Body Tempering: Hardship and Merit

The night deepened, the courtyard falling into a dead silence, broken only by the creaking lament of the broken door in the night wind, like a storyteller spinning an endless tale of sorrow.

Ye Qingxuan, who had just been trembling with fear, his face a mask of panic, slowly straightened up. The moment Duan Tianbao and his men vanished from sight, the panic and pleading on his face faded clean away, leaving only an unfathomable calm.

He walked to the courtyard gate, picked up the broken door panel, and leaned it against the wall.

Everything just now had been an act.

He had to be "panicked," had to "beg," had to appear like a helpless youth cornered with no way out. Because in front of someone like Duan Tianbao, any trace of calm or rationality would be read as "having backing" or "harboring ulterior motives," only inviting deeper probing and harsher squeezing.

Only by showing weakness, disguising himself as an ant that could be crushed at will, could he let Duan Tianbao lower his guard and buy himself the most precious thing—time.

From five days to ten days, the price was that the two taels of silver Hu Jiudao claimed Duan Tianbao had "forgiven" were added back.

But Ye Qingxuan didn't care.

Sixteen taels or fourteen taels made no difference to him—both were astronomical sums he couldn't possibly scrape together right now.

But those extra five days could let him do a lot.

He slowly exhaled a mouthful of stale air. This feeling of placing his fate in another's hands, buying a sliver of survival through acting and begging, disgusted him to the bone. In this muddy world, without strength, there was no dignity. So-called cunning, so-called caution, were merely survival tactics for the weak, never a long-term path.

He turned and walked into the house.

On the bed, his sleeping younger sister's thin little face still bore tear stains, her brows tightly furrowed even in slumber.

Ye Qingxuan reached out and gently smoothed the wrinkles between her brows.

"Brother..."

Ye Caiwei had woken at some point, her big eyes staring at him in the darkness, filled with terror.

"Nannan, don't be afraid. Big brother is here." Ye Qingxuan sat down by the bed, his voice as soft as possible, afraid to disturb this fragile dream.

"Will they... will they come back?" Ye Caiwei's small hands clutched the corner of the blanket.

"They will." Ye Qingxuan didn't lie to her. He just took her little hand—it was ice cold. He used his palm to slowly warm away the chill. "But next time they come, it'll be to settle the debt. Once we pay them back, we won't owe them anything."

"Fourteen taels... where would we ever get that much money..." Ye Caiwei's voice carried a sob. She was far more mature than other children her age and knew exactly what that sum meant.

"Big brother will find a way." Ye Qingxuan looked at his sister, speaking each word as if making an oath. "Nannan, do you believe your brother can give you a good life from now on? No more worrying over a few coppers, no more eating chaff and wild greens. Eat meat whenever you want. I'll raise you plump and fair, dress you in the prettiest flower skirts in the city, and make you a carefree little princess."

Ye Caiwei stared at him blankly. In the darkness, her brother's silhouette wasn't tall, but the certainty in his voice was like a mountain, calming her frantic heart. She nodded firmly.

Ye Qingxuan smiled, tucked the blanket around her, and said, "Sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, everything will be fine."

Only after Ye Caiwei's breathing became steady again did Ye Qingxuan quietly rise and leave the room.

He stood in the courtyard, his gaze falling on a dusty weapon rack in the corner. The rack was empty.

His father, Old Ye, had once been a big name in the Fengtian Division of Linyuan Prefecture. His "Thirteen Blades of Fengtian" were as swift as a startled swan, as fierce as thunder and fire, earning him a fearsome reputation in battles against rogue martial artists and demonic cultists. Neighbors and locals alike respectfully called him "Constable Ye."

Back then, the Ye Family, though not wealthy, was the envy of everyone in the Southern District. In Ye Qingxuan's childhood memories, his father always stood tall and straight, a long saber at his waist, radiating Sha Qi yet wearing a smile—a towering hero in his eyes.

But even heroes couldn't withstand the erosion of this world.

In the campaign to suppress the Myriad Tribulation Sect, his father killed three sect leaders but was also poisoned with a strange toxin, his meridians shattered. His former fame couldn't buy miraculous medicine, and the Fengtian Division's pension was a drop in the bucket. To pay for treatment, the family's savings were drained, and debts were owed to the Fierce Tiger Hall.

