The plan had been drawn up. All that remained was the dull, tedious process of carrying it out.
The same schedule day after day, the same meals, and strength training in the gym that had him gritting his teeth and putting on a look of pure agony.
July 8.
Bu Liuxing's personal trainer returned to the mansion with some trepidation to help Mr. Jiang Xueming complete his physical assessment.
The trainer had quite an impressive résumé. He was a regular at the IFBB World Men's Bodybuilding Championships, and had once arm-wrestled a state governor while pumping iron. He held two nutritionist certificates with different qualifications, each applicable to a different competition format. Not only could he teach students how to train, he could also design meal plans suited to their physiques.
Surprisingly, this trainer didn't have as hard a time as the two professional instructors before him.
He didn't need to make direct physical contact with Mr. Xueming. Most of his job involved teaching the student how to protect himself while using equipment and doing strength training.
The whole process was relaxed and pleasant. All he had to do was talk.
What surprised the trainer, though, was the young Jiang Xueming's astonishing ability to learn.
It wasn't a matter of communication. That was the most basic part of the job—
—what stood out was the terrifying combination of comprehension, analysis, and learning ability the young man displayed during training.
To explain, we have to go back to when they first entered the gym.
When Coach Zhou began the physical assessment with Jiang Xueming, he could already tell the whole process was going unusually smoothly.
Xueming changed out of his clothes and into quick-drying workout gear.
First came the measurements of his hydrated weight, body fat, height, heart rate, and blood pressure.
Not a single word of idle chatter passed between them.
When Mr. Xueming lay down on the body-fat testing machine, which had twenty electrodes, Coach Zhou was prepared to carefully remind the student to place the correct parts of his body on the corresponding electrodes.
The coach barely had to say a word. He just gestured and nudged Xueming's hands and legs into place.
But Jiang Xueming's body seemed like a complicated set of gears. It shifted slowly on the machine, stopped when it heard the electrodes were working properly, then gradually settled into position.
There was no denying it: the sensation was bizarre, but deeply satisfying, like popping plastic bubble wrap. Like watching a steel ball drop into a perfectly sized round hole, then neatly join the other balls to form a perfect circle. It was the kind of satisfaction that made an obsessive-compulsive person feel like they could die happy.
Even when Coach Zhou had been paid to test new athletes who were particular about their body fat, it had never felt this satisfying.
He usually had to keep reminding them and carefully checking their positions—especially Bu Liuxing.
When that young master lay on the testing machine, he was like a wild monkey, practically taming his own limbs.
After measuring Xueming's normal stats, they put him through the dehydration process in the sauna and salt bath, then measured his height, weight, body fat, and other stats again.
By the time Coach Zhou took Xueming through the second round of testing, he didn't need to say anything. He didn't have to give instructions or correct Xueming's posture.
The whole process was exceptionally comfortable. In all his years as a trainer, this was the easiest student he'd ever taught.
As for the test results—
—Jiang Xueming's body was quite different from an average person's.
His body-fat percentage was only twelve percent.
No swelling, and normal blood pressure.
His heart rate was extremely stable. Both tests gave the same result, and even the hot steam after the sauna hadn't changed the rate at which his heart pumped blood.
His height was 171 centimeters, and his dehydrated weight was 63 kilograms.
But he looked very thin. He wasn't exactly skin and bones, but his lower abdomen was unnaturally sunken, and the ribs at the bottom of his chest were faintly visible. There was barely any flesh between his shoulders and collarbones, and his trapezius muscles were practically nonexistent.
It didn't make sense. Coach Zhou stared at the test results, lost in thought as he tried to figure out where Jiang Xueming's weight came from.
He finally found the answer under skeletal muscle mass.
Mr. Jiang Xueming's skeletal muscle mass was 51 percent—far above the normal range.
Usually, only men with large physiques had a high skeletal muscle mass. With regular exercise and natural body fat, it generally stayed around 35 to 45 percent.
We often see two people who are about the same height and weight, yet have completely different amounts of fat and different physiques. That comes down to their skeletal muscle mass and hormone levels.
