Becoming an immortal from a canal worker

Three months have passed in the blink of an eye.

Chen Ping gets up at dawn every day, practices the Bengshi Jin (a type of martial art), performs weighted standing meditation, stretches his tendons from beginning to end, finishes his practice, eats, and sleeps.

Life went on like a taut string, without any loosening or surprises.

This day, at the hour of Mao (5-7 AM).

Chen Ping stood shirtless in the center of the courtyard.

He focused his energy in his dantian, causing his blood and qi to surge and rush towards the last major tendon in his body.

This tendon had been stuck in his throat for almost half a month.

Every time the Qi and blood arrive, that tendon is like a piece of soaked cowhide, stiffly pushing back and dispersing the Qi and blood.

Chen Ping repeated the process again and again, stepping firmly, lowering his waist, and letting his qi and blood flow from his dantian down his spine to the large tendon behind his left knee.

boom.

This time, that stubbornness didn't hold.

There was no sound, only sensation.

Like a clenched fist suddenly loosening.

The blood and qi flowed down that tendon, all the way to the soles of the feet, then surged back, returning along the original path to the dantian, completely clean.

Chen Ping stood still, without moving.

Unburden yourself.

He took a deep breath, slowly clenched his right fist, pushed off the ground with his feet, rotated his waist and hips, and sent his qi and blood out of his dantian.

Just that one moment.

Nearly 80% of his blood and qi surged towards his fist like a tidal wave in less than half a breath.

boom!

The force of the punch struck the air, and an old shirt hanging in a corner about five steps away suddenly swung backward.

Chen Ping withdrew his fist.

The blood and qi retreated instantly the moment he withdrew his fist, cleanly and crisply, like the receding tide, without any lingering or hesitation.

boom! boom! boom!

He threw three more punches.

Each punch was smoother than the last.

Chen Ping stood in the courtyard and threw three more punches. His blood and qi surged more and more evenly with each punch, rising and falling like tides, as clearly as if flowing in his palm.

He retracted his fist, stood still, raised his right hand, and slowly clenched it, his knuckles making a soft click.

Three months.

It took him a whole month longer than he had expected.

Over the past month, he increased the dosage and changed the method, pressing the tendon repeatedly, but the tendon just wouldn't budge. Every time the qi and blood flowed to it, it would push back, as hard as an iron rod.

He wondered if something had gone wrong, but Lü Cheng said it was natural, and that tendon training was a slow and steady process, so he was relieved and continued to hone his skills.

It opened today.

Chen Ping looked down at his right fist, and something inside him loosened slightly, a light but real feeling.

He sighed inwardly, "The tendon training is complete, I've succeeded."

He made a mental estimate.

Eighty percent of his vital energy was channeled into this punch. If those Blood Refining cultivators had surrounded him back then, this punch, if it had landed squarely, would have been enough to kill one of them.

The light in the courtyard was still bluish-gray; it wasn't fully light yet.

The sound of Old Liu boiling water came from the kitchen; the firewood crackled, and steam from the iron kettle drifted out from under the door.

Chen Ping put the load back in the corner and went inside to change his clothes.

Old Liu came out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl of brown rice porridge. Without even raising his eyelids, he slowly ordered, "After the meeting, stop by the liquor store at the street corner and buy a bottle of cheap liquor."

Chen Ping hummed in agreement, fastened his belt, and went out.

He had just reached the courtyard gate when there was a knock on the door.

The knocking was urgent and ingratiating; it knocked three times, stopped, and then knocked three more times.

Chen Ping opened the door.

Two men stood outside the door, one carrying half a piece of cured meat and the other holding two jars of wine. Seeing Chen Ping open the door, they were both startled for a moment, then their faces broke into smiles as they clasped their hands in unison, saying, "Master Chen!"

The man carrying the cured meat stepped forward and handed it over: "Master Chen, you are now the number one leader in our gang. We will be relying on you a lot in the future. This is just a small token of our appreciation. Please accept it."

Chen Ping looked down at the cured meat, didn't take it, stepped aside to clear the doorway, and walked out.

Liu Laoguo walked over from behind, opened the door a little wider, and patted the man's hand.

"Take it back. Nobody's doing well out there. Keep this food for yourself, don't give it away. Only a fool would give it away."

