Mei Ling lowered her hand after a brief pause, then extended it toward him.
"Get up," she said calmly.
Zhao Zhiyu hesitated for half a second before taking it. Her grip was firm and steady, and she pulled him up without effort.
As soon as he stood, a dull ache spread through his abdomen and arms, but he kept his expression neutral.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"How did you react so quickly just now?" she asked. "That was… creepy, in a way."
He exhaled and rolled his shoulders carefully. "It's a technique I learned," he said honestly. "It improves control between my eyes and body. I don't really have combat experience, though."
Mei Ling nodded. "I could tell," she replied. "Your reactions are sharp, but your timing is still rough. You're slower than me, but not by as much as I expected."
She paused, then asked, "What soul did you consume?"
Zhao Zhiyu did not see a reason to hide it. "A centipede," he answered.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's a weird one... Kinda disgusting..."
Then she added, "How about me?"
Before he could respond, she said, "It's a snake!," and stepped back.
Then, without any warning, she started removing her outer clothing.
Zhao Zhiyu froze for a fraction of a second—not out of embarrassment, but surprise. He did not turn away, nor did he stare.
His expression remained flat, his mind more confused than anything else.
She stopped after loosening her clothes enough to expose her back, using a cloth to cover her chest casually.
Etched along her spine was a long snake tattoo, coiled and detailed, its scales dark and precise. The eyes of the snake seemed unnervingly vivid, almost as if they were watching him.
Zhao Zhiyu felt a faint discomfort crawl up his spine as he looked at it.
"That thing feels… strange," he said truthfully. "Do you really have to show it like that?"
She glanced back at him. "You asked," she replied, tone indifferent.
'I didn't...,' Zhao Zhiyu was dumbfounded.
'She showed no sign of embarrassment at all.'
Zhao Zhiyu found that odd. Even if she liked women, he thought, most people would still hesitate at least a little. Instead, she adjusted her clothes as if nothing unusual had happened.
'She's really not normal,' he thought. 'Then again… none of us are anymore.'
He looked away as she finished dressing, his face returning to its usual calm expression.
Mei Ling flexed her fingers once, as if testing the joints, then looked at him again.
"If you want experience," she said, "then the fastest way is to get beaten up."
Zhao Zhiyu stared at her for a moment. "That sounds… unpleasant."
"It is," she replied flatly. "But it works though."
He hesitated, then nodded. He already hated pain, but he hated being helpless more.
"All right."
They moved to a wider section of the corridor where the floor was relatively clear.
The light was dim, but not completely dark, just enough for him to see her movements without relying entirely on his heightened perception.
She did not rush him this time.
Instead, she attacked slowly at first.
Her hand snapped toward his face, stopping just short of his nose. He flinched instinctively, blinking hard.
She withdrew immediately and shook her head. "Don't blink so much. If you lose sight of the attack for even a moment, you're already dead."
They continued.
Her strikes came one after another, not fast enough to overwhelm him, but precise enough to force him to react.
Each time he blocked incorrectly, her knuckles or palm landed solidly on his arms, shoulders, or ribs.
The pain built up quickly, dull at first, then sharp.
"Your body tenses too early," she said after landing a blow on his forearm. "You're telling your opponent where you'll block."
He gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance. He focused on relaxing his shoulders, letting the movement come naturally instead of forcing it.
Again.
This time, he managed to deflect her strike cleanly. His arm still vibrated from the impact, but it did not hurt as much.
She nodded slightly. "Better."
The hours dragged on.
They did not stop often. When he stumbled or fell, she waited only long enough for him to stand again. Sweat soaked through his clothes, and bruises bloomed across his skin in dark patches. His arms felt heavy, and his breathing grew uneven.
At some point, she increased the speed.
Her attacks became sharper, more sudden. Several times he failed to react in time and took hits directly to the torso or thigh. Each impact sent pain shooting through him, and more than once his vision blurred for a second.
"Don't flinch," she said as he recoiled from a strike to the shoulder. "Don't run from pain."
He swallowed hard and forced himself to steady his breathing. He focused on the vibrations in the air, on the subtle shift of her weight before she moved. His body still lagged behind his perception, but less than before.
Again and again, they clashed.
By the time she finally stopped, his limbs were trembling. He could barely keep his balance, and every inhale made his chest ache.
She stepped back and studied him. "You're adapting," she said. "Your reactions are cleaner than earlier."
Zhao Zhiyu let out a long breath and slumped slightly, hands resting on his knees.
Haah...
"That was… torture."
She shrugged. "Training usually is."
He straightened with effort, his body screaming in protest, but his mind strangely clear. Despite the pain, he could feel it, his body remembering the movements, the timing, the sensation of impact.
It scared him a little.
And at the same time, it reassured him.
As they caught their breath, Zhao Zhiyu glanced at Mei Ling from the corner of his eye. The way she stood—relaxed, balanced, as if violence were just another habit—made a thought surface in his mind.
'What kind of life did she live before being dragged into this place?'
He hesitated, then asked anyway.
"You… you fought like this even before you were kidnapped?"
She paused for a moment, then gave a vague shrug.
"...Something like that."
He wanted to press further, but the look in her eyes warned him off. Instead, he remembered something else and cleared his throat.
"About the poison you mentioned. Did you manage to get any?"
Her expression changed instantly. She blinked once, then smiled—soft, almost cute, and completely out of place on her bruised face.
"Ah… I forgot!"
He stared at her.
She tilted her head slightly, still smiling, clearly trying to dodge the topic.
"Next time."
Zhao Zhiyu sighed.
After that, they separated.
He returned to his room alone, the familiar cold metal door closing behind him. The silence felt heavier after hours of constant movement and pain.