With Xueming's height and arm span, he shouldn't have that much skeletal muscle.
Curious, the trainer couldn't help asking.
"Mr. Xueming, did you used to carry heavy things a lot? These stats look like those of a construction worker who spends all day carrying bricks. But if you don't get enough high-quality protein and fat, you won't put on weight."
"Yes." Jiang Xueming described his four years of working part-time. "I worked at a braised-food shop. In the morning, I had to help carry the frozen goods in the freezers. Large carts weren't allowed into the subway station. Then I had to sort everything in the kitchen, which took a long time. I had to get it done quickly, or I'd miss the morning rush."
The trainer looked enlightened. "What did you eat every day?"
"I rarely got to eat lunch. Usually, I ate twice a day." Jiang Xueming recalled. "I'd stuff myself in the morning. Noon was the rush, and I couldn't stop to eat. I'd get home at ten at night and make my second meal. As soon as I finished, I had to go straight to bed."
The trainer continued, "How long did you do that?"
"Four years and three months."
"Then you must sleep very well."
"I wouldn't know. I've never dreamed before, except recently." Jiang Xueming remembered how he'd been unable to sleep when Bailu was sick, as well as the dream about Fang Feng. Those had been some of the worst nights he'd had in years.
"If you didn't sleep well," the trainer reasoned, "your hormones couldn't have kept you going this long."
Jiang Xueming asked uneasily, "Am I healthy?"
Coach Zhou rubbed his chin. "Not at all. This might scare you, but if you went two days without sleep and then caught a cold or got injured, you'd get worse in no time and end up in the ICU."
Jiang Xueming fell silent—
—before Brother Seven came to get him, he'd gone two days without closing his eyes, and his hair had turned white overnight.
"But!" The trainer laughed heartily and clapped Xueming on the shoulder. "I can make sure you eat your fill! Eat well, train well, and get healthy!"
From then on, every day—
—while Jiang Xueming was awake, he ate almost constantly. Every half hour, he had to swallow about 150 grams of food, and his menu changed daily.
He drank 3.7 liters of water a day to help his liver produce blood and his kidneys flush out toxins.
In Coach Zhou's opinion, Xueming could eat an astonishing amount, and he wasn't picky at all. His clean bodybuilding meals didn't contain a drop of salad dressing or any added sugar.
Even Coach Zhou had only been so strict with himself when he was preparing for a bodybuilding competition. And he still gave himself one or two cheat meals a week, eating whatever he wanted as a reward.
Xueming's way of eating was strange, too. He was like someone shoving construction materials into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, picking up each bite with a regular, natural rhythm, like a machine assembling parts.
With his energy and protein replenished—
—the training sessions made Coach Zhou even happier.
It was impossible to describe this kid's training as merely hassle-free. The coach could practically sit back and do nothing.
Coach Zhou's job was supposed to involve watching Xueming's strength limits and muscle condition.
He needed to observe his student's skin tone and breathing rhythm to judge whether he could complete each exercise.
If anything went wrong, he had to stop the exercise immediately, or the student could get hurt.
Starting with light weights and working up to his maximum.
The gym's big three: deadlifts, squats, and bench presses.
Coach Zhou only had to demonstrate each one once. After that, he never needed to say another unnecessary word.
What he found unbelievable was this—
—many students got injured while strength training. Even veterans who'd been in the business for years could have a mishap, which was why they needed lifting straps and all kinds of protective gear.
When people exert themselves in a state of excitement, it's hard for them to know what's happening in their own bodies.
Adrenaline dulls pain, and the rush of blood into the muscles can numb the brain and limbs to how much force the body is using.
During most workouts, a coach watching from the sidelines can tell better than the student when to stop, when to breathe, and when to exert force.
In Coach Zhou's view—
—Jiang Xueming's natural strength wasn't much different from an average person's. Plenty of naturally strong people enjoyed working out and excelled at powerlifting.
But this young man seemed to know his body inside out.