A hero's end was nothing more than this. From the revered Constable Ye to a sickly man chained to a bed of medicine, to a name crossed off the household registry, leaving behind a son who was a "temporary unregistered constable." This was the portrait of the Ye Family in recent years—the beginning of an inspiring story, but the ending of a tragic one.

Ye Qingxuan had no intention of repeating that path.

He withdrew his gaze, took a deep breath, scooped up a ladle of cold water from the earthen jar by the wall, and poured it over his head. The icy well water made him shiver, but it also brought unprecedented clarity to his mind.

He returned to the house, found several old cloth strips washed white, and took some still-warm plant ash from the stove, wrapping it in a cloth bundle.

The cultivation method of the Indestructible Vajra Body was now vividly clear in his mind. This technique required no breathing exercises or meridian circulation—it only demanded one thing: endurance.

Wrap the body in cloth, rub and grind with objects, strike with the hands—using the crudest methods to temper bones, tendons, and flesh.

Ye Qingxuan took off his shirt, revealing a lean but well-proportioned upper body. He first wrapped the cloth strips tightly around his arms, then picked up the bundle of plant ash and began rubbing it vigorously against his other arm.

The rough fabric, filled with hard ash particles, scraped back and forth across his skin like a dull whetstone polishing a blade.

Soon, his skin flushed red.

He gritted his teeth, not reducing the force but increasing it.

The red deepened into a searing, burning pain. His skin felt like it was being roasted over a fire, every inch of flesh screaming in protest.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, hitting the ground and leaving small dark stains.

This was only the beginning.

After a hundred rubs, he unwrapped the cloth and began striking his arms, chest, and back with his palms and the edge of his hand.

Slap!

Slap! Slap!

The dull thuds echoed in the silent night.

Each strike felt like a red-hot iron rod branding his body. The scorching pain drilled through his flesh into his marrow, making every muscle tremble uncontrollably.

His teeth ground together, a low growl suppressed in his throat.

This was body tempering—like a blacksmith forging iron, hammered a thousand times to refine the dross from the pure. Ordinary people training in martial arts needed a master's guidance, medicinal baths, and gradual progress. But he had no master, no medicine—only this scroll of the Heavenly Machine Codex and a fierce unwillingness to accept his fate.

Sweat soaked his hair, plastering it to his forehead. Darkness flickered before his eyes, every part of his body screaming for him to stop.

But he did not.

He remembered Duan Tianbao's smiling face, Hu Jiudao's savage scar, and his sister's terrified eyes.

If he stopped, he would die.

He raised his hand and brought down another heavy slap, landing squarely on his own shoulder.

A searing pain shot through him, and his body swayed, nearly toppling over.

Just then, that ancient and vast voice resounded in his mind once more.

[Unrelenting cultivation yields no wasted effort... Merit +1]

The moment the voice fell, the words on that illusory scroll within his mind shifted silently.

[Martial Art: Indestructible Vajra Body (Progress: Zero, Merit: 1/5)]

At the same time, a faint yet distinct warmth arose from the depths of his limbs and bones. Wherever this warmth flowed, the burning agony from before was noticeably dulled—like drinking a mouthful of ice spring water in the scorching summer. The pain remained, but it was no longer so unbearable.

His body, which had been trembling from the pain, gradually steadied.

Ye Qingxuan was stunned.

He slowly raised his hand and looked at his reddened arm.

It works!

Those two words exploded like thunder in his heart.

This Heavenly Machine Codex was no illusion! This bitter training was truly effective!

All the effort, all the suffering, had transformed into that clearly visible "Merit: 1/5."

The ethereal path of martial arts, the distant and unreachable hope, had at this moment become a tangible, accumulable staircase.

An indescribable surge of joy erupted from the depths of his heart, instantly sweeping away the fatigue and pain in his body.

He clenched his fist.

Four more points of merit.

Instead of stopping, he was injected with boundless motivation. The sound of his slaps grew heavier and more frequent than before.

Tonight, no one would sleep.

In this small courtyard of the Southern District's alleyways, there was only the dull thud of flesh striking flesh and a young man's heavy breathing, accompanied by the oil lamp flickering in the night breeze, until dawn.