Entering the Sect

It was not until the sun reached its zenith that Magistrate Liu finally emerged from the residence.

However, Registrar Wang was nowhere to be seen.

Chen Zhuo lifted the sedan chair in silence, as if the events that had just transpired had never occurred.

The return journey always felt much faster than the trip there, even though the distance was the same.

The reason, perhaps, was that his heart was filled with anticipation.

Chen Zhuo was hungry.

He wanted to eat.

As they moved from the outer city back into the inner city, restaurants and eateries began to line the streets.

The scent of various dishes wafted out, burrowing into his nose and stirring up a ravenous hunger.

It was mealtime at the yamen, and the four men quickened their pace in tacit agreement.

In about a quarter of an hour, they arrived safely back at the yamen.

"Move aside."

Chen Zhuo hacked his way through the crowd, forcibly carving out a path.

The yamen had strict rules, regardless of the officials who held rank.

Everyone else, whether they were official yamen runners or temporary workers like him, was only allowed to eat between the first and third quarter of the noon hour; if they missed it, they went hungry.

Of course, the temporary workers and the official staff did not eat from the same pot.

Chen Zhuo was different from most.

While others waited for the food to be served, he slipped straight into the back kitchen.

"Why are you only just now arriving? I saved your portion, but you'll have to clean up thoroughly."

The kitchen had finished its busy period, leaving behind only a few large iron pots and a floor covered in a chaotic mess.

Chen Zhuo managed to squeeze out a smile.

"The Qiu Sisters didn't show up, so I had to do all the work myself. I'll need a good long rest when I get back."

"You're telling me? The Qiu Sisters usually arrive quite early; it's rare for them to miss a shift..."

Amidst the chatter of the kitchen staff, Chen Zhuo began to clean up in silence.

Aside from his primary duties as a White-Uniform Runner, he also worked as a kitchen hand.

Though the work was menial and overlooked, it was precisely because of this that he could eat two more steamed buns than the others.

Otherwise, the meager portions provided would hardly be enough for anyone.

After a flurry of work, Chen Zhuo was so hungry his stomach felt glued to his spine. He grabbed a steamed bun from the stove and began to gnaw on it.

Glancing through the window, he caught a glimpse of the fatty meat in the yamen runners' bowls nearby. Chen Zhuo wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, then looked back at his own steamed bun and salted vegetable soup, feeling a bitter taste in his heart.

He hadn't tasted meat in seven full days.

Scholarship is for the poor, but martial arts are for the rich.

One could get ahead by practicing martial arts, but those from poor families lacked the means.

Skin-Peeler Wang believed he had him cornered, certain that someone of his impoverished background could only ever master a superficial imitation of martial arts.

Especially with a discipline like Iron Cloth Shirt, which was easy to learn but difficult to master.

The mere thought of Skin-Peeler Wang's face made Chen Zhuo shudder with disgust.

The bland, tasteless bun in his hand became even harder to swallow.

"According to yamen rules, White-Uniform Runners have one hour a day for martial arts training. With my current stamina, after all the manual labor, I can only sustain high-intensity training for half an hour."

"Stance training, breathing, body conditioning... Iron Cloth Shirt is so complex that half an hour is only enough for one cycle."

"One cycle increases progress by one point. It will take another three days before I can reach the entry level of Iron Cloth Shirt."

"I must find a way to temporarily shake off Skin-Peeler Wang's harassment."

Chen Zhuo calculated silently while chewing on his cold, hard bun.

His progress was still too slow.

The heavy labor had already drained his stamina, and with so little food and no meat, his body would never be able to recover.

"I have to find a way to get some meat."

Washing down the last bite of the bun with the salted vegetable soup, Chen Zhuo finished his meal.

He was still not full.

But he couldn't worry about his empty stomach; after washing his bowl and chopsticks, he hurried toward the Drill Ground.

The sun was scorching.

A few crooked trees stood listlessly by the side of the Drill Ground, much like the White-Uniform Runners practicing their stances—slouching and devoid of spirit.

The White-Uniform Runners receive no monthly salary, yet their labor is both heavy and plentiful.

Still, these wretches cling on stubbornly, all for the sake of gambling on a chance to rise above their station.

Practicing martial arts is their only way out, and their only hope.

"Calm your hearts and focus your spirits, stabilize your lower bodies. So loose and slack—is this what you call standing in a stance?"

"Pull yourselves together!"

In the center of the Drill Ground, a middle-aged man over eight feet tall, with knotted muscles and a rugged appearance, strode over.

"Squad Leader Yao? What wind could have possibly blown you over here?"

