For the next week, all I did was stance training and push-ups.
It was a far cry from what I had imagined before learning martial arts.
But in an unfamiliar field, I naturally had to listen to an expert in that field.
I did whatever my master told me to do. If I did it badly, I got whipped.
So every day, I was beaten until my skin split open, and even the simplest daily training felt like a trip through hell.
After seven days, I had gradually begun to grow numb to it.
Whether I could bear this suffering or not, I had to endure it. Emotionally, logically, from every possible angle, I had to get through it.
On the eighth day, I gradually developed some tolerance, and my master no longer had to carry me back to the dorm after dinner.
Because I could crawl back on my own.
And with each of my three meals every day, I had to drink a bowl of extremely foul-tasting Chinese medicine.
Every night, I had to apply that medicinal plaster, only to be put through the wringer again the next day.
According to my master, unless I couldn't take it anymore and passed out, in which case he would let me rest for a day, I had to live like this for a full 365 days.
Of course, I could pretend to pass out, but if he saw through it, he would string me up and beat me.
He had been smiling when he told me that, and I didn't dare test whether he was joking.
On the morning of the ninth day, I arrived at my usual training spot as always, but my master wasn't in a hurry to make me train today. He told me to go to