Black Heart Evil Palm

The iron gate of the training ground was shoved open by a pair of calloused hands, emitting a teeth-gritting screech of metal. Long Xiuyuan's tall figure strode into the arena against the midday sun, his military boots striking the floor with dull, heavy thuds.

"Fall in!"

This barked command sent a jolt through the thirty-some students of Class Three.

Several students dozing in the shade scrambled into line, one lanky boy even tripping in his panic and slamming his knees hard against the solid Blue Steel Stone floor.

Situ Xuan stood quietly at the very end of the line, his right hand wrapped in blood-stained bandages, the knuckles of his left hand still bruised from smashing a puppet the night before. He narrowed his eyes slightly; the morning light caught the shoulder insignia on Long Xiuyuan, where the Shark Tooth Emblem of the East Sea Legion was gleaming.

"Today, we conduct basic reaction training."

Long Xiuyuan unhooked a pitch-black short staff from his waist, the metal surface reflecting a cold, metallic glint in the sunlight. "Pair up, take turns blocking."

Finally, finally found a good seedling...

Long Xiuyuan watched the students of Class Three begin their training, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face.

The upcoming Class Promotion Tournament wouldn't just bring rewards for the students; as their homeroom teacher, he would also receive a substantial commendation!

Ever since retiring from the East Sea Legion, Long Xiuyuan had never felt his life could be this vibrant again.

He didn't want to waste such a good seedling as Situ Xuan, nor did he want the lax nature of Class Three to cause the Class Promotion Tournament to go poorly.

Exchange Tactics!

Long Xiuyuan thought of a combat strategy that had been most common in the Soul Master combat squads of the East Sea Legion.

King against King, General against General!

When the numbers were equal, place absolute trust in one's strongest combat power, drag out the other enemies, and wait for the battle on the main front to conclude.

The best talent among the students of Class Three was only innate level seven; theoretically, such talent should be placed in Class Two or Class One.

But the Golden Scale Deer Martial Soul did not belong to the Power Attack System, but rather leaned toward the support type. In the three-on-three battles of the Class Promotion Tournament, without suitable teammates, it was completely useless.

Long Xiuyuan didn't expect the other sorry excuses for students to achieve any decent results; as long as he created a suitable environment for Situ Xuan—a one-on-one environment—Soul Masters of the same age would absolutely not be a match for Situ Xuan in a single exchange.

In this way, he could crush the enemy in both quantity and quality.

Having completely abandoned the mindset of a teacher, Long Xiuyuan kept his gaze fixed firmly on Situ Xuan, who was performing weight training alone.

In the military, the winner is king and the loser is the bandit; the strong naturally possess more resources.

Even after retiring, Long Xiuyuan had not changed this point, nor did he think there was any need to change it.

Not far away, slightly removed from the Class Three training area, Situ Xuan had once again put on the 30-kilogram weight belt and five kilograms of wrist guards given to him by Long Xiuyuan, training all by himself.

Standing aloof from the world.

Situ Xuan's status in Class Three was like an outsider who kept drifting in and out of reach.

Long Xiuyuan gave him the maximum amount of freedom; as long as the daily course progress wasn't missed, he could manage the rest of his time without restriction.

Only for two hours every night did Situ Xuan need to engage in flesh-and-blood combat training with him.

At this moment, the scorching sun shone through the glass skylight of the training ground roof, baking the 35-kilogram weight belt until it was searing hot.

The lead core absorbed the heat, and where it pressed against the skin of his waist, several blisters had already formed.

Situ Xuan was completely unaware of this, his focus entirely concentrated on every contraction of his muscle fibers—from the wave-like undulations of his calf muscles as his toes gripped the ground, to the tremors of his spine transmitting power like a steel cable.

The 5-kilogram Black Iron wrist guards began to deform after three consecutive hours of punching. The metal edges curled from repeated impacts, grinding the skin on the inside of Situ Xuan's wrists into a bloody mess.

But the youth merely shook his hands, letting the blood coat the lining of the wrist guards evenly—this prevented slipping caused by sweat.

