Poverty Sickness

He quickly lowered his hand, trying to sit up straight, forcing a carefree smile onto his face as he waved his hand repeatedly, his voice hoarse from coughing:

"Cough... it's nothing, nothing... cough... maybe it's just the weather turning cold lately, caught a bit of a chill... a little, cough... a little light cough. It's fine, a minor thing, it'll pass in a few days."

His eyes flickered, not daring to meet his son's gaze.

"Is that so?" Li Wen's tone was very calm, but those dark, deep-set eyes were like a mirror that could see through a person's heart, 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 suddenly rose half a notch, carrying an almost commanding urgency, "Hurry back to your room, finals are coming up soon, cultivation is what matters! Don't waste time!"

As he spoke, he stood up, nearly ready to physically push Li Wen into the room.

Li Wen took a deep look at his father's sallow complexion, which, despite the forced composure, still couldn't hide his illness, and the weary red marks at the corners of his eyes that were hard to conceal.

"Mm... as long as there's no problem." Li Wen's voice betrayed no emotion. "Then I'll go in and cultivate now."

He said this calmly, walked straight to his own small room, and gently closed the door behind him.

Secluded in the space cut off from the living room, Li Wen leaned against the cold door panel and slowly closed his eyes. His heart felt as if it had been fiercely squeezed by an invisible hand, stuffy and suffocating.

His father's suppressed coughs seemed to still echo in his ears; the door panel didn't just block out the sound, but also that heavy worry his father refused to burden him with.

All the distracting thoughts—his father's forced smile, the deep weariness hidden in his mother's eyes—he forcibly stripped them away, compressed them, and sealed them in a corner of his consciousness.

What his father was hiding was definitely an illness. What illness? It didn't matter.

Because in this world, there was only one kind of sickness—Poverty Sickness.

Poverty Sickness. The word stabbed into the core of his awareness like a quenched steel needle.

In this era where spiritual energy catalyzed the growth of all things, ordinary physical ailments of mortals were theoretically no longer incurable.

Life-force potions extracted from mutated plants, nano-scale repair technology, even certain high-level martial arts secret methods touching the very origin of life... as long as one had enough resources, even regrowing severed limbs was not an empty boast.

But the prerequisite was money.

Enough money. A vast amount of money.

His family didn't have it.

His parents could barely tighten their belts to support his martial arts training; that was their limit. If the pillar of the family fell, the fragile economic balance would collapse in an instant.

What was his father worried about? It wasn't a terminal illness. It was the loss of his job, the imminent cutoff of the Blood Qi Potions and nutritional meals at home, the uncertain future of his third-year high school martial arts student son, and the crumbling hope of this family.

Tell him? It would only add to his worries, and might even disturb his state of mind for the martial arts college entrance exam. His parents' choice was silence, swallowing the pressure and pain alone, like swallowing the bitterness of life.

This bitterness, Li Wen could feel it clearly through the door panel.

He slowly inhaled, and the emotions churning in his chest were replaced by something colder, harder.

Click. The door lock clicked softly as he stepped into his own small space.

His gaze swept over the old, worn-out cushion by the bed, its surface polished shiny. He kicked off his slippers and stepped onto it barefoot. The icy touch of the cushion shot up from the soles of his feet, instantly coursing through his entire body, carrying away the last trace of hesitation.

Get stronger! The only path! The fastest path!

The thought flowed like molten lava, needing no brewing, no hesitation. He parted his legs slightly, straightened his spine like a spear, and formed a seal with his hands in front of his chest. The familiar meridian path instantly lit up in his consciousness.

"Activate—[Absolute Focus]!"

The silent command fell, and the world instantly faded, simplified. His level of consciousness was elevated infinitely, like a deity overlooking his own body.

The surging blood qi accelerated with a roar along the precise tracks of the [Fracture Edge Gold Sha Method].

Each cycle was like the most precise forging hammer, tempering his muscles, tendons, and skin more efficiently, even faintly touching the deeper marrow and blood.

The benefits brought by the improvement in his cultivation realm were crystal clear.

The hunger of his flesh was temporarily sated during the high-speed strengthening. The subtle increase in power was no longer a slow trickle, but a stream converging from a mountain spring.

The greedy absorption of spiritual energy by his body, the losses during the circulation of blood qi—all were gradually optimized and reduced under the control of the Minor Success realm.

The shackles of the limit were still there, but he had forcefully pushed them back by an inch.

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

When the feeling of absolute control receded like a tide, the intense emptiness and the sudden weakness that flooded his entire body nearly devoured him.

He was like a squeezed-dry husk. His knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor.

His face was a terrifying pallor, devoid of any color. The veins at his temples pulsed faintly, and a sharp, stabbing pain came from deep within his brain, like a warning from overdrawing his mental energy.

Having experienced this complete draining repeatedly for three days straight, the pain was still there, but that tearing sense of powerlessness seemed to have been integrated into his muscle memory, becoming a normal state he could endure by gritting his teeth and getting through the initial shock.

He gasped for breath, sweat dripping from his chin onto the old cushion, leaving dark stains.

A few minutes later, mustering a sliver of strength, he dragged his nearly numb body to the desk. His hand reached into the depths of the drawer, where the last bottle of dark red potion was kept.

His fingertips touched the cold glass tube. He pulled the stopper, tilted his head back, all in one smooth motion.

The cold liquid of the Level 1 Blood Qi Potion slid down his throat, instantly transforming into a gentle yet abundant warmth that rushed into his dried-up meridians and blood vessels, nourishing them silently.

A faint trace of vitality finally appeared on his pale face.

It was only eight o'clock. Time was precious.

After showering, washing away the sticky filth and the clinging fatigue from cultivation, he sat down at his desk.

Tomorrow's cultural studies final exam takes up an entire day, meaning there's no gap to grind Scholar experience.

Under the lamplight, he spreads open his textbooks. Immersive study is also a legitimate path to accumulating experience.

Though his thoughts no longer race like lightning or perceive the finest details as they did under "Absolute Focus," the steady, systematic absorption of knowledge remains effective. Words and sentences flow past his eyes; formulas imprint themselves into his mind.

Two hours pass. A line of text visible only to him quietly appears:

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

[Class: Scholar lv3 (217→229/400)]

The experience bar has advanced another small notch.

The next day, Li Wen wakes up as the first rays of dawn begin to show.

The house is silent.

He pushes open the door. The living room is empty, but from the kitchen drifts the faint, scorched aroma of potstickers—breakfast left by his father.

His father is "resting" again? He gazes silently at the plate of still-warm food, his fingertips pausing on the wooden table. In the end, he doesn't knock on the master bedroom door. Even if he knew, what then? It would only add to his worries at this moment.