The previous night had ended in a whirlwind of suppressed emotion and familial warmth.
When Yoriichi had finally allowed his Grandfather, the First Elder Xiao Lu, to examine his cultivation, the shock had been palpable. The old man's hand had trembled on Yoriichi's wrist as he sensed the dense, milky-white Dou Qi swirling in the boy's lower abdomen.
"9th Star..." Xiao Lu had whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You... you broke through? In your sleep?"
It was unheard of. Most disciples needed months of accumulation to bridge the gap between the 8th and 9th Star. For Xiao Ning to do it while recovering from heavy injuries was nothing short of a miracle.
Xiao Yu had beamed with pride, wiping away her earlier tears, though she still shot warning glares at Yoriichi every time he moved his bandaged hands too quickly. They had eaten dinner together—a rare, full family meal—where they talked how "Heavens had finally opened their eyes."
Yoriichi had simply nodded, eating quietly, accepting the warmth. He slept soundly that night, the weight of his family's expectations settling on him not as a burden, but as a reason to sharpen his blade.
The morning arrived with the piercing cry of a mountain hawk.
Yoriichi woke instantly. His eyes snapped open, clear and devoid of drowsiness.
He rose, dressed in his training trousers and a loose shirt, and stepped out.
Today, he did not stop at the courtyard. The ironwood tree stood there, a silent, battered testament to his previous day's work, its trunk marred by the crater he had punched into it.
"The wood is compromised," Yoriichi noted as he passed it. "And it is too soft. I need something that fights back."
He moved like a phantom through the estate, heading towards the southern perimeter.
His destination was the hot stream area near the borderline forest—the place where he had first tested his speed.
The air here was thick with sulfur and heavy moisture. The hot stream bubbled up from the underground volcanic veins of the Magic Beast Mountain Range, creating a natural veil of steam that obscured vision.
Yoriichi stopped beside the stream.
Looming out of the mist was a massive granite boulder. It was jagged, moss-covered, and roughly the size of a carriage. Unlike the fibrous ironwood tree, this was unyielding stone.
Yoriichi stood before it. He didn't take a stance immediately. He closed his eyes, inhaling the sulfuric air.
"Total Concentration Breathing."
He didn't use the Iron Fist technique immediately. He started with rhythm.
Thud.
His bare fist connected with the granite. Pain shot up his arm—sharp, brittle, and unforgiving. Unlike the tree, the rock offered zero shock absorption. The force he put in was reflected 100% back into his bones.
Thud. Thud.
His expression didn't flicker. He punched again.
"The bone must micro-fracture," he analyzed coldly, feeling the vibrations travel through his metacarpals. "It must break down to rebuild denser. The Dou Qi must fill the cracks like mortar."
He increased the intensity.
Smack. Crack.
The skin on his knuckles, barely healed, split open again. Fresh blood smeared onto the wet rock.
An hour passed. The sun began to rise, turning the steam into a golden mist.
Yoriichi kept punching. His rhythm was hypnotic.
Punch. Retract. Rotate. Punch.
The granite surface, once smooth, began to show a spiderweb of hairline fractures. A small depression, perhaps half an inch deep, had formed where his fist landed repeatedly.
His hands were a ruin. They were swollen, the knuckles flattened, the skin tattered.
Yoriichi stopped. He exhaled a long plume of white breath.
"Limit reached," he whispered. "Any more and the structural integrity of the hand will be compromised permanently."
He walked to the edge of the stream. The water here was scalding hot, bubbling with natural heat.
He didn't hesitate. He plunged his bloody, mangled hands into the water.
Hiss.
The heat was intense, enough to boil a normal person's skin. But to Yoriichi, the TCB that kept his internal body temperature incredibly high, it felt merely warm. The sulfur and minerals in the water invaded the open wounds, stinging violently.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the sting. It meant the cleaning was working. The blood flow slowed as the heat cauterized the smaller vessels and the minerals began their work.
After a few minutes, he pulled his hands out. They were red and steaming.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jade jar.
Tier 1 Bone Healing Paste.
It was a gift from Grandfather Xiao Lu last night. A pungent, green herbal slurry that cost fifty gold coins a jar—expensive for a declining clan, but given freely to the grandson who showed promise.
Yoriichi applied the paste methodically. It felt cool against his hot skin, a numbing sensation seeping deep into the marrow.
"Effective," he noted. "The alchemy of this world is potent. In my old world, injuries like this would take a week to heal. Here? Perhaps by tomorrow."
He re-wrapped his hands with fresh, tight bandages. He flexed his fingers. The stiffness was there, but the pain was distant.
"Now," Yoriichi murmured, turning his gaze away from the rock and towards the dense forest path that led further into the mountains. "The waiting begins."
He wasn't here just for training.
Three days ago, he had come for the letter had been thrown through his window.
The message had been brief:
Revenge.
