[ Name: Zhao Zhiyu ]
[ Cultivation Base: Semi-Immortal ]
[ Strength: 9 ]
[ Agility: 9 ]
[ Endurance: 12 ]
[ Vitality: 10 ]
[ Perception: 7 ]
[ Willpower: 11 ]
[ Condition: Fatigued | Mild Mental Strain ]
[ Soul Status: Unintegrated ]
[ Body Compatibility: Partially Stabilized ]
[ Passive Abilities ]
[ Poison Resistance: Minor Achievement (12%) ]
[ Techniques ]
[ Tampering Body, Tampering Soul Technique: Major Achievement ]
[ Shadow Stalking Technique: Minor Achievement ]
[ Notes ]
[ Soul and body are not fully synchronized, but control efficiency has greatly increased. ]
Zhao Zhiyu stared at the panel for a long while, his thoughts drifting without direction, until—
GONG!!
The sound slammed into him.
His body jerked violently, his heart skipping a beat. What startled him was not just the sudden noise, but how strong it felt.
The vibration rippled through the air, crawled along his hair, pressed into his skull, and settled deep in his chest.
He frowned and steadied his breathing.
'Shit! That scared the shit out of me!'
He recognized the sound almost immediately. It was the gathering gong. The last one had been about a week ago. The timing made sense.
He sighed.
He really did not want to leave his room... his cell, more accurately. It was cramped, bare, and cold, but it was quiet. Still, he knew better than to ignore a call like this.
'If I want to live, I need to go.'
He stood up, wrapped his thin robe tighter around himself, and left.
...
The gathering room was dim, lit by torches embedded into stone walls. The other five were already there, standing or sitting in loose positions, all silent. Familiar, wary faces.
Moments later, the spider-masked woman stepped forward.
"Now that all of you are here," she said brightly, her tone almost cheerful, "it's time for another lesson!"
Her cheerfulness unsettled Zhao Zhiyu more than any threat ever could.
'She only sounds like this when something unpleasant is coming.'
She waved her hand, and several books appeared, floating briefly before dropping into each of their hands.
Zhao Zhiyu glanced at the title.
'Hun Gathering Technique.'
She began to explain calmly, as if lecturing students rather than training assassins.
"All immortal beings," she said, "must cultivate energy for their souls. This energy is called hun. Hun exists throughout the world, thin but everywhere. Immortals gather hun to strengthen their souls, increase their realm, and stabilize their existence."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"When the soul grows stronger, the body will eventually upgrade to accommodate it."
She then produced another book.
"This," she continued, "is a Po Tampering Technique. Po refers to the physical vessel—the body. A stronger soul requires a stronger vessel. While some changes occur naturally, like what happened when you consumed a soul beast and became semi-immortal, those changes are imperfect."
Zhao Zhiyu's fingers tightened slightly around the book.
'I see... Sigh. There's so much to do. So that means that suffering I felt have instability...'
She nodded as if reading his thoughts.
"You've all felt it. The side effects. Unstable senses, disharmony between body and soul. That is normal."
Her voice turned colder.
"The world does not grant everyone a body perfectly suited to their soul. Not everyone is talented. That is why tampering the body first is safer. Strengthen the vessel, then refine the soul. Otherwise—" she smiled faintly, "—the soul may tear the body apart."
Silence filled the room.
Then she clapped her hands once, sharply.
"Enough talking. Start cultivating."
No further instructions. No encouragement.
Zhao Zhiyu lowered his gaze to the book in his hands, exhaling slowly.
'Hun… po… soul first or body first…'
He sat down with the others, crossed his legs, and opened the book.
'So this is real cultivation now,' he thought.
'I've read a lot but who knows it would be this hard!'
His expression steadied.
'If I don't keep up… I will disintegrate in a snap.'
...
Zhao Zhiyu returned to his room with mixed expectations. He sat down on the cold stone bed, placed the Po Tampering Technique manual on his knees, and opened it carefully.
Only a few pages in, his expression stiffened.
He read again. Then again.
His brows twitched.
'…What?'
The method described inside was nothing like hun gathering or mental focus. There were no quiet breathing cycles, no meditative stillness. Instead, the pages were filled with diagrams of twisted postures, forceful muscle contractions, and blunt instructions written with disturbing calmness.
—Strike the body until the limit of endurance is reached.
—Bone vibration is encouraged.
—Pain is the proof of progress.
Zhao Zhiyu swallowed.
'This isn't cultivation. This is self-torture!'
He turned another page, hoping it would improve. It did not.
The technique demanded repeated impact to muscles and bones, controlled but relentless, meant to force the body to adapt, rebuild, and thicken its vessel.
The book even specified where to strike, how much force to use, and how to avoid dying while doing so.
His hands trembled slightly as he closed the book.
'I hate pain,' he thought flatly. 'Out of everything… this is what I hate the most!'
