"Yes!"

"Since you've seen clearly, start practicing each move now!"

Li Jingzhong walked to a raised platform in the training ground, watching the disciples below clumsily practice the Vajra Fist.

He was a conscientious school master.

If anyone's stance was off or their force application wrong, he would go over and correct them.

Before his transmigration, Han Zheng had trained diligently, and his martial foundation was fairly solid.

Now, as he practiced the Vajra Fist move by move, he felt the power within his acupoints—a very strange sensation.

Threads of strength gathered in the acupoints, perceptible but impossible to mobilize.

Only when he threw a punch did a trace of that power passively seep out, but not much.

In the Houtian Meridian Opening Realm, the most important thing wasn't opening acupoints, but opening meridians.

Three hundred and sixty-five acupoints were distributed throughout the body, with twelve meridians running through it.

Each meridian opened could activate the acupoint power along its path, allowing true control over the internal force within those acupoints.

Half a day passed quickly, and Han Zheng was drenched in sweat.

The servants at the school had already brought over a dozen large basins, and everyone lined up to get their meals.

Each person got five black wheat buns, a bowl of vegetable soup with oil slicks, and the only meat was two boiled eggs.

Simple as it was, this meal was already quite good.

Over the past six months, prices in Black Stone County had skyrocketed. Rice that used to cost ten coppers per catty now cost fifty.

Shannan Dao produced little grain, and Huainan Dao, adjacent to it, had fertile land, making it Shannan Dao's main grain source.

But half a year ago, the Incense Cult rose in rebellion in Huainan Dao, plunging the people into misery and reducing harvests. Shannan Dao's prices followed suit.

Han Zheng felt the black wheat buns scratch his throat as he ate, but he forced them down anyway.

After all, they filled his stomach.

Just then, a slightly chubby round-faced youth chewed on a bun and crouched beside Han Zheng, looking troubled.

"The big exam is in three days—it came too fast.

The master only said passing the 'Vajra Fist' entry test counts as qualified, but what exactly counts as 'entry'?"

This slightly chubby youth was Li Sancheng, Han Zheng's friend.

His father was a jailer at the County Yamen and knew Han Zheng's father. The two had known each other since childhood but weren't close.

After joining the martial arts school, they happened to find this familiar face and often stuck together, becoming friends.

But Li Sancheng's family circumstances were much better than Han Zheng's.

The jailer's monthly wage was just as meager, but his side income was anything but.

Anyone whose family had run afoul of the law and wanted to visit the prison had to slip the jailer some silver.

Han Zheng took a sip of vegetable soup, forced down a mouthful of dark rye bread, and said, "Martial arts aren't like cultivation realms—where's the standard for entry?"

"The standard's with the school master. All we have to do is grasp the fist techniques as best we can. Not seeking perfection, just seeking to be better than the rest—that's enough."

Li Sancheng scratched his head. "Makes sense. Our school's got just over a hundred people. The master probably won't cut half of them. Hey, Han Zheng, I feel like you've changed somehow since yesterday? But I can't put my finger on it."

"If I've changed, it's for the better-looking. Don't dwell on useless stuff—hurry home and drill your fist techniques."

"If you fail the big exam in three days, your dad will beat you to death."

Li Sancheng's family had some means, but the school's tuition was enough to make his old man bleed once.

Han Zheng wolfed down the dark rye bread in a few bites, tossed his bowl to Li Sancheng, and left the school.

Back home, Han Zheng stripped off his sweat-stinking clothes to change.

But the moment he took them off, he froze.

A banknote fell from the inner lining of his clothes—ten taels in face value.

Where had this money come from?

As far as his memory went, this life's Han Zheng had been left with bare walls after burying his father, not a single coin to his name.

Sometimes after morning lessons, he'd go to the city gate to haul big loads for merchant caravans—one coin per load, barely scraping together meal money.

Now, one tael of silver was roughly five hundred coins. For an ordinary commoner, earning one tael a month was already pretty good.

Han Zheng's father, as a clerk in the County Yamen, only drew three taels a month.

Ten taels was an absolute fortune for Han Zheng. Where had he gotten so much money?

Rubbing his head, Han Zheng felt like the day of memory he'd lost held something crucial.

With his personality, he wouldn't have gone alone to the dangerous outskirts of the city for no reason.

What had he done that night to earn ten taels?

But the memory was too hazy, and Han Zheng didn't have much time to dwell on it.

The pressing problem was how to handle the big exam.

In the six months since joining the martial arts school, Han Zheng hadn't slacked off.

But some kids from well-off families had been fed well since childhood, born with sturdy bones and strong sinews.

After starting internal cultivation, they could afford all kinds of spirit medicines and medicinal baths to boost their progress, naturally outpacing him.

A single set of spirit medicines for a medicinal bath cost a hundred taels.

Pills worked fast but were even pricier—the lowest-grade ones went for five hundred taels a bottle.

