From a tuberculosis patient to a martial arts master

Seeing this, Zhao Gui barged in recklessly.

"Ho—"

He narrowed his triangular eyes, scrutinizing Zhu Hong. Noticing a slight ruddy complexion on Zhu Hong's face, he couldn't help but snort.

"Even tuberculosis couldn't take you away? You're damn tough."

Zhu Hong stepped aside without replying.

"Are you mute?" Zhao Gui spat, and when he didn't answer, he grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and swaggered over to the morgue.

He yanked off the white cloth covering the corpse's neck.

Just one glance.

Zhao Gui's previously nonchalant expression instantly froze on his face.

The stitches on the neck are fine, even, and perfectly embedded in the flesh. If you don't look closely, you would think that the head has never been broken.

What's even more sinister is Liu Mang's face:

His face, which had been contorted and grotesque at the time of his death, now appeared peaceful.

There's an old saying in the mortician's trade:

The needle and thread can pass through flesh, but not soul.

"This sickly fellow...when did he acquire this skill?" Zhao Gui's mind was filled with doubt. He suddenly turned his head, his eyes piercing Zhu Hong like knives.

"Did you sew this?"

Zhu Hongli stood to the side, only asking calmly, "Is there anyone else in this room?"

Zhao Gui choked, his eyes darting around, and he chuckled dryly, "Fine, consider yourself lucky." With that, he turned and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"Guards! Carry the body—"

Just before leaving, he stopped and turned back:

"Remember to save your energy when you do things, so you can leave a complete corpse and save others the trouble of cleaning up." The door slammed shut.

Zhu Hong gazed in the direction Zhao Gui had left, a smile playing on his lips:

"Collecting the corpse? We'll see who comes out on top..."

After speaking, he turned and walked to the wooden tub, and as usual, disposed of the filth.

The bucket was filled with filth, heavy and foul-smelling. This body used to be so weak that it had to rest after taking three steps.

Zhu Hong reached out and grasped the rough wooden handle. With a slight thought, an image of a bare-chested man standing firmly in the raging torrent appeared in his mind.

Iron Chain Across the River

The key is to focus the breath into the dantian, lock the flow of qi, and keep the body as firm as an iron stake.

His breathing subtly changed; the breath in his lungs condensed, sinking three inches below his navel, then rising up his spine segment by segment, flowing into his arms.

"rise."

Just a gentle lift.

The full bucket of murky water floated lightly off the ground.

Immediately afterwards, with a "crack," the heavy wooden handle was actually pinched and a crack appeared.

Zhu Hong released his grip, gazing thoughtfully at the shallow indentation on his palm. "The strength was nearly three times greater. No wonder they say, 'The poor are scholars, the rich are warriors.'"

Who would have thought that the sickly man who used to have to rest every three steps even when carrying a bucket could now easily lift a hundred pounds of muddy water with just a wisp of energy?

Besides, he can't even be considered a martial artist yet.

"Gurgle~~"

Just now, as he moved, Zhu Hong suddenly felt a void in his abdomen.

hungry!

A hunger that seemed to seep into one's very bones.

Martial arts training emphasizes refining grains into essence and refining essence into qi.

Where does semen come from?

Meat, refined rice, and medicinal feed.

His current body is like a broken lamp whose wick has just been replaced, but the oil is almost gone. If he doesn't replenish his qi and blood as soon as possible, he'll starve to death, let alone practice martial arts.

Zhu Hong put down the wooden bucket and opened the window to let in some fresh air.

The sky was just beginning to lighten.

In the mornings, the only sounds in Chicken and Goose Lane are the clanging of chamber pots being emptied, the barking of stray dogs, and the howling of the cold wind.

It's not a good place to go.

Just then, the aroma of rice porridge wafted from the neighboring courtyard, mixed with the salty fragrance of braised meat, and went straight into my nose.

That was the breakfast for the innkeeper and Zhao Lai's family.

"Damn it, comparing yourself to others is just awful."

Zhu Hong rubbed his emaciated belly and turned to walk towards the kitchen in the front hall.

The kitchen was cold, with a blackened pot with a chipped edge and a bowl of leftover porridge beside it.

This was his breakfast.

……

In the main hall, the charcoal fire was burning brightly.

On the mahogany table, there was a basket of steaming white steamed buns, several plates of glistening red braised meat, and a bowl of golden millet porridge.

Zhao Gui was stuffing a large piece of greasy braised meat into his mouth, his mouth dripping with oil. The old shopkeeper, Zhao Lai, squinted and slowly twirled two shiny walnuts in his hand.

"Father, that corpse last night was really strange," Zhao Gui said, his mouth stuffed with meat, his words muffled.

"I don't know how that sickly girl got it stitched up so beautifully! The yamen officials just came to inspect it and rewarded her with five taels of silver."

"Five taels?!" A shrill female voice interrupted; it was Zhao Gui's wife.

"So many! How many of them will be sent to that short-lived man?"

The old shopkeeper cracked a walnut in his hand. "Give it away? Give what? What's the point of leaving money to a dying man?" His cloudy old eyes were full of calculation.

"Just hold on for a few more days, and once he finishes his work with that batch of city guards, he'll probably be here soon. Then," he let out a raven-like sneer.

"Just roll up a tattered mat and throw it into a mass grave. We've done our best."

Zhao Gui and his wife exchanged a glance and then grinned at each other:

"Father's thinking is always the most thorough!"

……

Zhu Hongli stood in the kitchen, picked up the bowl of bran porridge, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp.

That taste was even harder to swallow than dog food.

But he licked even the sediment at the bottom of the bowl clean.

Although the "Book of the Dead" is miraculous, it cannot conjure food out of thin air. Martial arts is a path that consumes wealth and treasures; the saying "the poor are learned, the rich are skilled in martial arts" is never just a hypothesis.

Given his current status, does he really want a piece of meat?

Difficult, difficult, difficult.

To avoid starving to death and being thrown into a mass grave by this cannibalistic father and son, the only option is to obey orders.

Anyway, by sewing up corpses, you can become stronger!

As long as you become stronger, this thin porridge will one day turn into a delicious dish.

Just then, a shout suddenly came from the front hall.

"Zhu Hong! Where the hell have you been?" Zhao Gui's grating, hoarse voice rang out.

"Two beggar cubs, their bodies gnawed by stray dogs, were just brought in from the east end of the street. Go and sew them up right away!" he urged.

"If you don't finish sewing today, you can forget about dinner."

This kind of rotten, smelly work, where the animals are torn apart by wild dogs, was something the old shopkeeper used to only take on when he was short of money. Now, he's dumped it all on Zhu Hong.

But Zhu Hong smiled.

This is a "super tonic" delivered right to your door.

"Coming." He straightened his collar and stepped out of the kitchen.

Let's be patient for a while.

Some debts, sooner or later, will be settled with interest.

……