From a tuberculosis patient to a martial arts master

It snowed for several days in a row, and the snow on the ground was so thick that it could bury a person.

The entire city of Jinyang was blanketed in white. However, even the heaviest snow could not conceal the stench emanating from the two beggar corpses delivered from East Street.

Zhu Hong dragged the body into the room and placed it on a long plank.

Two little beggars, dressed in rags, their flesh torn apart by wild dogs—a sight that would give any ordinary person a nightmare.

Without changing his expression, he took a needle and thread and began to sew.

Today, his subordinates are even more reliable:

The mulberry bark threads weave back and forth between the blackened, stiff flesh, connecting severed tendons and piecing together the remains.

Several hours passed.

After Zhu Hong finished tying the knot, he gently snapped the thread between his teeth.

"Whoa—"

He exhaled, washed his hands, and looked at the changing light and shadow text.

[To mend the mutilated bodies of the starved, so that they may rest in peace.]

[Postscript: Plain and Unremarkable]

Received the gift of regret: cold resistance

A wave of warmth immediately spread out, keeping the cold air at bay and making people feel comfortable.

Even a mosquito's leg is still meat.

Zhu Hongzhi stood up, not disappointed.

It was expected that he wouldn't learn any new martial arts techniques; if the little beggar had any skills, he wouldn't have frozen to death on the street.

Just as I was pondering this, I heard the sound of footsteps in the snow outside the courtyard.

"Hong, Hongwazi."

Someone lightly knocked on the back window of the kitchen, their voice timid, as if they were doing something wrong.

Zhu Hong walked to the window, pushed it open a crack, and revealed an old face that was red from the cold and covered with wrinkles.

He was clutching something tightly to his chest, and the snow on his shoulders hadn't been brushed off, so he had obviously been standing there for a while.

"Uncle Liu?"

Zhu Hong was slightly surprised.

This is Liu the Cripple. He used to work at the docks with his father, but after injuring his leg, he made a living by collecting chamber pot waste. (From my memory:)

Liu Guaizi was living a very hard life, often going hungry, and the two hadn't seen each other for a long time.

"Shh...!"

Liu Guaizi looked flustered. He first glanced towards the main house, and seeing that no one came out, he tremblingly pulled a cloth bag from his pocket and stuffed it into Liu Guaizi's hand.

"Take this." He lowered his voice considerably. "I heard that heartless Zhao cut off your food supply. This little bit of rice is what your aunt saved from her own meager resources."

"Not much, but enough to keep you full for a while with thin porridge."

Zhu Hong held the bag tightly.

It felt quite heavy, weighing about half a pound, and it was probably a mixture of broken rice and bran.

In this year's climate, this is already extremely rare.

"Uncle Liu, how can this be?"

He frowned, holding the cloth bag but not putting it away.

"Just take it," Liu Guaizi said urgently, pressing his calloused hand down on him.

"Back when your father was at the docks, if it weren't for his desperate rescue, I would have been crushed to death by rolling logs." His eyes were full of sincerity. "Now that he's gone, I can't pull you out of that hellhole, but I can't just watch you starve to death." At this point, the old man's eyes reddened, and he quickly turned his face away, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Live, Hongwazi, as long as you're alive, there's always hope."

Zhu Hong was silent for a moment, then his fingers slowly tightened around the bag of rice, his brows relaxing. "Uncle Liu, don't worry," he said gently.

"I'm not going to die, kid. The King of Hell won't take me."

"Oh, oh, that's good, that's good..." Liu Guaizi breathed a sigh of relief, not daring to linger any longer, and turned to leave with a limp.

Just then, the curtain to the main room was suddenly flung open with a "whoosh".

Zhao Gui, that powdered, mean-looking woman, came out carrying a basin of water for washing feet.

"Oh, who do we have here?" She rushed forward:

"Isn't that the lame guy who empties chamber pots? Running around behind our shop so early in the morning, what, you think the stench of corpses isn't enough, so you come to add some more filth!"

