Chapter 015: Tempering (Please Bookmark and Recommend)

In the Luo family’s backyard, wild grass grew unchecked everywhere, as if it hadn’t been tended in ages. Following Luo Hanyi inside, Yao Qian saw, amid the overgrowth, a series of wooden stakes, each as thick as a fist.

Some were short, buried within the grass and almost invisible, while others rose several feet above the ground, standing out conspicuously. Yao Qian turned to Luo Hanyi with a speechless glance, only to find the latter’s expression placid as he said, “Clear all the weeds, boy. Then we’ll begin.”

With that, he turned away, settling on a rattan chair to bask in the sun, offering only the back of his head. Yao Qian had no choice. Gritting his teeth, determined to learn the Iron Shirt technique, he threw himself into the task. After more than half an hour, he finally cleared the weeds, dug a shallow trench beneath the stakes, and spread a layer of fine sand, finishing the job.

At some point, Luo Hanyi appeared by the stakes behind him and spoke, “That’ll do. Get up there. Stand according to the positions shown in the manual. You may not stop until I say so.”

Once he began teaching, Luo Hanyi’s demeanor became strictly serious, a far cry from the enigmatic recluse he had first appeared to be. Yao Qian climbed onto the two shortest logs—each still about a meter high. He placed his feet and, with the Iron Shirt manual in hand, reviewed the main points before beginning his initial practice.

Iron Shirt was a hard style, designed to fortify the body’s defenses, and naturally required strengthening one’s vital energy and blood, or else the body would be as rootless as floating duckweed. Following the illustrated postures in the manual, he spread his legs outward in a V, knees slightly bent as if sitting, hands folded at his chest with fingers neither fully curved nor straight, body upright, eyes half-closed, breathing naturally, all his joints forming angular bends.

The Vajra Stance—body as steadfast as a mountain.

Barely the time it took for a cup of tea to cool, Yao Qian felt his body grow heavy, on the verge of collapse. His legs seemed filled with lead, sweat streaming down his forehead, blurring his vision, and dark patches swam before his eyes.

With a crash, he finally lost his balance, sprawling off the stakes.

Spitting out the fine sand from his mouth, he climbed back up and resumed the stance.

By noon, he had managed a passable Vajra Stance, and in the afternoon, switching to higher stakes, began the second posture—the Overlord Stance.

This stance differed from the first, except in that he tumbled off more than a dozen times.

It wasn’t until dusk that he finally climbed down. His entire body was drenched in sweat and grime, his clothes caked with sand and sticking unpleasantly to his skin. He felt utterly exhausted, every inch of him aching.

Hissing in pain, he slowly stripped off his shirt, revealing swelling and bruises crisscrossing his arms, back, chest, and thighs—a frightening, grotesque sight. Even he paled at the view.

“No wonder that old man could only hide in the slums clutching his manual, waiting to die. Who would pay for such suffering?” he muttered. Even he hesitated for a moment, but the thought of the executioner’s blade hanging over his head made him grit his teeth and persevere.

Collapsing onto the rattan chair like a corpse, Yao Qian noticed that the old man seemed to be in high spirits and, to his surprise, had brought a rather charming woman into the yard. He couldn’t help but wonder maliciously whether the old man could even handle her.

To his astonishment, the old man walked straight over, pointed at him, and said to the woman, “It’s him. Take him to the room, do what you need to, and remember to charge him afterwards.”

Then, hands clasped behind his back, he turned and walked away.

Yao Qian was dumbfounded by the old man’s sense of humor.

In his current emptied-out state, let alone her—even a fairy descending from heaven wouldn’t get anything from him.

But the woman’s eyes lit up when she saw him; she’d expected a decrepit old man, not a handsome youth. The surprise was evident on her face.

She came to Yao Qian’s side, helped him up, and led him inside.

He was so exhausted he could barely move, let alone resist. Even taking a few steps made his legs cry out in protest, a wave of pain shooting through his body and making him gasp for breath.

She helped him onto the bed, removed his clothes, and in a few blinks, had him stripped to his shorts.

“Not bad,” she teased with a girlish laugh.

Yao Qian could only force a bitter smile—now he truly understood what it meant to find pleasure in pain.

Settling him on the bed, she climbed up as well, then drew a small black porcelain vial from her pocket.

“Seriously? Do we need that kind of thing for excitement?” Yao Qian thought, visions of exotic aphrodisiacs and pills flashing through his mind. In his current state, he’d die on the spot!

He tried to struggle, but his body was spent, as if his joints had been taken apart.

The woman smiled sweetly, poured out a green ointment, and leaned over him…

Ah… ah… ah…

Don’t stop… keep going…

Sweat beaded all over Yao Qian’s body as he lay prone, his muscles twitching with excitement, droplets rolling down his faintly defined muscles like morning dew on lotus leaves.

The woman, her round hips poised, bent over his back, massaging with hands slicked in green ointment, kneading and working the salve into his battered back and thighs.

Every inch of his skin, every cell seemed to breathe in delight, and he found himself moaning involuntarily. Glancing back at her, he thought—with hands like those, she’d never want for a living.

After an hour, the ointment had been absorbed, and the woman, drenched in sweat, her clothes clinging to her shapely body, finally exhaled in relief.

But Yao Qian had no time to appreciate her charm. By then, he had already fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.