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

The backyard smelled of medicine.

The window in Zhao Heng's room was half open, and a bitter smell wafted out, making the entire entrance to the training room stink.

Jiang Lan drew water from the well to wash her face and heard Liu Changqing's voice from inside the house, but it was through the wall and she couldn't hear it clearly. She only vaguely caught the sentence: "Drink your medicine first."

There was no reply.

Jiang Lan wiped his face and walked towards the training room. He had glanced at Zhao Heng yesterday; Zhao Heng was half-lying on the bed, his right arm wrapped in a thick bandage and slinged around his neck, his face as white as paper. He didn't look at anyone or speak, staring at the beam on the ceiling for a long time.

The door is closed now, and the smell of medicine seeps out from the cracks in the door, so strong it's almost bitter.

Inside the training room, Liu Changqing stood with his back to the door, staring intently at a wooden stake. Hearing footsteps, he glanced over, and without exchanging pleasantries, said directly, "Let's go for a round."

Jiang Lan took off his outer robe and stood in the center of the training room. He lowered his waist, raised his hands, and assumed the Tiger Stance. As his right arm shot out, the force traveled from his shoulder blade all the way to his fingertips, and the sleeve made a short, sharp crack.

He slowed down; this was for his master's benefit, and he had to execute each move perfectly, delivering all his power.

Liu Changqing stood with his hands behind his back, watching expressionlessly.

After Jiang Lan finished his stance, he nodded: "You've mastered the Mountain-Crushing Fist. Your five acupoints are good enough to pass the martial arts exam; your fist technique is sufficient."

He walked to the wooden stake in the corner, placed his palm on it, and just held it there without applying any force. After a few breaths, he flicked his wrist slightly, and with a "plop," a small piece of wood fell off the back of the stake, leaving the surface intact.

"What is this?" Liu Changqing asked.

Jiang Lan thought for a moment: "The energy has penetrated in."

"That's right. It's not about having many acupoints, but about using your strength skillfully." Liu Changqing patted the wooden stake. "What you need to do next is not to rush to open the acupoints, but to hone your strength thoroughly. Baihui and Yongquan are the two most difficult points between the fifth and sixth acupoints, but once you hone your strength thoroughly, opening the acupoints will be much smoother."

Jiang Lan nodded.

Liu Changqing paused, then suddenly asked, "Do you know what happens after all the acupoints are opened?"

Jiang Lan was taken aback. He thought that having all the acupoints open meant the nine acupoints were complete, the pinnacle. Liu Changqing looked at his expression and shook his head.

"With all nine acupoints perfected and the power fully integrated, one can then attempt 'internal cultivation.' Internal cultivation nourishes the internal organs and prolongs life; only then can one truly grasp the essence of martial arts." He turned to look at Jiang Lan. "But the methods of internal cultivation are not held by martial arts schools or aristocratic families. They are held by sects."

"sect?"

"The best martial arts in the world are all taught in sects. What martial arts schools teach are just introductory skills, to build your foundation and prepare you for the imperial examinations. You can't learn the truly good stuff without joining a sect," Liu Changqing said. "Becoming a martial arts scholar is just the starting point. Only by passing the imperial martial arts examinations and being noticed by a sect can you have the opportunity to learn the advanced techniques."

He was silent for a moment, as if recalling something, and finally said only one sentence: "It's too early for you to think about these things now... First, focus on acupressure."

Jiang Lan clasped his hands in a fist and said, "This disciple has remembered."

Liu Changqing took a roll of kraft paper from the wall and handed it over. The paper was yellowed, the edges were curled, and it was wrapped in a layer of oilcloth.

"I memorized this when I was practicing the Bengshanquan (Crushing Mountain Fist) in my early years. It has all the instructions on how to move the energy and how to stimulate the acupoints."

Jiang Lan took it with both hands; it felt slightly heavy in her hands.

"Don't bother Zhao Heng," Liu Changqing said, without further explanation, and turned to leave.

After leaving the training room, Jiang Lan squatted by the well for a while. Before she could stand up, a figure emerged from under the wall—Song Kui, Huo Yuanlong's subordinate, had been squatting there waiting for who knows how long.

"Brother Jiang." Song Kui stood up, dusted off his trousers, and lowered his voice, "Chief Huo asked me to pass on a message to you."

Jiang Lan tucked the roll of kraft paper under her arm and listened to him speak.

