Proving God begins with the principle that no effort is wasted.

The city's prison was built underground.

The stone steps wound downwards, and with each step, the chill seeped deeper into the bones. The torches stuck in iron rings on the wall were tossed about by the eerie winds blowing through the underground, slamming shadows against the slippery stone walls, twisting them into grotesque, murderous faces.

Jiang Lan was pushed down by two prison guards, her fingertips always pressed against the stone wall. With each step, she precisely etched a set of life-or-death coordinates in her mind.

Descending 32 stone steps, each step differing by three inches in height, with 7 sharp turns, 11 torchlight points along the way, and 8 locked cells, the footsteps of the jailer behind me were light and heavy, with a difference of half an inch in stride—he was a lame man with an old injury in his left leg, relying entirely on his right leg for power; if I were to actually fight, my first move would be to break his right leg.

Just around the corner, his peripheral vision suddenly stopped.

A black tiger was drawn crookedly on the wall with charcoal. The edges were worn and faded, but it still looked fierce, as if it was about to pounce out of the stone wall.

The Black Tiger Gang's totem!

Jiang Lan's steps faltered for only half a breath before he was struck hard on the lower back by a jailer's stick, the dull thud causing his internal organs to ache.

Without uttering a sound or resisting, he staggered forward two steps using the force, and in doing so, he engraved in his mind the thickness of the corner wall, the blind spot illuminated by the torch, and even the force and duration of the brushstrokes on the black tiger totem—this painting had been there for at least half a year, and it turned out that the Black Tiger Gang's claws had already reached into this city prison.

The next second, he was shoved violently into the dungeon.

The iron gate slammed shut behind them with a loud clang. The key in the lock turned twice, and the sound of the jailer's footsteps on the damp stone steps gradually faded into the distance.

The cell was pitifully cramped, only three steps wide and five steps long.

The straw on the ground was soaked in the dark, murky liquid. Stepping on it made a sticky, squelching sound, and the sticky filth instantly soaked through the trouser legs. It was impossible to tell whether it was urine, mud, or bloodstains seeping from the dead.

Dark shadows scurried at the base of the wall; they were a group of rats as fat as half-grown cats, their green eyes fixed on him. They were not afraid of people at all, and even dared to climb up his shoes and smell the blood seeping from his sleeves.

Two people were squatting in the corner.

An old prisoner, his hair mostly white, his face so wrinkled it could trap a fly, a sore at the corner of his mouth covered in dark brown scabs, his whole body resembling a bloated mass of rotting flesh, leaned against the wall with his eyes half-closed, his breath hoarse.

The other was a boy of about fifteen or sixteen, dark-skinned and thin, curled up with his knees hugged to his chest. The frostbite on the back of his hands was cracked open, revealing red flesh, with blood scabs mixed with mud. He didn't even dare to shake loudly.

Jiang Lan didn't speak, but slowly sat down against the cold stone wall. The damp chill seeped into her bones through the seams of her clothes, and as soon as she sat down, her trouser legs were soaked through by the murky liquid on the ground.

He closed his eyes and mentally completed the dungeon escape map.

This is the most formidable skill he has developed after practicing the Mountain-Crushing Fist for half a year—photographic memory and perfect accuracy. To master the Mountain-Crushing Fist, one must have accurate eyesight, a calm mind, and a stable body. The ever-changing moves must be ingrained in one's very bones, with no room for error.

"New here?"

The old prisoner spoke first, his voice like a broken bellows, a grin revealing mostly yellowed teeth, "What did you do to deserve being locked up in this innermost death row cell?"

Jiang Lan didn't open her eyes or say anything.

In a place like this, the more you talk, the faster you die. His mind was still processing the map, calculating which wall echoed hollowly, indicating it was likely hollow; which location was a blind spot for the torches, allowing him to avoid the jailers' patrols; and which route would allow him to reach the stone steps fastest and escape.

"Tsk, still gotta keep your mouth shut." The old prisoner wasn't annoyed. He moved closer to him and lowered his voice, "Kid, don't be so stubborn. The tighter you are in this place, the faster you'll die. The more defiant you are, the more the jailers will find ways to torment you, and the more the Zhao family will want to kill you."

