Poverty Sickness

He quickly lowered his hand and tried to sit up straight. Forcing a nonchalant smile, he waved both hands repeatedly, his voice hoarse from coughing:

"Cough, cough... It's nothing, nothing... Cough, cough... Maybe I've, um, caught a chill with the weather turning colder lately... Just a little, cough, cough... Just a slight cough. It's fine, a minor thing. I'll be better in a few days."

His eyes darted about, and he didn't dare look his son in the eye.

"Is that so?" Li Wen's voice was calm, but his dark eyes were like mirrors that could see into people's hearts, clearly reflecting every trace of panic and deliberate understatement on his father's face.

"Cough... Yeah! Don't worry about me for nothing!" Li Hong's voice rose slightly, carrying an almost commanding urgency.

"Get back to your room. Finals are coming up, so cultivation is what matters! Don't waste time!"

As he spoke, he stood up, nearly pushing Li Wen into his room by force.

Li Wen took a long look at his father's sallow face, which was trying to appear calm but still couldn't hide his illness, and at the tired red marks in the corners of his eyes.

"Mm... As long as it's nothing serious." Li Wen's voice betrayed no emotion. "I'll go cultivate, then."

He finished speaking calmly, walked straight to his small room, and gently closed the door.

Inside, cut off from the living room, Li Wen leaned against the cold door and slowly closed his eyes. His heart felt as if an invisible hand had clenched it hard, leaving him breathless with misery.

His father's suppressed cough seemed to still echo in his ears. The door blocked not only the sound, but also the heavy worry his father didn't want to burden him with.

He forcibly stripped away every distracting thought—his father's strained smile, the weariness buried in his mother's eyes—and compressed them, sealing them deep in a corner of his consciousness.

His father was hiding an illness, that much was certain. What illness? It didn't matter.

Because there was only one illness in this world: poverty sickness.

The words "poverty sickness" were like a quenched steel needle, piercing the core of his understanding.

In this age, when spirit energy catalyzed the growth of all things, physical illnesses among ordinary people were, in theory, no longer incurable.

Vitality potions extracted from mutated plants, nanoscale repair technology, even certain advanced martial arts secrets that touched upon the very origin of life... with enough resources, even regrowing a severed limb was no empty boast.

But there was one condition: you had to have money.

A great deal of money.

His family had none.

His parents had tightened their belts to the limit just to barely afford his martial arts training. If the family's pillar fell, their fragile financial balance would collapse in an instant.

What was his father worried about? Not an incurable disease. It was the Qi-Blood Potions and nutritious meals that would soon run out once he lost his job, the uncertain future of Li Wen, a high school senior studying martial arts, and the hope of a family already on the verge of collapse.

Tell him? That would only add to his worries, and might even disrupt his state of mind as he prepared for the Martial Arts College Entrance Exam. His parents chose silence, swallowing the pressure and pain alone, as if gulping down life's bitterness.

Through the door, Li Wen understood that bitterness all too well.

He slowly drew a breath. The emotions churning in his chest were replaced by something colder and harder.

Click. The lock turned softly as he stepped into his own little corner of the world.

His gaze swept over the old mat beside the bed, worn smooth and shiny. He kicked off his slippers and stepped onto it barefoot. The mat's icy touch shot up from his soles and pierced through his whole body, taking away the last trace of hesitation.

Get stronger! The only way! The fastest way!

The thought flowed like molten lava. There was no need to work himself up, no need to hesitate. He spread his legs slightly, straightened his spine like a spear, and formed a seal with his hands before his chest. The familiar path of his technique lit up in his consciousness at once.

"Activate—[Absolute Focus]!"

The silent command fell, and the world abruptly faded and simplified. His consciousness rose to dizzying heights, as if a god were gazing down at his own body.

His surging qi and blood roared into motion along the precise tracks of the [Fracture Edge Gold Sha Method].

With every cycle, they worked like the most precise forge hammer, tempering his muscles and skin ever more efficiently, even faintly reaching the deeper levels of his marrow and blood.

The benefits of advancing his technique were crystal clear.

The hunger in his body was temporarily sated by its rapid strengthening. His subtle gains in power were no longer a slow trickle, but a stream gathering bit by bit.

His body's greedy absorption of spirit energy and the losses incurred as his qi and blood circulated were both gradually optimized and reduced under the control of the Minor Accomplishment realm.

The limits still bound him, but he had shoved them back by a full inch.

One hour and three minutes—three precious minutes longer than yesterday!

When the feeling of absolute control ebbed like the tide, a violent emptiness and sudden weakness surged through his body, nearly swallowing him whole.

He was like an empty sack that had been wrung dry. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor.

His face was a ghastly white, utterly bloodless. A vein at his temple twitched as sharp pains pulsed deep in his brain, warning him that he had overdrawn his Spiritual Power.

He had endured this complete depletion again and again for three days. The pain remained, but the tearing helplessness seemed to have worked its way into his muscle memory. Once he gritted his teeth and got through the initial shock, he could bear it as a matter of course.

He panted heavily. Beads of sweat rolled from his jaw and fell onto the old mat, spreading into dark stains.

A few minutes later, he scraped together a sliver of strength and dragged his nearly numb body toward the desk. He reached deep into the drawer, where his last bottle of dark red potion lay.

His fingertips touched the cold glass vial. He pulled out the stopper, tipped it back, and downed it in one go.

The icy liquid of the Level 1 Blood Qi Potion slid down his throat, then instantly turned into a gentle yet powerful stream of warmth that rushed into his parched, drained meridians and blood vessels, nourishing them in silence.

At last, a faint hint of color returned to his pale face.

It was only eight. Time was precious.

After showering, washing away the sticky grime and bone-deep fatigue that cultivation had left behind, he sat down at his desk.

Tomorrow's final exams for the cultural subjects would take up the entire day, leaving not a sliver of time to grind Scholar experience.

He spread open his books under the light. Immersed study was also a proper way to accumulate experience.

His thoughts were no longer as swift as lightning or keen as an eagle's eye as they had been under "Absolute Focus," but steadily absorbing knowledge in a systematic way was still effective. Words passed before his eyes, and formulas took root in his mind.

Two hours later, a line of text visible only to him quietly appeared:

[You studied diligently for two hours. Scholar experience +12]

[Profession: Scholar lv3 (217→229/400)]

The experience bar moved forward another small notch.

The next day, Li Wen woke before dawn.

The house was utterly silent.

When he opened his door, the living room was empty. Only the faint, savory smell of scorched potstickers drifted from the kitchen—breakfast his father had left for him.

Had his father "rested" again? He silently looked at the plate of food, still faintly warm, and paused with his fingertips on the wooden table. In the end, he didn't knock on his parents' bedroom door. What good would knowing do? It would only burden him with worry right now.