Yao Xiong waved a hand to cut off the baby-faced runner, scanning the White-Uniform Runners in the Drill Ground one by one, his brows furrowing slightly: "Why are they so poor?"

"Indeed, they are poor."

The baby-faced runner in charge of martial instruction merely echoed him, offering no explanation.

He was only responsible for teaching; as for how well they practiced, what did that have to do with him?

"Watch me!"

Yao Xiong let out a shout, sounding like a muffled peal of thunder.

The White-Uniform Runners trembled, their gazes instantly converging on Yao Xiong.

His tall, sturdy frame and sharp eyes exerted immense mental pressure upon them.

Everyone held their breath, not daring to let their focus wander in the slightest.

Could this be the leader of the Swift Squad, Monument-Splitting Hand Yao Xiong? Why has he come so suddenly?

Chen Zhuo felt a palpitation of the heart, mixed with confusion.

Is he here to teach in person?

Under normal circumstances, the daily training of White-Uniform Runners shouldn't be enough to attract such a high-ranking figure.

"Standing a stance, standing a stance—the person is alive, the stance is dead. If you stand a dead stance, the person is as good as dead."

"If you are already dead, how can you expect to strike anyone?"

Yao Xiong took a step, bent his knees, and lowered his center of gravity.

His chest was slightly tucked, his spine naturally upright, and his elbows hung down while pushing outward. He looked like a towering pine, or a child embracing a large ball.

The two contradictory states of stillness and agility were displayed simultaneously on Yao Xiong, yet they appeared exceptionally harmonious.

Chen Zhuo's Iron Cloth Shirt was nearing the entry level, and having grasped the essence of it, he could naturally see that the other man's Primordial Stance had reached a supreme level of being "loose without slackening, tight without stiffening."

Yao Xiong's stance was the only one that was truly alive.

I wonder what stage his martial path has reached?

As Chen Zhuo speculated to himself, Yao Xiong's voice rang out once more.

"Do not be distracted. Keep your spirit guarded within, empty your thoughts, and make your breathing deep, long, thin, and even. Your body must seek a unified force."

Chen Zhuo stopped letting his mind wander. With subtle adjustments to his body, he held onto the One, his consciousness immersing itself in his breath.

Following Yao Xiong's pointers, the White-Uniform Runners also began to adjust, though their aptitude varied greatly.

How much one can comprehend depends entirely on oneself.

The Drill Ground fell completely silent, save for the rustling of leaves as a light breeze brushed against a few crooked trees.

Before they knew it, nearly an hour had passed.

During this time, people had one after another reached their limit and ceased their practice.

Including Chen Zhuo, only three people remained standing.

The gazes of the White-Uniform Runners shifted toward the three of them; the difference in aptitude was instantly laid bare.

Their eyes had changed.

"Enough."

Yao Xiong's dull, heavy voice suddenly exploded, making everyone's eardrums ache.

I stood for nearly an hour? And I didn't even exhaust my strength?

Chen Zhuo awoke to find that a small portion of the incense stick in the burner directly in front of him had already burned away.

The stance work, after his adjustments, was far less taxing than before.

Just as he was surprised, several runners carried over a large crate.

Soon, the contents of the crate were distributed to every White-Uniform Runner.

Chen Zhuo opened the hemp paper wrapping and looked suspiciously at the paste-like substance revealed inside.

"This is specially made Red Mud Paste, worth fifty wen an ounce—it is not cheap."

Yao Xiong reminded them: "Apply this paste evenly to your palms. Don't just stand there like fools; do I need to remind you what you should be doing after finishing your stance?"

Chen Zhuo followed his instructions, applied the Red Mud Paste to his palms, and began to practice his striking.

The final step of the Iron Cloth Shirt is this most crucial Patting Technique.

Striking the body with palms, one must knead, squeeze, and press the entire frame with specific force in an uninterrupted flow.

The deeper the cultivation, the greater the force required.

In the initial stages of practice, the focus is primarily on tempering the skin and flesh.

This is known as the Skin-Grinding Realm.

"So hot."

At first, Chen Zhuo didn't feel much, but after a bout of patting, the effects of the Red Mud Paste fully manifested.

It was a scorching heat far more explosive than being baked under the midday sun.

Chen Zhuo clearly felt as though he had turned into a fireball.

His skin and flesh felt as if they were being repeatedly calcined by flames, then hammered by his own palms.

The posture was much like blacksmithing.

This wasn't just skin-grinding; it was a reforging.

When the stick of incense ahead burned down completely, Chen Zhuo finished his practice, and the burning sensation on his body gradually faded.

A row of small text suddenly popped up before his eyes.

[Iron Cloth Shirt +3]

Chen Zhuo's eyelids twitched.

"That's it? I've entered the threshold?"