For a brief moment, he considered not doing it. Just skipping this part. Letting the body improve naturally over time.
Then another thought followed, calm and merciless.
'If I don't do it, my soul might tear my body apart first...'
He exhaled slowly.
"…Damn it."
There was no one else in the room.
He stood up, adjusted his stance according to the manual, clenched his jaw, and raised his fist.
The first strike landed against his ribs.
Pain bloomed instantly—sharp, deep, and intimate. His breath hitched, and his vision blurred for a moment.
He staggered, steadying himself against the wall.
'So this is how it starts. It freaking hurts like hell!'
He followed the instructions exactly. Strike, pause, regulate breathing. Strike again. Different angles. Different muscle groups. Controlled force, but never gentle.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
Sweat soaked his clothes. His arms shook. His legs threatened to give out. At some point, tears slipped down his face without permission, mixing with sweat and falling onto the stone floor.
He hated every second of it.
His body screamed. His mind begged him to stop. His instincts told him this was wrong.
But he continued.
Again. And again. And again.
Hours later, when his movements had slowed to something barely resembling discipline, a faint shimmer appeared before his eyes.
The panel opened.
[ Po Cultivation Technique: Entry Level ]
The technique finally showed up.
Zhao Zhiyu froze. Then laughed weakly—before the laugh broke into a quiet sob.
He sank to the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming freely now.
'I did it,' he thought, exhaustion and relief tangled together. 'I really did it! Hell yeah!'
But even as satisfaction washed over him, misery followed close behind.
He understood now.
This technique did not reward insight or talent. It rewarded endurance. Pain was not a side effect, rather, it was the method.
He wiped his face with a trembling hand and stared at the panel.
'So this is how I grow stronger here,' he thought bitterly. 'By hurting myself… I hate it!'
Zhao Zhiyu rested for a long while before daring to move again. His body still throbbed faintly from the Po Tampering Technique, every muscle aching in a dull, lingering way that reminded him of each mistake he had made while learning it.
When the pain finally dulled enough to be ignored, he reached for the second manual, the Hun Gathering Technique.
Compared to the brutal simplicity of body tempering, this one felt… weird!
The pages spoke of resonance, circulation, and attraction. Hun was described as a subtle force permeating the world, invisible yet ever-present, responding not to strength but to alignment.
The diagrams showed abstract patterns rather than postures, and the explanations were filled with metaphors instead of direct instructions.
Hours passed.
Zhao Zhiyu read slowly, lips moving as he tried to make sense of the words. He understood parts of it, at least on the surface, but the deeper meanings slipped through his grasp like smoke.
'Why is this one harder than beating myself up?' he thought irritably.
Still, he tried.
He sat down, crossed his legs, and followed what he thought was the correct method. He calmed his breathing, focused inward, and attempted to draw hun toward his soul.
The moment he forced it, something went terribly wrong.
A sharp, tearing pain erupted deep within him—not in flesh, not in bone, but somewhere far more intimate. It felt as though something inside his chest twisted violently.
"Uughrk!!"
His eyes flew open.
He gasped, then doubled over as a metallic taste flooded his mouth. Blood spilled from between his lips, splattering onto the floor.
Splat!
He coughed again, body convulsing, pain pulsing through his soul like a cracked bell being struck over and over.
'Idiot,' he thought dimly. 'You forced it like an idiot! I nearly died!'
He lay there for a long time, breathing shallowly, afraid that moving too much would make the pain return. When it finally receded to a faint ache, fear replaced confusion.
This was different from body tempering. This mistake could have killed him.
After recovering enough to sit up, he picked up the manual again, this time with shaking hands.
He reread it.
Then reread it again.
He slowed down, no longer trying to understand everything at once. He compared passages, traced the diagrams with his fingers, and cross-referenced earlier sections he had skimmed before.
He stopped guessing and started questioning every assumption he had made.
A day passed like that.
No cultivation. No practice. Only reading, thinking, and correcting himself.
Eventually, something clicked.
It was not a grand realization. Just a small shift in perspective. Hun was not meant to be seized or pulled, it was meant to be invited. The soul did not dominate it; it resonated with it.
Zhao Zhiyu sat down again, carefully aligning his posture as described. He relaxed completely, letting his awareness spread rather than condense. He did not reach outward.
This time, there was no pain.
A faint warmth gathered around his awareness, subtle but unmistakable.
Then, quietly, the panel appeared.
Zhao Zhiyu stared at it in disbelief. Joy surged through him so suddenly that he almost laughed out loud.
He clenched his fist, eyes bright despite the exhaustion.
'Finally,' he thought fiercely. 'After all that… finally!'
Relief, triumph, and lingering anger mixed together in his chest.
As he leaned back against the wall, he cursed every being he could think of in his head—the spider-masked woman, the people who wrote these techniques, the immortals who decided this was how the world should work.
But beneath the curses, there was a fragile sense of satisfaction.
He had survived another step.