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

Jiang Lan lay on the cold deck of the ship, having not slept all night, her back taut like a bow about to break.

If Scarface doesn't die, neither he nor his mother will survive. That's an ironclad rule.

Could he fight head-on? He couldn't even beat one of Scarface Seven's fingers.

Using someone else to do the dirty work? The Black Tiger Gang is all-powerful; where can they find someone to keep them in check?

Report it to the authorities? The government and the Black Tiger Gang are in cahoots; going there would be like walking into a trap.

Hide? The entire dock is someone else's territory, where can we hide?

As dawn approached, Jiang Lan clenched his fists tightly, a ruthless glint in his eyes—all medicines have some degree of poison, and the martial arts school's pharmacy might be his only way out.

Although the martial arts school's pharmacy was strictly guarded, there were always oversights. Jiang Lan squatted in the corner and secretly observed for three days, finally figuring out the time when the pharmacist would go to the toilet every day at noon.

The pharmacy is adjacent to the lobby, and someone could break in at any time, so there is no time to waste.

Watching the pharmacist's figure turn the corner, Jiang Lan took a deep breath, crouched down, and climbed through the small window. His feet touched the ground as lightly as a feather; even the wild tabby cats weren't as alert as him.

The wall of medicine bottles and jars made him dizzy; most of the medicine names were unfamiliar to him and were densely packed together.

I opened one drawer and smelled it, but it wasn't there; I opened another, and it still wasn't there. The pungent smell of medicine filled my nostrils, and my nose gradually became numb.

"Hey, why isn't that blockhead practicing his boxing at noon?"

"Who knows? With such average talent, he's still pushing himself so hard. He probably won't be able to hold on and will run away."

Two whispered conversations drifted in from outside the window, and Jiang Lan froze, his palms instantly soaked with sweat. He held his breath, not daring to move an inch, the trembling of his fingertips noticeable even to himself.

Hold on!

He quickened his pace, his fingertips tracing the drawers one by one, finally finding the medicine—Baijiang poison—in the corner cabinet.

Before his father died, when he was an apprentice at a small pharmacy, his master mentioned that if an adult took a small amount orally, he would vomit incessantly and break out in a cold sweat, and would surely die within an hour without medical help; if the dosage was slightly higher, even a miracle could not save him.

Jiang Lan's hands trembled as he tightly wrapped the poison powder in a reed leaf he had prepared beforehand and tucked it into his inner garment. Just as he was about to jump out of the small window, a large hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

"Jiang Lan, what are you doing here?"

It was Instructor Liu. His voice was flat, revealing no trace of joy or anger, yet it struck Jiang Lan's heart like a shard of ice.

The reed leaves in his arms poked painfully at his chest. Jiang Lan swallowed hard, lowering his head and not daring to look up: "Disciple...disciple is just taking a walk."

Coach Liu was silent for a moment, then gently patted his shoulder with his fingertips, his tone still calm: "If you have nothing to do, go back and practice your stances, don't just wander around here."

Jiang Lan felt as if she had been granted a pardon. She bowed and agreed, then turned and ran away in small steps. Only after turning two corners in the corridor did she suddenly lean against the wall, panting heavily. The fabric of her clothes on her back was already soaked with cold sweat and felt chillingly cold.

The poison is in hand.

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.

During the afternoon's stance training, Jiang Lan remained calm and focused.

Unbeknownst to others, he had been busy plotting poisoning these past few days, yet he still diligently practiced his stance training five times each morning and evening without fail, daring not to slack off in the slightest.

When he got home, he caught a mouse and mixed a little bit of white leech poison into the rice.

The mouse sniffed it, then wolfed it down. In less than the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, the mouse first scurried around restlessly, then vomited violently, and finally lay stiffly on the ground, motionless.

It is highly poisonous, no doubt about it.

Jiang Lan lifted the rat carcass and only breathed a sigh of relief after confirming it was completely dead. He tidied up the two newly woven fishing nets, picked up a jug of cheap liquor, and lied to his mother, saying he was going to the shore to catch fish so he could give her an extra meal that night.

At Scarface Seven's door, Jiang Lan raised his hand and knocked. Scarface Seven's wife opened the door; she was pale and thin. It was said that Scarface Seven had too many lives on his hands and had never been able to have a child.

Scarface Seven sat at the table, gnawing on a chicken leg with grease dripping from his mouth onto his coarse cloth shirt. Without even lifting his eyelids, he glanced at Jiang Lan and mumbled, "Jiang Lan? Has the sun risen in the west? You actually agreed to see me?"

Jiang Lan smiled ingratiatingly and pushed the wine jug forward, saying, "Master Dao, my family is really struggling. I'm here to borrow the money you mentioned earlier."

Scarface Seven put down the chicken leg, leaned back in his chair, and tapped the table idly with his fingers. His gaze, like a viper's forked tongue, swept over Jiang Lan's face: "Borrow money? Weren't you so tough a couple of days ago? What, you can't hold on anymore?"