"Whoosh—"

A basin of dirty water was poured directly onto the snow next to Liu Guaizi, splashing his trouser leg.

Liu Guaizi froze, his face flushed red, and he lowered his head awkwardly, stammering and not daring to reply. He quickened his pace and staggered into the wind and snow.

His back was hunched over, like an old dog with a broken spine.

"A poor wretch and a consumptive wretch, a perfect match." The woman spat at Liu Guaizi's retreating figure, rolling her eyes to the sky.

"Zhu Hong, take your poor, wretched relatives away!" she sneered.

"If I see someone like that come into the yard again, I'll have someone break his good leg." The curtain was slammed down.

The wind and snow continue.

Zhu Hong stood behind the window, holding the still-warm rice bag in his hand, his face expressionless. He glanced through the crack in the window at the spot where the woman had disappeared, then lowered his head and untied the bag.

The bag contained dark, thin brown rice, mixed with bran, with shriveled grains.

This rice is so coarse that even Zhao Gui's family would complain it's too rough to feed to their dog.

But it was the life-saving food that Liu Guaizi's family had saved from their own mouths.

"Uncle Liu, Zhu Hong will remember this kindness."

He gently closed the window, turned around and walked to the black pot with a chipped edge in the corner of the room, poured all the brown rice into it, and scooped out a few ladles of clean snow water.

Firewood was added to the stove, and the flames crackled.

While waiting for the porridge to cook, Zhu Hong sat cross-legged on the pile of dry straw in front of the stove and closed his eyes.

In addition to the practice methods, "Iron Chain Across the River Skill" also describes the three realms of cultivation.

First Realm: Martial Arts Student.

[Muscle building]

Second Realm: Martial Apprentice.

[Strengthening tendons]

The third realm: Warrior.

[Practice skin mask]

It mentions that each realm is divided into three minor levels (initial entry, minor achievement, and major achievement). If one continuously trains their muscle strength and initially transcends the mundane, becoming strong enough to split rocks, then one has officially entered the gate of cultivation.

Although he can now carry a hundred-pound bucket of water without any hindrance, it is still a pipe dream for him to reach the level of "splitting rocks".

"Iron chains span the river, the key is in the word 'lock'."

Zhu Hong banished all distracting thoughts, and the image of the shirtless giant standing in the raging torrent from the previous night reappeared in his mind.

The river flows mightily, but human strength is finite. Only by holding one's breath, sinking one's shoulders and dropping one's elbows, and making one's body as firmly rooted as an iron stake in the riverbed, can one stop the flow and remain as stable as Mount Tai...

With a thought, he slowly rose according to the guidance of the exercise, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent and hips lowered, his back straight like a sturdy pine. He raised his arms to his chest with elbows bent, palms facing each other, as if supporting a heavy weight. This was the "Lock River Stance," the introductory stance of the "Iron Chain Across the River Exercise."

Qi and blood circulate with the standing meditation, slowly flowing through the limbs and bones. The muscles are slightly tense under the pull of the hidden force, like a bowstring gathering power.

……

The fire in the stove burned brighter, the rice porridge steamed, and a faint fragrance mixed with the coarse smell of bran wafted through the air.

Before three incense sticks had burned.

Sweat beaded on Zhu Hong's forehead, a wave of weakness washed over him, and he could no longer maintain his stance. With a "thump," he sat back down on the haystack, panting heavily.

"The poor are scholars, the rich are warriors—this is no exaggeration." Zhu Hong opened his eyes, a hint of helplessness flashing in them.

"Even with the help of the dead, we still need to proceed step by step."

Martial arts training depletes one's essence and blood. Without meat to replenish qi or powerful medicine to nourish the body, this "iron lock" becomes a dead lock, causing further damage to one's foundation with each training session.

"Glug, glug..." The thin porridge was finally ready.