Yoriichi looked at the note in his mind's eye and felt nothing but mild curiosity. He did not hate Xiao Yan. He did not care about the humiliation.
However, the letter implied a conspiracy.
He didn't sit down. Standing still in the cold morning air would let his muscles stiffen.
Instead, he began to move.
He wasn't running; he was flowing.
He analyzed his own movement. The Sun Breathing footwork—Flash Dance—was designed for explosive, linear speed to close the distance against demons. But here, without a sword, and with a body that was still building muscle, he needed something more efficient for evasion.
He moved between the boulders scattered around the stream.
Step. Pivot. Burst.
He tried to minimize the friction of his feet against the ground. He channeled a small burst of Dou Qi into the soles of his feet right as they touched the earth, creating a cushion of energy that propelled him forward.
"Too loud," he critiqued as his foot scuffed the gravel. "The energy dispersion is messy."
He tried again. He visualized the water of the stream—how it flowed around the rocks, not against them.
For thirty minutes, he was a blur of motion in the steam, refining a movement technique that didn't exist in any manual. He was creating a malicious, unpredictable gait—one that looked like he was falling forward, only to snap sideways at the last second.
Snap.
A twig broke in the distance.
Yoriichi stopped instantly. He dropped into a natural standing posture, his breathing shifting to absolute silence.
His red eyes shifted to the east, towards the path that wound down from the direction of the city, bypassing the main Xiao Clan gate.
"Footsteps," he analyzed. "Seven distinct patterns. Irregular."
They were approaching.
Yoriichi stood by the massive rock he had been punching, leaning against it casually. He crossed his arms, hiding his bandaged hands in his armpits to keep them warm.
A minute later, the foliage parted.
A group of seven teenagers stepped into the clearing.
Yoriichi's gaze swept over them in a fraction of a second, dissecting their threat level.
They were a mixed group. Three wore heavy black robes with silver lining—the colors of the Jia Lie Clan. The other four wore loose green martial attire, embroidered with a willow leaf—the Ao Ba Clan.
The hierarchy was clear.
Leading them was a tall, lanky youth in black robes. His face was pale, his eyes sunken as if he indulged too much in wine and women, but his aura was stable.
"1-Star Dou Zhe," Yoriichi noted. "The others... Peak 9th Star and 8th Star Dou Zhi Qi."
It was a hunting party. Or a bullying party.
They stopped when they saw him.
The leader, the Dou Zhe from the Jia Lie clan, smirked when he saw Yoriichi standing alone by the stream.
"Well, well," the leader drawled, stepping forward with an arrogant swagger. "He actually came. I told you, didn't I? The trash of the Xiao Clan is desperate for any rope he can grab."
The group chuckled. They spread out slightly, forming a loose semi-circle, cutting off Yoriichi's escape route back to the clan.
Yoriichi didn't move. He didn't look desperate. He didn't look angry. He looked at them with the same detached interest he had shown the rock.
"You sent the letter," Yoriichi stated. It wasn't a question.
"We did," the leader nodded, adjusting his black cuffs. "I am Jia Lie Ao. You might know me. Or maybe not, since you spend all your time looking at porn instead of the city rankings."
More laughter from the green-robed lackeys.
Jia Lie Ao gestured to his surroundings. "We heard what happened. Xiao Yan humiliated you. He beat you in one move, in front of everyone. In front of Xiao Xun'er."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"It burns, doesn't it? Seeing a cripple suddenly rise up and step on your head? Seeing him steal the girl you've been chasing for years?"
Yoriichi watched him. He realized they were projecting their own petty grievances onto him. They assumed he was like them—fueled by jealousy and face.
"So," Yoriichi said, his voice flat. "You want to help me?"
"Help you? Yes," Jia Lie Ao grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "We have a... proposition. Xiao Yan has been arrogant lately. He offended my clan in the market. He offended the Ao Ba clan in the streets. We plan to teach him a lesson. A permanent one."
The atmosphere in the clearing shifted. The steam seemed to grow colder.
"But we need someone on the inside," Jia Lie Ao continued, pulling a small pouch from his belt. It clinked with the sound of gold coins. "Someone who knows his movements. Someone who can lure him out to a... quiet place. Like this one."
He tossed the pouch up and caught it.
"Do this for us, Xiao Ning, and not only will you get your revenge, but you'll also get enough gold to buy whatever 'cultured books' you want. And hey... maybe when we're done with Xiao Yan, Xun'er will need a shoulder to cry on, right?"
The group leered, their intentions nasty and clear.
Yoriichi stared at the pouch of gold. Then he looked at Jia Lie Ao's face.
He understood now.
They weren't just bullies. They were conspirators planning to maim or kill a core disciple of a rival clan. This was an act of war between the clans, hidden under the guise of a teenage grudge.
"You want me to betray my clan," Yoriichi said.
"Betray?" Jia Lie Ao scoffed. "Don't be dramatic. It's just settling a score. Besides, Who cares if he breaks a leg or two?"