Meanwhile, Han Zheng had to haul loads for caravans to make a living while training in martial arts. Opening forty-one acupoints was already his limit.

Since ancient times, the poor studied letters and the rich trained in martial arts. The path of martial arts demanded not just grit, but deep pockets.

For Han Zheng right now, the good news was that he at least had ten taels of windfall, so he no longer had to waste time hauling loads outside.

The bad news was that he only had three days left to train with full focus.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Han Zheng began circulating the Iron Elephant Skill, unwilling to waste a single moment.

Iron Elephant Skill, as the name implied, granted the strength of an iron elephant upon mastery—splitting rocks and shattering steles was no trouble.

Its internal energy was steady and heavy, the kind of inner art that purely tempered brute force. It was one of the more crude and cumbersome techniques.

Inner breath flowed through his body as Han Zheng's muscles, bones, and sinews trembled, large beads of sweat rolling down.

Finally, his strength suddenly scattered—he failed to break through the acupoint.

Han Zheng opened his eyes and gave a bitter smile.

"This body's talent really is pretty mediocre."

He didn't know if his comprehension had improved after crossing over, but his physical talent certainly hadn't.

After resting a moment and regaining his strength, Han Zheng resumed his cultivation, trying to break through acupoints again.

Over the next three days, Han Zheng attended morning lessons at the school, practicing and drilling the Vajra Fist.

After class, he went home to cultivate the Iron Elephant Skill, striving to open more acupoints.

The entire Zhenwei Martial Arts School was steeped in an oppressive atmosphere.

Even Li Sancheng, usually lazy and talkative, had no time for idle chatter—he trained the moment he arrived.

But on the night before the big exam, Han Zheng miserably discovered he'd only opened one acupoint in three days.

He was still eight short of the fifty-acupoint standard, and he also needed to open one meridian.

Summoning the Gluttonous Crucible, Han Zheng stared at the lifelike gluttonous dragon patterns etched into it, lost in thought.

Should he sacrifice the Gluttonous Crucible in exchange for a chance to train?

Being expelled from the martial arts school wouldn't starve him to death for now, but it did cost him the chance to continue training in the martial path steadily.

But was it worth sacrificing some part of himself for a quick boost?

Han Zheng pondered, then suddenly said, "The Gluttonous Crucible accepts anything—what if I sacrifice my sense of pain?"

He couldn't sacrifice things like his Three Souls and Seven Spirits, limbs, or lifespan, nor did he want to shorten his life for nothing.

So he only considered sacrificing things like the Seven Emotions and Six Desires.

Then it struck him: pain didn't seem all that useful.

In fact, sacrificing it might even give him an edge in combat.

It was doable.

"Then I'll sacrifice my sense of pain!"

Han Zheng gritted his teeth.

The next moment, the gluttonous dragon pattern on the Gluttonous Crucible seemed to come alive, opening a pitch-black maw that lunged at Han Zheng.

He instinctively shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he felt as though something inside him was missing.

He pinched his face hard—only touch remained. No pain at all.

Host has sacrificed sense of pain. Received 50 points of Satiety, which can be used to breakthrough in martial arts or cultivate within the Crucible.

Two selection icons appeared above the Gluttonous Crucible: one for breakthrough, one for cultivation.

Cultivating inside the Gluttonous Crucible cost 1 Satiety per day, with time frozen inside.

The breakthrough function was unavailable for now—only martial arts with 100% proficiency could be broken through.

"Enter the Crucible to cultivate."

P.S.: Some readers said sacrificing pain would affect combat—you wouldn't even know if you got stabbed. Let me explain: I think pain is useless because pain and touch are completely different sensations. Sacrificing pain doesn't mean losing touch. Anyone who's had anesthesia or surgery knows the feeling—you can feel the knife cutting, separating your skin and flesh, but you don't feel pain. There's a Zhihu article that clearly explains the difference and relationship between pain and touch, citing several references. Interested readers can look it up.

Also, some readers said that without pain, you wouldn't know if your Meridians burst during training.

This novel is set in a high-martial world. At the Houtian Realm, you can cultivate inner energy. Martial artists can sense their own Acupoints and Meridians, achieving 'inner vision'—a mysterious, profound sensation. At the Innate Realm, you can even precisely control every strand of flesh and blood. So losing pain won't hinder training. In fact, later stages require enduring immense pain during body tempering, so losing pain actually speeds up cultivation.

Choosing to sacrifice pain first wasn't a random decision made on a whim. It was chosen based on the subsequent plot development.

As for whether what's lost can be regained—the answer is yes. After all, in critical moments later, more important things might be sacrificed, and the protagonist can't stay incomplete forever.

Of course, some readers will still find it unreasonable. To that, I can only apologize—my skill as an author is limited, and I can't achieve perfection. If you can keep reading, I'm deeply grateful. If you can't bear it, I hope my next book will satisfy everyone.