Whether his face remained calm as still water during warmups or turned red and contorted with effort as he lifted, his breathing rhythm and muscle control stayed remarkably consistent.
His heart rate remained between 105 and 125 beats per minute.
His blood pressure never exceeded its limit, no matter how often he trained.
The cycle of muscles tightening and relaxing, breaking down during exercise and repairing during sleep.
He'd never made a mistake, never been injured, never had joint inflammation, and never misjudged his strength.
Every time they examined him, his condition was alarmingly good.
The way blood pumping through his body and the major blood vessels in his neck and thighs affected his skin tone—all of it was so, so normal.
So normal that Coach Zhou felt the person moving back and forth among the gym equipment—couldn't possibly be human.
During Jiang Xueming's first week of training, he was in the beginner's honeymoon period, when the body was unusually sensitive to different types of exercise. It was also the best time to build muscle.
The coach could swear to it.
This kid was getting stronger right before his eyes. His training technique was just too "correct."
—His sleep duration and sleep quality were too correct.
—His digestive system's energy conversion rate was too correct.
—His training time, the rest between sets, the way he activated his body to exert force—all of it was too correct.
He looked fresh every day, and every day, when they measured cold, hard stats like his arm, leg, and hip circumference and shoulder width, they saw real growth.
By the third day, the coach had been completely drained. There was nothing left to teach him.
In four more months, this kid would have a very healthy body.
In another year and a half, they'd have to see what his muscle-building potential and hormone levels were like before they could tell whether Jiang Xueming could become a hulking beast like A Xing.
If Xueming didn't plan on entering professional bodybuilding competitions, Coach Zhou truly had nothing more to teach him at this stage.
A week later—
—the coach's daily job had become cooking for Xueming. He prepared twenty-four small meals a day, to be eaten over eight or twelve hours depending on the training plan.
His focus shifted from teaching his student how to build muscle to helping the kitchen auntie plan the meals.
Around that time—
—the coach also noticed that Xueming had started using his newly strengthened body to put the other two instructors through their paces, on top of his gym workouts.
Coach Zhou didn't know anything about shooting or combat sports. But he knew they were both strenuous aerobic exercises that might interfere with strength training.
Yet every morning, Xueming's physical test results were close to the plan. So the coach had no choice but to add more energy-dense foods to the bodybuilding meals to make up for the extra energy he spent on his other lessons.
At first, Old Li thought Jiang Xueming was only building useless brute strength at the gym.
But after Xueming put on his sparring vest, the explosive power in his hips, thighs, and abdomen made his punching speed and strength completely different from before.
The extra food he'd eaten over the past few days had put on a little subcutaneous fat, protecting his vulnerable lower ribs and abdomen. His torso looked more balanced, too.
Those energy reserves had boosted Xueming's ability to keep attacking by more than a little.
Teacher Li's main job became striking Xueming's limbs—the shins and elbows. Repeated blows would teach the kid not to fear pain.
But as he kept striking, Teacher Li started to feel like a blacksmith, his punches and kicks hammering away at steel.
On the tenth day—
—Jiang Xueming got his time at the shooting range under one minute.
Teacher Liu had to go to the hospital after becoming incapacitated from dehydration. They hooked him up to three bottles of glucose.
The agreed-upon time had arrived.
On the last day of mid-July, Jiang Xueming didn't go to the training facility. Instead, he stretched on the terrace and basked in the sun.
The full-length mirror reflected his bare upper body. His shoulders, neck, and upper arms were lean and strong, and the lines of his torso and abdomen flowed smoothly. Red scars marked every part of him. His tendons had grown too quickly and torn through his skin; the marks would take a long time to fade.
The scars looked like surgical incisions. Jiang Xueming was the surgeon who'd made them.
His hands were covered in calluses, with clusters of brown bumps formed from countless repeated pushes, pulls, and lifts. A faint brown mark crossed his shoulder where a barbell had rested.
He picked up a pen and wrote in his notebook.