He sat down, adjusted his breathing, and pulled out the manual on Soul Manipulation and Soul Puppets once more.
This time, he moved carefully.
He focused inward, feeling for his soul the way the technique described—gentle, patient, as if holding water in his palms.
Every attempt to separate even the smallest fragment demanded intense concentration.
When he pushed too hard, pain flared in his head, sharp enough to make him hiss and stop immediately.
'Slow. Don't be greedy.'
He tried again.
Minutes passed for a single attempt. Sometimes he gained nothing at all. Other times, the panel flickered, and the experience value crept up by a tiny amount.
It was painfully slow compared to his other techniques, but he understood why. One mistake here could cripple him permanently.
Hours slipped by.
By the time he finally stopped, his head throbbed and his body felt hollow, but the faint increase in experience was there, undeniable proof that he was moving forward.
Zhao Zhiyu leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
'Time-consuming, dangerous, and inefficient,' he thought tiredly. '…So of course this is probably the most important one.'
With that, he steadied himself and prepared to try again.
Hours passed again without him noticing. His concentration eventually slipped, his head drooping as exhaustion caught up to him. He slept on the cold floor, shallow and dreamless. When he woke up, there was no confusion anymore. This rhythm—cultivate, train, endure, sleep—had become routine.
After washing his face with cold water, Zhao Zhiyu went out again.
He found Xi Sheng in one of the quieter corridors, practicing his techniques alone.
Without saying a word, Zhao Zhiyu slipped into Shadow Stalking.
His presence thinned, footsteps fading until even the air around him felt less disturbed.
Xi Sheng felt it almost immediately.
He sighed softly but did not turn around.
This time was different. Instead of getting uneasy or distracted, Xi Sheng steadied his breathing and sat down cross-legged.
His eyes closed, and his posture relaxed. He began focusing inward, clearly working on tampering his mental state, reinforcing his concentration.
Zhao Zhiyu followed closely, clinging to his shadow.
'So he's adapting too,' Zhao Zhiyu thought. 'He's good.'
The strange thing was that the technique became harder to maintain. Xi Sheng's mental state grew calm and closed off, like a still pond.
Zhao Zhiyu could still follow him, but the feedback was weaker, forcing him to adjust constantly. He had to refine his movements, reduce even the smallest fluctuations in intent.
Sweat slowly formed on his back.
Xi Sheng continued cultivating as if nothing was there. His breathing remained even, his focus sharp. It felt less like stalking someone and more like pressing against a wall that refused to move.
Surprisingly, Zhao Zhiyu felt satisfied.
'This is good training,' he admitted. 'For both of us.'
They stayed like that for hours. One cultivating the mind, the other refining concealment and patience.
Neither spoke and neither attacked.
When Zhao Zhiyu finally disengaged, his muscles were sore and his head felt heavy, but the steady gain in experience told him it had been worth it.
Xi Sheng opened his eyes afterward and glanced back. "You're persistent."
Zhao Zhiyu nodded once. "You're harder to follow now."
Xi Sheng gave a faint smile. "And you're harder to ignore."
They went their separate ways after that, both quietly aware that the other was no longer someone to underestimate.
When Zhao Zhiyu trained with Mei Ling again, the difference was obvious.
His reactions were sharper. His body adjusted faster to sudden strikes and feints.
The first few exchanges flowed more smoothly, his feet moving instinctively, his arms rising to protect vital points without hesitation.
Mei Ling noticed it too.
Her attacks became faster.
They exchanged blows in short bursts. He dodged low kicks, blocked slashing strikes aimed at his throat, and twisted his torso to avoid direct hits.
His movements were efficient, almost frightening in how quickly they adapted.
Then it happened.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, everything stopped.
Zhao Zhiyu felt it immediately. His thoughts were clear, his body perfectly aware—yet it refused to move. It was not fear. It was not pain. It was as if something had seized his intent itself.
'Move!'
Nothing responded.
His muscles did not tense. His feet did not shift. Even his breath caught.
Mei Ling did not hesitate.
Her fist slammed into his face.
The impact snapped his head sideways. Pain exploded across his jaw and cheek, bright and ringing. He staggered backward, nearly losing balance as warmth filled his mouth.
She pulled her hand back and stepped away.
Zhao Zhiyu spat blood onto the ground and steadied himself, his vision blurring for a moment.
'That wasn't speed,' he realized. 'Was I paralyzed for a moment?'
Mei Ling watched him carefully, her expression serious now. "You felt it, didn't you?"
He wiped his mouth and nodded slowly.
"It's a basic technique" she said. "A basic mental pressure technique. You reacted well before that."
Zhao Zhiyu exhaled, his jaw aching.
'It seems I have to learn a lot more than this...'
All this time, they had only been fighting hand to hand.
They haven't used their techniques yet. And today is the first time.
Zhao Zhiyu realized that clearly now.
He pushed himself up from the ground, his jaw still throbbing, and rolled his shoulders to loosen them.
Every part of his body ached, but it no longer surprised him. Pain had become background noise.
He took a slow breath.
'If this is just the basics… then I'm still far behind.'
Mei Ling did not rush him. She waited, arms relaxed at her sides, watching him with a calm, unreadable expression.
Zhao Zhiyu stepped back into position.
He knew he could not afford to slack off. He was not a genius. He did not have overwhelming talent or absurd luck. What he had was time, stubbornness, and the ability to keep going.
'If I stop, I will die more easily, I'll just endure this till I survive in this hell...'
He steadied his stance and raised his guard again, forcing his breathing to slow.
His body adjusted, tiny corrections happening without conscious thought. Even if he was slower, even if he was weaker, he would learn.
"Again," he said.
And they resumed training, the sound of fists and footwork echoing softly through the dark corridor as Zhao Zhiyu continued to carve survival into his own flesh.