Jiang Lan remained silent.

The old prisoner sighed, turned and nudged the boy beside him: "San'er, look at him, he's calm even in death row. You cried half the night you came in, aren't you ashamed?"

The boy called San'er shrank his neck, his voice muffled as if it were blocked under a quilt: "I'm afraid of the dark."

"Afraid of the dark? If you're afraid of the dark, then don't touch someone's money box!"

"I didn't touch the money box!" San'er suddenly raised his head, his eyes red like a rabbit's, his voice urgent and hoarse, filled with despair. "I was just hungry. My father is bedridden and starving, so I took a leftover bun from the bun shop! Just one!"

"You think you can lock up a steamed bun for a month?" The old prisoner's smile was bitter, and his voice was even lower. "Kid, listen carefully, this city's prison has never been a place to imprison guilty people."

He turned to look at Jiang Lan, his cloudy eyes revealing a seasoned wisdom: "You look like someone who knows martial arts? Did you get in here fighting? Or are you in debt to loan sharks?"

"Escorting goods." Jiang Lan finally opened her eyes, her voice soft but carrying a chilling edge.

"Escorting goods?" The old prisoner was taken aback. "How can escorting goods land you in this death row?"

"Someone reported that there were contraband items in the shipment."

Upon hearing this, the old prisoner burst into laughter, a laugh laced with unbearable bitterness: "Report? That means someone's trying to kill you! Few people who come in here have actually committed a crime. San'er took a steamed bun and was locked up for almost a month; the cloth seller next door was locked up for half a year just for blocking the Zhao family's steward's way, and he hasn't even had a chance to sit in court!"

The Zhao family...

He remained outwardly calm, but his hands, hanging at his sides, clenched tightly.

Huo Yuanlong would only ambush him on the way if he wanted him dead; he wouldn't resort to such underhanded tactics of collusion between officials and bandits. The only family that could bribe the officials and soldiers in the prefectural city to seize the cargo of the canal gang and quietly imprison him in this dark and hopeless dungeon was the Zhao family, who had been deeply entrenched in the prefectural city for decades.

He understood instantly.

From the moment he accepted the escort mission, it was a deadly trap set by the Zhao family. From Yu City to Fu City, the Black Tiger Gang ambushed him halfway, and the soldiers at the city gate detained him. From beginning to end, it was a series of deadly traps aimed at him.

Seeing that he closed his eyes and remained silent, the old prisoner wisely shut his mouth as well. After leaning against the wall for a while, he began to snore loudly.

It was completely dark.

There were no lights in the cell, only the faint glow of a torch at the end of the corridor, which slivered through the iron bars and drew a dark red line on the ground.

Swarms of rats emerged from their holes, rummaging through the haystacks, and even dared to climb up Jiang Lan's trouser legs to smell the blood seeping from his sleeves.

Footsteps came from the other end of the corridor. One light, one heavy, they were exactly the same as the footsteps of the prison guard with the injured left leg that he remembered. There was another person with unsteady steps following beside him, who was the one changing shifts.

Jiang Lan's breathing slowed down instantly, and she pressed her ears tightly against the stone wall, able to hear even the slightest movement of the wind inside.

"The martial arts expert who was locked up today, the higher-ups specifically instructed you to keep a close eye on him."

"Who is they? Do they need special treatment?"

"The Zhao family came and gave us instructions: make him suffer enough, but don't kill him, and don't give him a chance to speak out."

"Got it. Should we teach him a lesson tonight?"

"What's the rush? Starve him for three days to wear down his spirit. Cut off his water supply and cripple his hands. There's plenty of time to slowly wear him down."

The footsteps gradually faded into the distance...

It really is the Zhao family!

He touched the lining of his belt. During the prison search, he had used the internal energy of his Crushing Mountain Fist to wrap a small piece of silver hidden inside, along with a bent and sharpened iron hairpin for a dart. These were his backup plans from years of escorting goods, and the only things that could currently change the deadlock.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The next morning, the jailer kicked the iron gate to deliver food.

