Wuji carefully flipped through the yellowed pages, letting the musty scent of old ink and dried parchment fill his nostrils.
After skimming for several minutes, he found himself drawn in by something in the text.
His posture straightened. His eyes focused. He began to read seriously.
After a while, he leaned back, his eyes flicking over the seventh page again.
"What kind of mind wrote this?" he muttered, half in awe. "Either a genius or a full-blown masochist."
The stances were brutal, involving deliberate strain on bone density, calculated impacts on marrow pressure, and breath patterns bordering on self-strangulation.
But the logic and structure were there. To most people, it might seem crude.
To Wuji, a former oncologist who studied the human body as if it were scripture, it was thrilling. Each section revealed small truths about skeletal development, tissue resistance, and muscle loading; ancient knowledge hidden behind poetic phrasing and pain.
He flipped to another page.
In the silence of the hut, only the soft rustle of pages and the occasional quiet sigh escaped him.
Outside, Meiyin hummed faintly as she went about her chores.
Wuji flipped another page, his eyes narrowing as he read the faded ink script.
{The marrow governs the body. The legs carry it. If the legs are weak, the marrow sinks. To raise it, strike the earth until it trembles beneath your feet.}
He read it twice, then once more under his breath. "The marrow governs?"
"Marrow." His fingers hovered over the characters. "This isn't just about muscle or posture; it targets the very foundation of the body's strength. The bone, blood, and core."
He continued reading.
The first stance was deceptively simple. Begin in a low horse stance. Thighs should be parallel to the ground. Feet should be wider than shoulder-width apart. Keep your spine straight. Hands clasped behind the back.
"Form is discipline," Wuji murmured. "Its not for balance but to align the load with the bone," he realized from reading.
Then came the next instruction, and the tone of the script changed, becoming more precise.
{Breath is the hammer. Without breath, strength cannot settle. Without breath, marrow cannot rise}
The breathing technique was the real gatekeeper. Any fool could squat. But not breath in the specific manner of the technique.
{Inhale through the nose for a count of seven. Fill your lungs until they press against your ribs. Hold for five counts. Exhale slowly through gritted teeth for a count of seven}
{For every fourteen breaths, rise and leap forward. Land with your knees bent. Your heels should strike the ground hard enough to rattle your bones. Each impact will compress your skeleton and stimulate marrow flow}
Wuji's eyebrows twitched as he read this. "This is basically asking me to injure myself on purpose."
"Only a madman or someone desperate would willingly do this kind of training. Are there no techniques that don't rely on this kind of brutality?" he thought.
Then he remembered the first book he read after arriving in this world.
"Martial strength is not a gift. It is a punishment you volunteer for."
That book had been blunt. A martial artist's life was pain. Any techniques that avoided that pain were hidden in the vaults of powerful sects, guarded by bloodlines, clans, and centuries of privilege.
"I don't have that luxury," Wuji muttered.
"I don't have martial arts talent. I don't have resources but what I have is desperation and my cell dominion talent."
He stood up, still holding the worn book in one hand. The ink was faded, but the words burned like iron in his mind.
He kept reading: {Repeat these moves 108 times daily for the first seven days. Then, increase by 36 every third day}
Beneath that was a red-marked warning:
{Internal injury is expected. Vomiting blood is acceptable. Passing out means your marrow resisted. Do not continue until you have rested or taken herbal aid}
Wuji stared at the page for a few silent seconds. Then, a slow grin crept across his face.
"That's fine," he said. "I have something better than rest."
He looked at his chest, especially at the Cellular Regeneration trait on the panel.
"As for the herbs I don't have enough money for them. I can only afford meat. Even if I had the money, the shops in this village wouldn't sell to me because of the chief, Chen Yi and the others in town are selling them at high prices," he thought, glancing around the hut.
His eyes narrowed. "Damn. I forgot i finished the last batch of meat last night. I should go before they close the village shops."
He sighed and closed the martial arts book. He could still recall the final pages, especially the part about the Bone-Breaking Fist.
"This section is incomplete. It's just fragments stolen from the original manual."
Wuji smirked. "If they had stolen the whole thing, this technique wouldn't be stuck at third-rate. Maybe it would be second-rate, or even better."
With a grunt, he stood up, tucked the book beneath his robe, and left to buy supplies.
Later that evening, he and Meiyin sat on a mat in the hut, slicing thick cuts of fresh meat on a flat stone. A fire crackled nearby.
"Brother, how long will this meat last you?" she asked, her small hands working carefully.
Wuji looked at the growing pile of meat and shook his head. "If it were before, maybe a month. But now?" He gave a dry laugh. "Three days, if I'm lucky. My body's like a furnace now."