Zhu Hong took a rough porcelain bowl, filled it to the brim, and without even blowing on it to cool it, put it in his mouth. The hot porridge went down his throat, exceptionally sweet, truly living up to the old saying:

"When hungry, coarse food is better than delicacies; when full, even malt sugar tastes bland."

Before long, the pot of thin porridge was empty.

"If only I could have another cigarette right now, to slowly savor it," he thought, pressing lightly on his slightly swollen stomach.

"How wonderful that would be..."

Just as I was thinking this, a series of messy and heavy footsteps suddenly came from the front yard.

"Zhao Lai! Get out here and take on the job—!"

A loud shout, like a thunderclap in a dry sky.

They were government officials; judging from the commotion, there were at least four or five of them, all carrying swords and blades.

Zhu Hong put down the bowl and raised an eyebrow.

In the past, when the shop collected corpses, it was usually the night watchman or a hanger-on who brought them in. It was rare for a proper government official to come during the day, let alone make such a big fuss.

Has something terrible happened?

He stood up, wiped his mouth, reached out and lifted the heavy straw curtain, and went outside.

In the snow-swirling courtyard stood five constables dressed in black and red uniforms, with swords at their waists. The leader was a gaunt man with sinister eyes, exuding a menacing aura.

"Officer Wang," Zhao Lai greeted him obsequiously, his face plastered with a fawning smile.

"Your presence is an honor. What brings you here...?"

"Stop talking nonsense!" Wang Zhenshan interrupted him directly, pointing behind him.

There was a cart parked there, covered with something bulging on a thick tarpaulin.

"This is a beast that our brothers just dragged back from the depths of Black Wind Mountain, risking three lives," his voice was as cold and hard as iron.

"There's a death order from above: it must be dealt with properly tonight, the skin must be peeled off completely intact. If even the slightest damage is done—" His gaze, sharp as a knife, swept across Zhao Lai's deathly pale face:

"Do you understand?"

Zhao Lai's pupils contracted, and he hurriedly moved closer to the cart, trembling as he lifted a corner of the oilcloth.

I only glanced at it.

The old man's legs went weak, and he almost collapsed to his knees in the snow. "A...a demonic beast?!" came a hoarse, shrill scream.

Zhu Hong stood under the eaves, squinting his eyes.

Through the gaps in the tarpaulin, he glimpsed a jet-black beast claw, as big as a calf, its claw tip gleaming coldly, with wisps of dark red smoke curling around it.

"It's actually a demonic beast?"

No wonder the government mobilized so much; Zhao Lai was so frightened.

According to the laws of the Great Chu, all demonic corpses are considered extremely ominous and highly nourishing. They are ominous because touching them will result in death, and nourishing because eating them can transform one's bones.

But for an ordinary mortician like Zhao Lai, this thing was an invitation from the King of Hell. A mere touch, and the residual demonic power would cause even the slightest injury—a broken heart or a broken pulse.

"Officer Wang, please have mercy!"

Zhao Lai, with a mournful face, said, "This old man is just a rough fellow who mends mortal bodies; how could I dare to touch such a demon?"

"Can't handle it?" Wang Zhenshan sneered and flicked his wrist.

"Zzzzt—!"

The sword at his waist was fully drawn, its gleaming blade pressed directly against Zhao Lai's throat.

"If I dare not now, I will die right now!"

Zhao Lai's back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. His eyes darted around, and his gaze suddenly fell on Zhu Hong standing at the kitchen door. As if grasping at a last straw, he cried out in a shrill voice, "Officer Wang! This old man's skills are lacking, but my little apprentice is a master!" He then pointed tremblingly at Zhu Hong and said urgently:

"He was the one who sewed up the head of Fanjianghu stitch by stitch."

Zhu Hong looked at the finger pointing at him, his face expressionless, but he was secretly delighted.

"I was just worried about the slow progress, but I never expected that an opportunity would come knocking on my door."

In a flash, before Constable Wang could even get close, he stepped out from under the eaves and calmly bowed to the officer:

"Sir, I am willing to give this task a try."