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

The main hall of the Canal Gang, third floor.

The sky outside the window darkened, and the lanterns on the dock lit up one after another, their pale light reflecting on the river.

Huo Yuanlong sat in a grand chair, the tea in front of him having been changed three times. Several hall masters sat on either side of him, some expressionless, others looking impatient.

"Master Huo," the one who spoke was a lean middle-aged man surnamed Chen, who managed the Canal Gang's medicinal herb business in the prefectural city. He always spoke bluntly, "That young man surnamed Jiang? A mere second-level martial artist, is he worth your so much attention?"

Huo Yuanlong picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, and didn't reply.

Another gang leader chimed in, "Gang Leader Chen is right. That kid offended the Zhao family and was just released from prison. Our Canal Gang is short of people, and we don't need a greenhorn with only two holes."

"He opened two acupoints in half a year." Huo Yuanlong put down his teacup, his voice not loud, but the room fell silent instantly. "Not only did he survive the encirclement and attack by the remnants of the Black Tiger Gang, but he also killed two assassins in the city prison. How many of your men could do that?"

Chen Tangzhang opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Huo Yuanlong turned around and glanced at everyone present: "The Zhao family wanted to crush him, but they failed."

"What our canal gang needs isn't just a thug, but someone who can uphold the gang's reputation in the future martial arts examinations in the prefectural city!"

"Master Huo, you think too highly of him..." Master Chen wanted to say something more.

"I respect him because he's worth it," Huo Yuanlong interrupted him. "Who among you can go from zero to level two in six months? Who can be 100% certain that they can survive three days of hunger in jail and still kill two assassins? Who can?"

No one spoke.

Huo Yuanlong sat back in his armchair and picked up his teacup: "Once he comes out of the martial arts examination, he'll have official rank. At that time, the Zhao family will have to think twice before trying to touch him. As for us, all we've spent on him is a recommendation and a few taels of silver for medicine. No matter how you look at it, this deal is a win-win."

He paused, his tone turning serious: "Once he's healed, send someone to find him. Tell him that I, Huo Yuanlong, want to make a deal with him!"

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.

On the way back to the city, Jiang Lan didn't say much. The wound on her shoulder was still throbbing, and the bandage wrapped around her arm was soaked with blood.

Coach Liu didn't say anything, but occasionally glanced back at him with a complicated look in his eyes.

By the time they reached the martial arts school entrance, it was already dark. Instructor Liu dismounted, tossed the reins to a disciple at the gate, and walked inside without looking back: "Follow me."

Jiang Lan followed.

The main room was lit, and the charcoal brazier was burning brightly. Instructor Liu rummaged through the cabinet, pulled out a medicine packet, threw it on the table, and then took out a small porcelain bottle from the drawer, pushing them both towards him.

"Take a bath with the herbal medicine pack, and take the powdered medicine from the porcelain bottle internally. Once a day, and do not use your fists for seven days."

Jiang Lan looked at the medicine on the table but didn't take it: "Master, I..."

"What do you mean, 'you'?" Instructor Liu turned around and looked at him. "You're injured, and your two acupoints are still unstable. If you keep training like this, you'll be crippled before your acupoints are even opened. I said seven days, and that's seven days, not a day less."

Jiang Lan was silent for a moment, then nodded: "Understood, Master."

He picked up the medicine packet and the porcelain bottle, and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute." Instructor Liu called out to him, his tone softening. "I know you're in a hurry. But you have to remember, martial arts training is a marathon, not a sprint. If your body collapses, you'll lose everything."

Jiang Lan clasped his hands in a fist salute: "Disciple understands."

He walked out of the martial arts gym and headed home. The night wind was cold, making his clothes flutter loudly.

He didn't go to the training ground—his master had told him not to use his fists, but he could walk, he could breathe, and he could go over the moves of the Mountain-Crushing Fist in his mind over and over again.