Three chipped, coarse porcelain bowls were thrown in, filled with soggy porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it, with a few moldy vegetable leaves floating on top. The sour, rotten smell was overwhelming even from a distance. San'er and Lao Qiu rushed over to grab the bowls, but Jiang Lan only glanced at them before putting them down.

He couldn't drink it. If the spoiled food went down his throat, he'd vomit and have diarrhea, and his body would collapse immediately. In this prison, collapsing was tantamount to handing his life over to someone else. He still wanted to get out, still wanted to collect his debts from the Zhao family with interest; he absolutely couldn't afford to collapse here.

Taking advantage of the moment the jailer turned to leave, he flicked his finger and precisely slipped the piece of silver into the jailer's hand, the movement so fast that neither of the two people beside him could see it.

"Sir, I have something to ask you."

The jailer weighed the silver in his hand, discreetly stuffed it into his pocket, glanced around, and then hissed, "Spit it out!"

"Who brought me in?"

"Orders from above." The jailer turned to leave.

"Which superior?" Jiang Lan's voice remained as steady as a rock. "The Zhao family?"

The jailer abruptly stopped, turned to look at him, a hint of surprise in his eyes that quickly turned to ruthlessness. He simply said, "Don't ask what you shouldn't ask! You've offended the wrong person; you'll spend the rest of your life in this prison!"

After saying that, he left without looking back.

Jiang Lan leaned back against the stone wall, tapping her knees with her fingertips.

It's confirmed, it's the Zhao family.

Huo Yuanlong's hatred is overt, while the Zhao family's knife is covert... It's easy to dodge a spear in the open, but hard to guard against a hidden arrow!

"You little rascal, you've been hiding some silver? You've got connections." The old prisoner, who had watched the whole thing, clicked his tongue twice.

Jiang Lan ignored him.

"So what if you have money?" San'er suddenly raised her head, her voice shrill and hoarse, filled with a desperate, resigned attitude. "Even if you have money, you're still locked up with us, aren't you? That's how it is in the prefectural city! The rich bully the poor, the powerful bully the powerless! So what if you practice martial arts? You were still locked up with just a word from someone!"

"My dad is sick, and we don't have money for medicine. I stole a steamed bun and got locked up! He's home alone; if he dies, it'll be these officials and rich people who are to blame!"

The old prisoner slapped him on the back of the head and yelled, "Shut up! What did they do to you? Shouting around in this cell, do you want to die?"

San'er shrank back, buried her face in her knees, her shoulders trembling, and didn't say anything more.

Jiang Lan glanced at him, but wasn't angry.

Back in the slums of Yu City, he used to curse the sky just like this kid, cursing the Black Tiger Gang, the Zhao family, and those high and mighty people who treated human life like dirt.

But now he doesn't curse anymore.

Cursing is useless; only a strong fist will work. And only getting out alive matters.

He stood up and walked to the open space in the middle of the cell.

The space was too small, only three steps wide and five steps long, not even enough room to perform a complete set of the Mountain-Crushing Fist.

But he still slowly assumed his starting stance.

Tiger's Ben, Tiger's Swing, Tiger's Pounce.

Every movement was controlled, compressing the powerful and sweeping punches into short, sharp strikes, yet each punch carried a gust of wind, creating air currents in the confined space and causing the straw on the ground to tumble.

The old wounds from the fight with the remnants of the Black Tiger Gang a few days ago were ruptured by the shock, and blood seeped out from his sleeve, dripping onto the ground and mixing with the turbid fluid, instantly causing him to faint.

The pain was excruciating... but Jiang Lan didn't stop.

"Are you crazy, kid?" The old prisoner leaned against the wall, watching him punch repeatedly, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Practicing boxing in this godforsaken place? Are you out of your mind? If your wounds reopen and you get a fever, you're just waiting to die here!"

Jiang Lan ignored him and continued to throw punches, her breathing as steady as a rock.

He didn't know if Sun Gengsan had safely brought the message back to Yucheng. He only knew one thing—as long as his fists were still there, his strength was still there, and his mind was still clear, there was a chance to break the deadlock.