"The first time I exercised, it felt strange. I won't forget that pain—
—my body hadn't had time to wake up, but I was already urging it out of bed. It needed some time to adapt to the pain of the stimulation. The pain lasted for days, then gradually faded as I kept training.
"Every muscle went through this, as if it were saying, 'My brain! What are you doing? Are you trying to kill me? Why did you wake me up all of a sudden? Why do I have to go through this?' And so on.
"It was like a wild horse. Once I tamed it, it could take me a very, very long way."
He turned to the next page. His arms, too, were covered in lumps left by blows. They'd almost completely gone down.
"The endorphins produced by exercise are like sweet rain to a parched body. They help me sleep soundly. I'm a little hooked, but I can't get lost in this pleasure—I have to set out."
He put on a thin white shirt and realized it didn't fit him as well as it used to. There were no other sizes in the wardrobe, so he had to make do with it.
In front of the bathroom sink, he shaved off his overgrown beard. Xueming hadn't shaved in more than ten days.
Exercise had raised his testosterone levels and sped up his metabolism, making his beard grow fast. He hadn't had time to keep it in check.
After putting on his shoes and pants, he felt like everything was in order.
As bright and scorching as the mid-July sun.
Xiao Qi hadn't seen Xueming for more than ten days.
Every day, Xueming got up earlier than a chicken and went to bed later than a dog. He spent all day at the training facility, eating, drinking, and taking care of everything there.
Xiao Qi wanted to visit and take the opportunity to cop a feel, but she hadn't had a chance.
Her job every day was to escort Bailu to and from school.
That morning, she'd just finished brushing her teeth and was about to head to the dining room to grab some fries when she saw a real beefcake bustling around in the kitchen.
She wasn't sure who it was—
—because the back looked familiar, a lot like Xueming's.
But Mr. Xueming definitely hadn't had a back like that—
—like an inverted triangle, straining to burst out of his white shirt.
"Did we have a guest?" Xiao Qi casually asked Bailu. "Little sister-in-law? Who's that guy in the kitchen?"
Bailu didn't look up from her homework. "My brother."
"Your brother?"
"Watch what you say." Bailu kindly warned her. "Say that word out loud on the streets in America, and you'll get shot."
"Pfft! What are you even talking about?" Xiao Qi waved her hand, trying to dispel the chill from Bailu's icy pun, then ran to the kitchen to greet Xueming.
"You finally came out, Jiang Xueming? Let me hug you, let me hug you!"
Xueming happened to turn around with breakfast in his hands, and he came face-to-face with Brother Seven.
The beef and scrambled eggs on the plate were cooked just right and still sizzling. Olive oil popped on the pristine white plate, occasionally splattering onto his solid chest.
Brother Seven froze on the spot, too nervous to reach out, afraid she might knock the plate over.
She looked up and took a closer look, her eyes sweeping over the translucent shirt. She saw two buttons straining open over his chest muscles. The line of his abs peeked through beneath the hem.
"Jeez." She sucked in a breath.
Xueming smiled and held out the plate. "Brother Seven, you and San-san gave me advice about opening a shop before, and I still haven't properly thanked you. I learned this dish at the hotel, the night after you fell asleep."
After saying that, he licked his fingers clean again and explained, looking rather embarrassed, "I've gotten stronger. The way I used to handle the spatula doesn't work anymore, so I got sauce all over my hand. Sorry you had to see that."
"Uh..." Xiao Qi's brain shut down. He took the plate, his eyes locked on Xue Ming's fingers.
Jiang Xueming reminded him, "Go rest in the dining room first. I still need to make a plate for Sansan."
Xiao Qi jolted as if he'd touched a live wire. His whole body went numb.
He stumbled along in a daze, staring blankly ahead.
Jiang Xueming used his clean hand to press on Seventh Brother's shoulder and usher him out of the kitchen as if pushing a wheelchair.
Xiao Qi sat back down at the dining table and shook his head hard, eyes wide and expression strange.
"What kind of dark magic is this? What kind of bewitching demon man?"
Before you continue