When he got home, Cheng was weaving a net in the yard. When she saw him push the door open and come in, she dropped the net in her hand, quickly walked over, grabbed his hand, and examined it from all angles.

She saw the calluses on his knuckles, the blood-stained bandages wrapped around his arms, and the blood seeping through his shoulder. Her eyes reddened, and her lips trembled for a long time before she could only manage to utter, "Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt," Jiang Lan said.

Cheng pulled him into the room, made him sit on the bed, and then squatted down, untied the strip of cloth on his arm, revealing the still bleeding wound.

She went to the stove and brought back a basin of warm water. Using a clean cloth dipped in the water, she carefully wiped away the scabs from the edges of the wound.

"Mother, I can do it myself..."

"Don't move." Cheng's voice was a little hoarse.

After wiping her arms, she untied the strip of cloth from his shoulders.

The wound was deeper, the flesh was turned inside out, and a dark red scab had formed.

She bit her lip, her movements becoming even gentler. After applying the medicine, she rewrapped it with a new strip of cloth, tied a knot, and then reached out to touch his face.

"You've lost weight."

Jiang Lan felt a lump in her throat but didn't say anything.

Cheng stood up, went to the stove, brought over a bowl of porridge, and handed it to him: "Drink it while it's hot, there's still some in the pot."

The porridge was hot, the rice grains were cooked until soft and tender, and a few slices of ginger floated on top. Jiang Lan lowered his head and took a sip; it was so hot that his eyes stung.

He recalled those three days in prison when he couldn't even get a bowl of spoiled porridge. Now, sitting here, drinking a bowl of hot porridge, with his mother watching over him, he felt that he was still alive.

After finishing the porridge, Jiang Lan boiled a pot of water and poured the medicine packet into a wooden bucket. Steam rose, and the bitter smell of medicine filled the air.

He took off his clothes, revealing bruises all over his body—shoulders, arms, back, bruises upon bruises, old wounds layered on top of new wounds, like a mottled painting.

He gritted his teeth and stepped into the wooden tub. The scalding medicine soaked into his wound, feeling like countless needles piercing his flesh.

He gripped the rim of the bucket tightly, veins bulging on his forehead, but he didn't utter a sound.

Standing outside the door, listening to the suppressed groans from inside, Cheng paused, her shuttle in her hand momentarily still, and her eyes reddened again. She didn't go in; she simply turned around and continued weaving the net.

For five consecutive days, Jiang Lan soaked in medicine, changed her dressings, and rested quietly. Her wounds were slowly healing, and her strength was returning day by day.

He wasn't idle either; he sat in the courtyard, closed his eyes, and went over the moves of the Bengshanquan (Crushing Mountain Fist) in his mind over and over again. From the first move to the third move, from the starting stance to the ending stance, he pondered every detail repeatedly.

On the evening of the fifth day, he stood in the yard and tried to perform a set of exercises. The movements were slow, and he dared not exert any force, but his muscles and bones had become much more relaxed. His left shoulder still hurt, and he still couldn't use his right arm to its full strength, but it was much better than the day he first returned.

He stopped and took a deep breath.

Just then, he suddenly remembered the grain shop.

Uncle Zhou had treated him well; although the work at the grain shop was tiring, it was his only stable income. He hadn't been back since his release from prison, and didn't know if Uncle Zhou had been implicated, or if the job was still available.

So he changed into clean clothes and went to the grain shop.

He stopped in his tracks as he reached the door. The shop was still open, but there were several unfamiliar faces at the entrance, with knives tucked into their waistbands; they clearly weren't there to buy rice.

Uncle Zhou stood behind the counter, looking rather unwell. When he saw Jiang Lan, he paused for a moment, then quickly walked out and pulled him into a corner.

"Ah Lan, what brings you here?" Uncle Zhou asked in a low voice, his eyes constantly glancing at the unfamiliar faces.

"Uncle Zhou, I want to come back to work."