She bit her lip. "Then maybe I should go work in town, too. I can help. I don't want to be useless."
He paused mid-slice and looked at her.
"No.
But—"
"No," he said firmly. "The town's not safe anymore. I was tailed twice today by people who weren't looking to make friends. If they catch you alone, they might not let you come back."
Meiyin lowered her gaze. "Okay, I'll listen to you. But what about food? We can't live on hope."
Wuji smiled faintly. "Don't worry. I've got a plan."
After cooking the meat for dinner, Wuji salted the rest and laid the slices out on a reed mat. He carried the mat behind the hut and placed it in a sunny spot out of sight of greedy eyes.
Then, he collapsed onto his straw bed and reopened the Iron Marrow Body Scripture.
By the last page, he stopped reading.
"I've already memorized it," he muttered to himself.
He stared at the brittle pages. The ink had faded, and the corners were cracked and browned with age. Yet, even in that state, the scroll felt heavy with value.
His mind raced. "What if I copied it? To get rich. To survive. To train. To have enough for Meiyin."
"That old man could have done it. But maybe he didn't know how to make paper look old. Maybe he couldn't make something look like an ancient treasure."
"But I can, thanks to the knowledge I gained in my past life."
He traced the cover with his finger, a slow grin spreading across his face.
He would squeeze food, profit, and revenge out of this one book.
As night fell, Wuji made his way to the village training ground.
He started with heavy squats, placing stones on his back and lowering himself until his thighs burned. Next, he punched punching dummies, trees, and anything else solid enough to cause pain.
He trained in silence, his robe darkening with sweat and his breathing steady but heavy.
Most people kept their distance. Even those who used to taunt him were silent, absorbed in their own rigorous drills. Something was different.
"Why is everyone training like they're about to be marched off to war?" he thought, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He strolled across the grounds, his ears pricked up as he picked through the fragments of gossip around him.
Eventually, he stopped near two young women whispering by the edge of the field.
"Keir, what if I'm not chosen as a maid?" one of them asked, her voice tight with anxiety. "I heard the cultivators only pick beautiful virgins."
Wuji's eyes narrowed. "Maid? Are the cultivators picking mortals? For what? Don't tell me... are they actually taking girls as brides? No, probably not. Maybe just for pleasure or to pass the time." His jaw tensed. "But who would offer themselves willingly?"
He had no idea that some of these maids would end up living better and longer lives than mortal queens. Some might be given spirit root detection pills, and although this spirit root would be the lowest known, some might achieve immortality if fate smiled upon them.
The other girl chimed in. "The chief said they're short on servants. They'll be choosing a few people from the village. My brother's training like crazy. I'm scared he'll break something."
"Your brother's already third-rate," the first girl replied with a sigh. "At least he's got a shot. My brother's talent is...well, forget it."
Wuji listened in silence. Then, a grin tugged at his lips.
"So that's why everyone's working themselves to death."
He turned around and walked out of the training grounds, passing the dojo along the way. His eyes lingered on the dusty martial arts books on the bookshelf inside.
There were no single martial techniques in them even the lowest of the low like the iron marrow body scripture.
"As a righteous and dignified scientist, I should help my dear villagers train better," he thought, his grin widening.
By the time he reached his hut, the grin had disappeared. He went straight to the back of the hut and stood in the moonlight.
It was time to begin the Iron Marrow Body Scripture.
He dropped into a low horse stance immediately.
His thighs screamed instantly as they became parallel to the ground. His feet were wide apart. Spine straight. Hands behind the back.
Within seconds, the pain came: a deep, fiery ache washing all over his muscles and bones.
His ribs throbbed. His body trembled.
Then came the breathing part. He inhaled through the nose for seven counts, hold for five, and exhale through gritted teeth for seven more.
He did it once. Then again. Then a third time.
By the twelfth breath, his legs were trembling uncontrollably. By the twentieth breath, he could barely see through the sweat. Then, as instructed, he rose and leaped forward to the ground.
"Every fourteen breaths, rise and leap. Land with bent knees. The shock stimulates marrow through impact," he mumbled to himself with tired voice.
He rose.
He leapt.
He landed hard.
CRACK!
Pain shot from his heels to his spine. His knees nearly buckled.
"Fuck!" he gasped.
His vision blurred. His body wasn't just sore; it was breaking. But this was the technique.
Internal injury was expected, bomiting blood was acceptable.
And he did vomit although a thin string of blood, it spilled from the corner of his lips.
Wuji wiped it off, his eyes burning with rage and clarity. He dropped back into the stance.
Again.
And again.