"Being tough won't put food on the table." Jiang Lan smiled bitterly, lowered his head, but a hint of coldness was hidden in his eyes. "I have to pay tuition for the martial arts school, and my mother's fingers are numb from knitting nets. I really have no other way out. Please help me, Master Dao."

Scarface Seven stared at him for a few moments, then suddenly laughed, revealing a few mottled, yellowed teeth: "Good that you know what's good for you. Bring the wine, let's toast Master Dao first."

Jiang Lan's heart tightened.

A toast was offered, both as a rule and a test—he had to drink his own cup before Scarface Seven would accept. This was a show of force, and a trampling of his integrity.

"Okay." Jiang Lan didn't hesitate. He poured a full glass of wine, held it out to Scarface Qi with both hands, and then filled his own glass as well. He tilted his head back and drank the wine in one gulp. The strong liquor burned his throat and made his eyes instantly red.

After seeing him finish his drink, Scarface Qi picked up his glass, took a sip, and smacked his lips, saying, "This wine is terrible."

"Yes, yes, please forgive me, Master Dao, our family really can't afford anything better." Jiang Lan smiled apologetically, placing the wine pot on the corner of the table. He reached forward with his left hand, intending to grab the half-eaten chicken leg. "Master Dao, this chicken leg isn't good when it's cold. Shall I get you a warm one?"

"No need," Scarface Seven waved his hand casually.

It was that one moment of raising your hand!

Jiang Lan's right hand was already tucked into her sleeve, her fingertips pinching the packet of reed leaf poison powder, which she then flicked suddenly.

The fine, dust-like poison powder fell silently, landing precisely on the oily surface of the chicken leg. In an instant, it was enveloped by the grease and disappeared without a trace.

The whole process took less than a second. His apologetic smile remained unchanged, but the sweat on his palms was sticky and uncomfortable.

"Are you here to borrow money or to deliver alcohol?" Scarface Seven took another bite of the chicken leg, chewing loudly.

"Yes, it's all." Jiang Lan rubbed his hands together and took half a step forward. "Master Dao, about that money..."

"What's the rush?" Scarface Seven interrupted him, twirling his wine glass as he slowly said, "I can lend you money, but what about the collateral?"

Jiang Lan looked troubled: "Master Dao, you know my family's situation; we really don't have anything valuable..."

"Your mother's silver earrings, aren't they still there?" Scarface Seven's tone was light and casual, but it was like a knife stabbing into Jiang Lan's heart.

Jiang Lan's heart sank. He knew perfectly well that the earring had been snatched away by Scarface Seven long ago. These words were a test, an attempt to exploit his weakness.

"You jest, Master Dao," he said, his head bowed and his voice trembling slightly. "That earring...wasn't it already taken by you? How could I dare to ask for it back?"

"Oh, right, I almost forgot." Scarface Seven slapped his forehead and laughed heartily. "I'm keeping that earring for you. I'll return it to you once you pay back the money."

Jiang Lan nodded repeatedly, a smile always on her face, but her fingertips quietly curled up.

Scarface Seven took a few more bites of chicken leg, swallowed, and wiped his mouth: "We'll talk about the loan tomorrow. Have your mother bring out the fishing nets tonight, so as not to miss the fishing festival."

"Master Dao, that money..."

"I said tomorrow!" Scarface Qi glared at him, his impatience almost overflowing.

Jiang Lan dared not say another word, bowed in farewell, and turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, Scarface Seven suddenly called out to him, "Wait."

Jiang Lan paused, her back tensed instantly, and cold sweat trickled down her back again.

"Keep this wine." Scarface Seven shook the half-empty jug of liquor. "I like it."

"I'm glad you like it, Master Dao." Jiang Lan suppressed his panic, bowed in agreement, and quickly walked out the door.

Only after turning the corner of the alley and confirming that no one was following him did Jiang Lan lean against the wall, panting heavily.

His back was soaked with cold sweat, and his whole body was stiff with cold. He looked down at his right hand, where a trace of Baijiang poison powder still remained on his fingertips, and he trembled slightly.

Bet right.

Scarface Seven's arrogance is his biggest weakness.

Jiang Lan didn't go home; instead, she took a long detour and disappeared into the reeds on the shore.

The night wind, carrying moisture, blew against his body, chilling him to the bone. He lay prone in the reeds, staring motionlessly at the door of Scarface Qi's house. His hands and feet were numb with cold, but he dared not blink.

During the wait, past scenes kept replaying in my mind—

Scarface Seven kicked open the door of Widow Zhang's house, dragging her crying child along. Aunt Zhang knelt on the ground, her head bleeding from the kowtow. He rode on his horse, shouting to the poor people at the dock, "Fifty coins, or I'll chop off your hand!" A few days ago, he pushed his mother aside, pulled out a silver earring from the bottom of the cabinet, and his mother collapsed to the ground crying. He didn't even have the courage to go up and help her up.