"The captain was injured. The Zhao family, the Liu family, and the Cangsong Martial Arts School joined forces and wiped out a wave of his men. The Chaiyuan Escort Agency's shipment was robbed, and many people died." Song Kui spoke slowly, as if he had recited it several times. "Chief Huo said that the Cangfeng Martial Arts School has an old grudge against Guangchang. Once they settle their affairs outside and have time to spare, they will come knocking on our door sooner or later."

He glanced around, then lowered his voice further: "Looking back, your loss to Zhao Wantang was a good thing. The Zhao family thinks you're insignificant, saving them the trouble of specifically targeting you. Chief Huo told you to keep it up, don't stand out, and if you want to break through your limits, now's the time."

Jiang Lan thought for a moment: "What else did Chief Huo say?"

"That's all." Song Kui clasped his hands in a fist salute. "That's all." He then turned and left, disappearing into the alleyway in a few steps.

As evening fell, Jiang Lan returned to his residence. Darkness descended quickly, so he lit an oil lamp and spread the parchment scroll on the table. He didn't read it carefully, only flipping through the first page—it depicted a human body, marked the locations of acupoints, and was filled with densely packed small characters. Next to Baihui (GV20) was written "Do not force it," and next to Yongquan (KI1) was written "Best done in the morning."

He put the paper away and placed it under his pillow.

Then he pulled out another item from under his pillow—the last Treasure Fish Pill. He held it in his palm for a moment, examining it. It was round, dark brown, and had a faint fishy smell. His master had given it to him almost a month ago, and he hadn't been willing to eat it.

It's time to eat now.

He put the pill in his mouth and swallowed it. A warm energy spread from his stomach, along his meridians to his limbs, not intense, but lingering, like warm water slowly soaking through parched land.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and focused his energy.

The energy flowed upwards from his dantian, passing through the Tanzhong and Tiantu acupoints, and finally reaching the Baihui acupoint—where it was blocked, like water encountering a sluice gate. He tried to guide the medicinal power of the pill upwards as well, and the two energies merged and surged together.

My head felt throbbing and slightly numb, as if something was trying to burst out. But the floodgates didn't open. The force swirled around the Baihui acupoint a few times before dissipating.

Not urgent.

He took a deep breath and finished his exercise. He opened his eyes and saw a half-empty jar of salted dried fish on the table—Cheng Erniang had asked Li Antian to bring it. The lid of the jar wasn't closed tightly, and the salty, fishy smell mixed with the night slowly spread throughout the room.

He took a piece and chewed on it, then flipped through a few more pages of the parchment. This time he looked more carefully, and on the fifth page, there was a sentence: "The power of the Mountain-Crushing Fist is not thrown out, but flung out. The arm must be relaxed, so relaxed that you feel like you're about to fall down, and then at the end of that relaxation, it suddenly tightens."

He put down the paper, stretched his right arm, and tried to swing it in the air.

His joints cracked twice; there was still a slight stiffness when the force reached his wrist. He rubbed his wrist, not forcing it, stood up, washed his hands, and blew out the oil lamp.

The moon outside the window was pale, half-hidden by clouds. A few barks came from the direction of the reed-covered bay in the distance, intermittent, stopping after a few barks.

Jiang Lan lay on the bed, her hand resting on her lower abdomen, without exerting any energy; it was just there. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her consciousness slowly faded.

He recalled what Liu Changqing had said earlier that day: "Being a martial arts scholar is just the beginning."

He has passed the starting point, but the road ahead is still long.

The light in Zhao Heng's room was still on.

Liu Changqing sat on the edge of the bed, holding a bowl of medicine in his hand; the medicine had already been changed three times. Zhao Heng faced the wall, motionless, only his shoulders rising and falling slightly, proving that he was awake.

"Want some or not?" Liu Changqing asked.

There was no reply.

Liu Changqing placed the bowl on the small table by the bedside and stood up. He glanced at Zhao Heng, as if he wanted to say something, but his lips moved and he ultimately remained silent.

Reaching the door, he shortened the wick of the lamp; the flame flickered twice and then went dark. The smell of medicine lingered in the room, thick like paste.

He closed the door.

The corridor was empty, with only the wind seeping in from under the eaves, making the doors creak. The door to the practice room wasn't closed properly, and through the crack, you could see the wooden post, a small piece missing from its back, with a few pieces of debris scattered on the floor.

The wind blew them everywhere.