Uncle Zhou was silent for a moment, then sighed, "Alan, it's not that I don't want to help you. The news of your imprisonment has spread throughout the docks. They say you offended the Zhao family and the Black Tiger Gang. I'm just a small business owner, I really can't..."

He paused, then took out a small piece of silver from his pocket and stuffed it into Jiang Lan's hand: "This is your wages from last month. Your uncle doesn't owe you anything. Don't come for now, let's talk again when things calm down."

Jiang Lan clutched the silver coin, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to say something, but his throat was so tight that he couldn't utter a word.

Uncle Zhou patted him on the shoulder, then turned and went back to the shop.

Jiang Lan stood at the entrance of the grain shop, watching the unfamiliar faces wander around inside, and Uncle Zhou greeting them with a forced smile. He looked down at the silver in his hand, then at the strip of cloth wrapped around his arm.

The job at the grain shop is gone. The only stable source of income has been cut off.

I still owe my grandfather ten taels of silver, two taels for a dose of blood-tonifying pills, five hundred coins a month for medicinal baths, and my mother's medicine can't be interrupted. The little silver in my pocket won't even last half a month.

He recalled what the old prisoner had said in jail—in this city, poverty is a crime.

He clenched his fist, stuffed the silver into his pocket, and turned to leave.

When Jiang Lan got home, Cheng was busy at the stove. Jiang Lan didn't tell her about the grain shop; telling her would only make her worry.

He sat in the courtyard, watching the clouds on the horizon, calculating in his mind...

There are less than three months left to register for martial arts training, and the only requirement for registration is that five acupoints have been opened.

His second acupoint had just opened, and he was still three acupoints short of the fifth. Regular training simply wouldn't be enough time. He needed money, medicine, and real combat experience. But without money, he was out of a job, and his injuries weren't even fully healed.

The rope breaks at its thinnest point...

He gave a wry smile, stood up, walked to the wooden stake, and began to practice standing meditation.

He endured the pain from his wounds; he persevered despite his physical weakness.

He can't stop.

On the sixth day at noon, Jiang Lan was meditating and adjusting her breathing in the courtyard when there was a knock on the door.

Three taps, neither too light nor too heavy.

Cheng was mending clothes inside when she heard a knock at the door, and her needle paused. Jiang Lan stood up, shielding her behind him, walked to the courtyard gate, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

A man stood outside the door. He was in his forties, wearing a silk jacket, with a smile on his face, but his eyes were shrewd. He had no followers behind him, just himself.

"You're Jiang Lan?" The man looked him up and down, then nodded. "Master Huo sent me to check on you. I heard you've been released from prison. How are you feeling?"

Jiang Lan placed her hand on the short sword at her waist and remained silent.

The man wasn't annoyed. He took out a letter from his pocket and handed it to him: "Master Huo said that once you've recovered, go to the main hall to see him. He has a business deal he'd like to discuss with you."

Jiang Lan took the letter but didn't open it.

The man cupped his hands in greeting, turned and left, disappearing into the alleyway.

Jiang Lan closed the door, leaned against it, and opened the letter. There was only one line of text on the letter, written in strong, vigorous handwriting:

"We will meet at the headquarters of the Canal Gang in three days."

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

Standing behind her, Mrs. Cheng's face was pale: "Alan, what do they want with you?"

"It's alright, Mother." Jiang Lan turned around, smiled, and said, "It might be a good thing."

He didn't want his mother to worry. But he knew in his heart that Huo Yuanlong's visit wouldn't be good news. But he had no choice now!

The grain shop job is gone, the purse is empty, and reporting to the police won't wait...

He had to accept the rope that Huo Yuanlong handed him, regardless of whether it was a trap or not.

He walked into the courtyard, stood in the moonlight, and began to practice standing meditation.

A golden panel flashed slightly in his mind—

【Crushing Mountain Stance Exercise (Minor Success): 458/500】

He took a deep breath and continued standing.