If you go hungry for a day, just endure it. No matter how painful the injury, just bear it for a day.

The Mountain-Crushing Fist is about training strength, but even more so, it's about training intent. The body is confined to a small space, yet the intent must break free from this underground prison; the fist is held within arm's reach, yet the power must be stored to shatter this deadly situation. Every punch he throws is a deadly debt he incurs for the Zhao family and the Black Tiger Gang.

He hit again and again, sweat mixed with blood dripping onto the ground, old wounds piled on top of new ones, but he didn't let up in the slightest.

San'er huddled in the corner, his initially resentful gaze slowly changing. He looked at the figure standing straight in the cramped cell, even though he was covered in wounds and in dire straits. He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Jiang Lan finished her third set of punches and slowly came to a stop.

He leaned back against the stone wall, closed his eyes, and his mind was still replaying the moves of the Mountain-Crushing Fist.

His stomach ached with hunger; he hadn't eaten for a day and a night, and his throat was so dry it felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. He licked his chapped lips and tasted the saltiness of blood.

Not enough...

Meanwhile, at Yu Cheng Martial Arts School.

Sun Gengsan squatted at the entrance of the main house, gnawing on a dry, hard wheat cake, his eyes as red as a rabbit's. He still remembered clearly how Jiang Lan pushed him out in the chaos at the city gate, shouting, "Run! Go back to the martial arts school and report the news!"

He ran all the way until his legs were about to give out, and only rushed into the martial arts school after dark. He told Liu Changqing every single word about how Jiang Lan had been framed by the Zhao family and imprisoned in the city's death row.

Liu Changqing's hand holding the teacup paused only for a moment before the teacup fell onto the stone table without spilling a single drop of water.

"Is the person unharmed?"

"No! He didn't resist when the soldiers arrested him." Sun Gengsan wiped the sweat and tears from his face. "Master, we have to save him! If we wait any longer, the city prison will grind a living person to death!"

"save."

Liu Changqing uttered only one word, then turned and went into the inner room. When he came out again, he had changed into a close-fitting outfit, with the long-dusted military equipment department badge hanging from his waist—a badge that proved he had been the top scorer in the military examination for ten years.

He didn't bring anyone with him; he took the fastest horse that very night and rode alone into the darkness, heading straight for the prefectural city.

At daybreak, Liu Changqing arrived in the prefectural city.

He didn't go to the prison or the government office, but instead turned straight into a narrow alley in the east of the city, stopped in front of a black lacquered wooden door, and knocked three times.

The door opened, and a man in his forties, dressed in the official uniform of the Military Equipment Department, had a scar on his face that ran from his left eyebrow to his right cheek, and his eyes were as sharp as an eagle's.

"Changqing?" The man paused for a moment, then chuckled. "Haven't seen you in years. What brings you here? You topped the martial arts exam back then, but you wouldn't even take a position in the Military Equipment Department. You went to Xiaoyu City to open a small martial arts school. Now you know how to beg for favors?"

"I need your help." Liu Changqing walked into the courtyard, his voice straight and direct. "My apprentice has been framed and is locked up in the city jail."

The man closed the door, turned to look at him, and the smile on his face slowly faded.

"Back when you took the martial arts exam, you were ambushed in the examination hall and your leg was broken. I carried you the whole way." Liu Changqing looked into his eyes and said, word by word, "Zhou Tieshan, you owe me a life."

Zhou Tieshan remained silent for a long time, then walked to the stone table, poured two cups of tea, and pushed one to Liu Changqing: "Three days. Give me three days, and I'll help you find out who's behind this and uncover the truth of the case. But let me make this clear: if we find any contraband, even I can't protect him."

"There were no contraband items." Liu Changqing picked up his teacup and drank it all in one gulp. "It was the Zhao family who wanted him dead."

Zhou Tieshan's brows furrowed sharply: "The Zhao family..."

Liu Changqing didn't linger; he put down his teacup and left. He couldn't stay in the prefectural city long; the more he showed his face, the sooner the Zhao family would strike. He had done all he could. The rest was up to Jiang Lan.