During a set of squats, Situ Xuan suddenly changed his movement trajectory.

The force that should have been directed vertically upward shifted into a horizontal rotation, causing the 35-kilogram weight belt to swing like a meteor hammer.

The metal buckle at the connection point of the belt emitted a "creak" of unbearable strain, while his obliques displayed exaggerated spiral patterns as a result.

This sudden, whimsical variation caused a chain reaction in his entire body's muscles, and dozens of earthworm-like veins instantly bulged on his back.

His training uniform had long since been soaked through with sweat and dried three times over, and now it clung to his body like sun-dried fish skin.

Situ Xuan grabbed his collar and tore it apart, revealing an upper body covered in purple bruises.

Surprisingly, those bruises were changing at a speed visible to the naked eye—from deep purple to yellow-green, and finally returning to a normal skin tone; the entire process took less than ten minutes.

The perfect combination of breathing techniques and his Body Martial Soul allowed the self-healing ability of this body to completely exceed the scope of ordinary humans.

Extreme pressure and the precise breathing technique caused the slow efficiency of his soul power circulation, caused by his low talent, to climb continuously.

Situ Xuan's panting echoed in the empty training ground; his chest heaved violently, and sweat fell to the ground like beads from a broken string.

The knuckles of his right hand were already a bloody mess, and the bruises on his forearm were a purplish-black, like refined iron that had been struck by a heavy hammer. But he didn't stop to rest, nor did he bandage his wounds—the blood seeped into the bandages and congealed into dark red scabs at his wrists, which instead became the best protective gear.

He dragged his heavy body and slowly sat cross-legged on the Blue Steel Stone floor in the center of the training ground.

The 35-kilogram weight belt lay limp beside him like a dead snake, the metal buckle polished smooth and bright from repeated high-intensity training.

The 5-kilogram Black Iron wrist guards had also been violently flung to the side; his wrists were worn with streaks of bloody gashes, and sweat seeping into the wounds brought waves of sharp, stinging pain.

He placed his hands slowly on his knees, palms facing upward, his five fingers slightly spread; the skin on his knuckles had split open, revealing the pale red tendons beneath.

"Hoo—"

He closed his eyes and took a sharp, deep breath.

The moment his chest cavity expanded, the joints of his ribs emitted a faint "crackling" sound, like wooden tenons being forcibly pried apart.

His breathing rhythm changed abruptly—no longer the long, drawn-out respiration required by Fist of the North Star, but a short, staccato pause that bordered on suffocation.

"Inhale—"

"Exhale—", every breath felt as if it were being deliberately severed, exhausting the air in his lungs before forcing a new stream of air inside.

The Black Heart Evil Palm focuses on "evil energy as the foundation."

A strange black aura gradually seeped from the body of Situ Xuan; this aura was neither soul power nor pure killing intent, but a medium existing somewhere between energy and matter.

Like flowing ink, it spread along the texture of his skin, covering his arms first—those congested blood vessels, under the shroud of the black aura, seemed to be forcibly suppressed by some power, slowly contracting, turning from purple-black to ash-gray, and finally being completely swallowed by the black mist.

Cold sweat slid down the side of his face, but when these droplets touched the black aura, they vanished without a sound, as if they had been devoured.

Situ Xuan's breathing grew slower and slower, until eventually, the rise and fall of his chest was almost imperceptible—he resembled a cooling corpse, with only the slight tremor of his eyeballs proving he was still alive.

"Plop."

A drop of blood fell from his fingertip, striking the Blue Steel Stone floor, yet it did not seep into the cracks; instead, it hovered like a solidified black pearl, only to be coiled by a wisp of black mist and slowly evaporated into nothingness.

"Refine."

Situ Xuan suddenly whispered, his voice as hoarse as a blade scraping against rust.

His hands clenched violently, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, and though blood seeped out from between his fingers, it strangely did not drip down; instead, guided by the black aura, it condensed into a blood bead the size of a thumb in the center of his palm.

This blood bead hovered above his palm, with tiny black filaments constantly weaving across its surface, wriggling like some kind of living creature.