Jiang Lan clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her flesh, drawing blood.

This man deserves to die.

About an hour later, movement finally came from inside the house.

"Husband, why do you look so pale? And you're sweating so much?" Scarface's seventh wife's voice was full of panic.

"It's nothing... I drank too much..." Scarface Seven's voice was weak, no longer as strong as before.

After a short while, a loud vomiting sound suddenly erupted, mixed with Scarface Seven's incoherent cursing. Immediately following was a loud crash, as if the person and the chair had fallen to the ground.

"Husband! What's wrong with you!" Scarface's seventh wife's scream tore through the night sky, shrill and terrifying.

Jiang Lan slowly stood up, patted the grass clippings off his clothes, took a deep breath, and walked towards Scarface Qi's house.

He pushed open the door, and there lay Scarface Seven on the ground, his face ashen, white foam at the corner of his mouth, his eyes half-open, unable to speak.

The vomit on the ground smelled sour and pungent. His wife knelt beside him, trembling all over. When she saw Jiang Lan come in, she clung to him like a lifeline: "Jiang Lan! Look at him! What happened to him!"

Jiang Lan crouched down and reached out to check Scarface Seven's breath—it was so faint that she could barely feel it.

He then examined his eyelids again; his pupils were already dilated, clearly indicating that the poison had penetrated to the bone marrow, and there was no hope of recovery.

"It sounds like a sudden illness." Jiang Lan's voice was calm, revealing no emotion whatsoever. "I'll go fetch a doctor."

He stood up and went into the inner room. The drawer by the bed was half open, and the pair of silver earrings lay quietly among the broken silver and copper coins, gleaming coldly.

Jiang Lan reached out and picked up the earring, tucking it into his pocket. He paused for a moment as his fingertips touched the loose silver pieces.

I didn't take it.

He turned and walked out of the inner room, saying to Scarface Seven's wife, "Sister-in-law, I'm going to fetch a doctor. You stay here and watch over him."

As soon as she finished speaking, Jiang Lan turned and walked out of the room, disappearing into the night.

He won't call a doctor.

He knew the toxicity of Baijiang poison better than anyone. At this level, even a celestial being couldn't save Scarface Seven.

When she arrived home, Cheng was still sitting under the lamp weaving a web, her fingers flying across the paper as the threads twisted into cocoons. Seeing Jiang Lan, she immediately stopped her work, stood up, and came to greet her: "Lan, why do you look so cold? And you don't look well either."

"It's alright, Mother, you just got cold from the wind." Jiang Lan smiled, took out the pair of silver earrings from her bosom, and gently placed them in her rough hands.

Mrs. Cheng was stunned. Holding the earrings, her fingers trembled as she looked at the familiar silver earrings, then at Jiang Lan. Her lips trembled for a long time before tears suddenly welled up and streamed down her cheeks: "Ah Lan... where... where did you get these?"

"Master Dao said he'd give me back my earrings if I chased the fishing nets away." Jiang Lan knelt down, took her mother's hand, and said firmly, "Mother, no one will be able to take our things from us anymore."

Holding the earrings, Cheng cried so hard she couldn't speak. Tears fell onto the silver rings, creating tiny water stains.

Jiang Lan stood up and walked into the courtyard. The night wind was cold, and the river was pitch black, with only a few fishing lights flickering in the distance. He looked down at his hands—these hands that had flicked away poison powder, checked breaths, and retrieved his mother's earring were still trembling slightly.

He knew this was just the beginning.

Scarface Seven is dead, but the Black Tiger Gang will not let this go easily; new members will arrive soon. Poisoning can only solve the immediate crisis; he can't rely on this method every time.

He wants to become stronger, to become stronger in a dignified and honorable way.

Even though he was busy planning these past few days, he never neglected his stance training. He practiced twice a day, morning and evening, and his sweat splattered on the ground, leaving dark marks. His efforts were never in vain.

Jiang Lan took a deep breath, stepped onto the makeshift wooden stakes he had set up earlier, and assumed the stance of the Mountain-Crushing Force. His legs began to tremble uncontrollably, and his muscles ached as if they were about to tear apart, but he gritted his teeth, straightened his back, and remained motionless.

In my mind, a golden panel slowly appeared:

Heaven rewards diligence; no effort is ever wasted.

【Crushing Mountain Stance Exercise: 105/300】

Sweat slid down his cheeks, hit the muddy ground, and evaporated instantly.

……

The next day, news came that Scarface Seven had suddenly died of an illness the previous night.

The Black Tiger gang sent new people to take over his territory, and everything remained the same.

No one doubted Jiang Lan.

But he knew his hands were stained with blood. From this day forward, he would no longer be that dock boy who only knew how to endure.