After saying that, he closed the door.

The two men stood outside the door, looking at each other. After a long while, the one carrying the cured meat grinned and said, "The old man's temper is just like Master Chen's."

The other man tightened the wine jar around his chest, said nothing, and turned to leave.

The morning market in Qingkou Town is much quieter than it was three months ago.

One-third of the once crowded stalls were now empty.

The remaining stall owners had lost their former vibrancy, no longer shouting to attract customers; they huddled behind their stalls, lifeless and listless.

He would only raise his eyelids listlessly when someone came by, and stare blankly at his toes when no one was around.

The door of the rice shop was covered with brand-new red paper with black characters.

Old rice, 22 coins per liter.

In just three months, this was the third price surge, increasing by a full four coins.

The queue of vagrants and gang members outside the rice shop had doubled in length, but each person clutched a pitifully small amount of copper coins.

Most people only buy half a liter, carefully wrap it in a rag, and leave hurriedly with their heads down.

There was an old woman selling wontons at the entrance of the alley. Chen Ping walked this street for more than half a year, and that stall remained there for most of that time.

Today, the stall is gone.

The stall was empty, and there were still traces of furnace ash on the ground.

Chen Ping glanced at it, then looked away and walked forward.

When I passed by the Qingshan Club arena, the arena was still there, but there were even more people gathered around than three months ago.

The two men on the stage fought until their eyes were bloodshot. One of them had a broken nose and blood was flowing down his philtrum, but he didn't stop and kept fighting desperately.

A roar erupted from the crowd below the stage, with some throwing punches and others shouting for a fight.

The wooden sign on the side of the platform has been changed. In addition to the three characters "Qingshan Society" on the top, a new line of small characters has been added below: "Win three matches, monthly salary of two taels, plus three dou of rice."

It was half a tael more than three months ago, and also three dou of rice.

As Chen Ping passed by, a man collecting money by the platform looked up, recognized him, immediately stood up, wiped his hands on his trouser leg, grinned at him, and nodded.

Chen Ping did not stop.

As he walked further, he encountered two members of the Green Robe Society. Upon seeing him, they both stepped aside to make way for him, clasped their hands, and greeted him as "Master Chen."

Chen Ping hummed in agreement and walked through the middle.

The meeting of the Qingyi Society was still a stick of incense was about to begin, but Chen Ping arrived early and stood under the eaves to wait.

When he entered the courtyard, the gang members paused for a moment. Some carried teapots, others held brooms, and they all nodded to him before going back to their work, but their restraint remained.

Hu Qian came out from the inner room, saw Chen Ping, clapped his folding fan twice in his palm, walked over and lowered his voice: "Today's meeting is about matters of state. The incense master has something to say, so listen carefully."

Chen Ping didn't ask any further questions and nodded.

Hu Qian glanced at him, then went on to attend to other things.

The meeting ended close to noon.

Chen Ping left the Qingyi Society and walked back along the street. He turned into an alley and saw a group of people gathered outside a courtyard gate in the distance, whispering to each other. Their voices were very low, but they could not hide their panic.

He slowed his pace.

I walked closer and glanced into the crowd from the side.

The courtyard gate was wide open.

A man lay on his back on the muddy ground in the courtyard in a very strange manner.

Its limbs were stretched out, as if it were asleep.

But that face didn't look like a living person's face at all.

The man's skin was a grayish-brown color, completely devoid of moisture and elasticity, clinging tightly to the skull like a layer of dried, withered tree bark.

His entire face looked as if something had been drained from it, leaving only an empty shell.

There was not a drop of blood, nor a trace of struggle or fighting around them.

Chen Ping stepped inside, squatted down, and looked closer.

The skin was intact, the nails were complete, but the entire corpse lay lightly on the ground, like a dried-out piece of skin.

He scanned the area around the body; there were no signs of a struggle on the ground, the door hadn't been pried open, and the window was bolted from the inside.

Someone behind him spoke, their voice trembling: "I saw him drinking at the restaurant yesterday. He drank all afternoon, and when he left, he said he was going to come back to sleep..."

Chen Ping did not turn around.

When his hand approached the corpse, he felt a faint chill in his palm. The chill seeped up from the ground, unlike the feeling of the body's heat dissipating; it was deeper and quieter.