Let's see if he can survive three days in this dark and hopeless prison, and if he can seize the opportunity to break this deadlock.

Inside the dungeon, it got dark again.

The torches in the corridor had been replaced, and the dim yellow light filtered through the iron bars, casting crooked, ghostly shadows on the ground. Jiang Lan leaned against the stone wall, his eyes closed, his mind going over the map of the dungeon again and again, practicing every inch of force in the Mountain-Crushing Fist.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Those weren't the footsteps of a jailer changing shifts; they were very light and fragmented, stopping at the door of the cell next to his.

The sounds of keys turning, iron doors opening and closing, and locks jamming were particularly jarring in the deathly silent dungeon.

Jiang Lan suddenly opened her eyes, her breathing instantly slowed to a minimum, and she pressed her ears tightly against the stone wall, able to hear even the slightest vibration from within it.

From the cell next door, he heard a conversation between two people. Their voices were extremely low, yet they were like poisoned needles, each word piercing his ears.

"The Zhao family is pressuring us. They want this kid dead in jail within three days. We've already got the money; they want him dead so there's no way to prove it, to stage a prison break where he was killed on the spot."

"Don't worry, he's just a kid. Even if he's a trained fighter, he won't have much strength left after two days of hunger. We'll cripple his hands and feet tonight, and then we'll take action the night after tomorrow. It'll be a clean and efficient operation."

"Is this the kid who crippled several of our brothers in Yu City?"

"Who else could it be but him? Perfect timing, let's settle both old and new scores together, let him die here underground, with no one even to collect his body!"

Jiang Lan's pupils suddenly contracted.

The Black Tiger Gang is right next door!

It must have been the Zhao family who bribed the jailer to let in these assassins, specifically to take his life. From the moment he stepped into this city prison, it wasn't a prison, but an execution ground prepared for him by the Zhao family.

In the darkness, he slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking, his muscles tensing instantly like a fully drawn bow. The rats at the base of the wall, startled by this sudden burst of murderous intent, squeaked and scurried back into their holes like madmen.

He reached into the lining of his belt and gripped the sharpened iron hairpin with his fingertips. The cold metallic touch made his mind even clearer.

He couldn't wait three days. The Zhao family wouldn't give him three days, and neither would the Black Tiger Gang.

Just then, a strange sound came from the stone wall.

The crisp sound of the flat drill biting into the crack of the stone—crunch, crunch—each strike landed precisely at the joint of the stone slabs. It wasn't fast, but it carried a deadly sense of pressure, each strike hitting his heartbeat.

Jiang Lan reacted instantly.

It was the Black Tiger Gang's assassins—Groundhogs—who used a special stone-breaking flat drill to chisel through the weakest crack in the stone wall! The walls of this death row cell were made of solid stone blocks, and the crack was the only flaw. In less than half an incense stick's time, they could chisel through the crack and create a hole big enough for a person to pass through!

Even worse, at the same time, the sound of iron locks turning came from the other end of the corridor!

The sound of footsteps, one light and one heavy, came from the jailer with the injured left leg, who was walking towards his cell!

A pincer attack from both sides!

The jailer opened the door to let in the killers, while the Black Tiger Gang's assassins, who had broken through the stone wall, pounced from behind! This tiny death cell instantly transformed into a deadly trap from which there was no escape!

The old prisoner was awakened by the noise. Seeing Jiang Lan's tense body, his cloudy eyes instantly filled with terror. He opened his mouth to shout, but Jiang Lan's cold gaze held him firmly in place, and he dared not utter a single word. San'er huddled in the corner, trembling like a leaf, tightly covering his mouth, not daring to breathe loudly.

Jiang Lan slowly stood up and, in the center of the cramped cell, began to unleash the power of the Mountain-Crushing Fist.

Blood from his old wound reopened and dripped down his arm, landing on the ground, but he didn't even blink. In the darkness, his eyes shone like tempered blades, and all his strength was gathered, like a lurking tiger waiting to pounce.

The cracking sound from the stone wall grew more urgent, and the turning of the iron lock grew closer...