The pre-dawn air in the ravine behind the disciples' quarters was sharp enough to cut lungs. Lee Jin breathed through his nose, the rhythm precise, measured, drawn from the One Moon Circulation technique now etched into his very being. A thin, persistent stream of cold spiritual energy, finer than silk thread, coiled in his dantian. It was pitiful by any cultivator's standard, but to him, it was a sun after a lifetime of darkness.
He stood in a shallow creek, the icy water numbing his feet to the ankles. This was not in any copied manual. This was his own addition—a way to train stability, to fight the body's instinct to flee discomfort. His arms were extended, holding two large, water-smoothed stones. The Stone-Carrying Stance knowledge optimized his posture, turning a trembling hold into a sustainable, deep muscle burn.
[Bodily Vessel Improvement: 12.1%]
[Spiritual Energy Capacity: 0.5 Moon Cycle Units]
The numbers were his secret scripture, his measure of progress. The Bitter-Spike Nettle paste was a foundation of grime and grit, but it was working. His robes, still ragged, hung on a frame that was no longer just skinny, but lean, defined by tendons and hard-won muscle.
For weeks, he had watched. Not just Senior Disciple Han, but all of them. The outer disciples in the training yard during their mandatory morning drills. Their movements were synchronized, a wave of bodies performing the Silent Moon Fist, the most basic combat form of the sect. It was a foundation art, designed to teach how to channel the faintest trickle of qi into a fist, to harden the knuckles, to make a punch more than just muscle.
He had analyzed dozens of them through his system. Most were 'Novice'. A few diligent ones were 'Competent'. Their individual flaws were highlighted in blue diagnostics—a dropped shoulder here, a misaligned hip rotation there. He wasn't just looking for the skill; he was looking for the cleanest version of it.
He found her in the third row. Disciple Mei, a girl with a serious, unremarkable face, her movements not the most powerful, but eerily precise. Her form was a study in mechanical accuracy. Her qi flow, what little she had, followed the textbook pathways perfectly.
[Target: Disciple Mei]
- Skills Detected: One Moon Circulation (Competent), Silent Moon Fist (Competent - Flawless Execution), Basic Staff Forms (Novice)
[Copy: 'Silent Moon Fist (Competent - Flawless Execution)'?]
Yes.
The integration was smoother this time. His body was more prepared. It wasn't a flood, but a gentle immersion. He felt the specific tension in the forearms, the exact moment to clench the fist—not at the beginning of the punch, but a hairsbreadth before impact to avoid locking the joint. He understood the footwork that generated power from the earth, not just the arm. Most importantly, he grasped the subtle, almost imperceptible thread of qi that was meant to be pulled from the dantian, shot down the arm's meridians, and encapsulated over the knuckles upon contact, creating a momentary shell of force.
It was simple. Elegant. Deadly in its fundamentals.
Lee Jin lowered the stones. The water dripped from his arms. He stepped out of the creek onto the frost-rimed bank. He took a breath, settling into the opening stance of the Silent Moon Fist.
And he moved.
It was different from practicing the Falling Petal Stroke. That was a technique, a specific application. This was a language. A series of linked characters—jabs, crosses, blocks, elbows. Executed by Disciple Mei, it was competent. Executed by Lee Jin, with his Master Herbalist's understanding of the body's limits and his Proficient Circulation technique feeding it, it became something else.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwump.
His fists cut the air. There was no one to hit, so he struck the thick, moss-covered trunk of an ancient pine. The first punch was careful, testing the form. The second integrated the footwork. The third, he tried to thread that filament of qi.
A sharp, electric jolt shot from his dantian, down his meridian, and sputtered out at his elbow. He hissed, shaking his arm. Failure. The knowledge was there, but the pathway was still too narrow, his control too crude.
He tried again. And again. For an hour, until his knuckles were raw and bleeding, painting the moss with smears of crimson, and his spiritual energy was utterly depleted, leaving a hollow, aching void in his core.
He collapsed against the tree, panting, his hands throbbing. Frustration boiled up, hot and familiar. He had the blueprint! The perfect, flawless blueprint! Why couldn't he do it?
[Analysis: Spiritual-to-Physical Channeling Inefficient. Meridian Pathway 'Lesser Yang Arm Meridian' exhibits 43% blockage. Recommend targeted unblocking through repetitive, low-energy cycling or external stimulus.]
The system's cold diagnosis cut through his frustration. It wasn't just about having the skill. His vessel, even improved, was still damaged goods. The "spiritual cripple" label wasn't entirely wrong—his meridians were naturally narrow, silted with some innate blockage. The copied One Moon Circulation had found a way around the major dams, but the smaller irrigation channels were still clogged.
External stimulus. He looked at his bleeding knuckles, then at the rough bark of the pine. A brutal, simple idea formed.
The next night, after his chores and his bitter supper, he didn't just practice the form. He began a new, more agonizing regimen. He would cycle a tiny, controlled wisp of qi—not enough to punch with, just enough to feel—and deliberately send it down the obstructed 'Lesser Yang Arm Meridian' toward his fist. Then, he would slam his fist into the tree.
The impact would jar the qi, shock the meridian. It was like using a hammer to clear a blocked pipe. Pain, blinding and sharp, flared each time. But after each impact, he would feel a tiny, granular bit of resistance give way. The system's percentage ticked down slowly, agonizingly.
42% blockage... 41.8%... 41.5%...
It was madness. It was excruciating. It was progress.
One evening, a week into this new self-torture, as he prepared to slip out to the ravine, he found a small, cloth-wrapped package on his sleeping mat. He looked around. His roommates were already snoring. He unfolded it.
Inside were two things. A small jar of plain, but high-quality bone-knitting salve. And a single, fresh Spirit-Grass Dumpling, still slightly warm, its delicate steamed wrapper giving off a faint, fragrant aura of spiritual energy. It was food from the inner disciple kitchens. A treasure.
There was no note. But he knew. Granny Luo. She had seen his rapidly healing shoulder. She had smelled the bitter nettle paste on him. She was silent, observant, and bound by no loyalties to the proud disciples of the sect.
For a long moment, Lee Jin just stared at the dumpling. It represented a kindness he had forgotten existed. He carefully put away the salve. Then, he ate the dumpling slowly, savoring every bite. It tasted like clouds and sunlight. A wave of gentle, easily absorbable spiritual energy washed through him, soothing his frayed meridians and replenishing his dantian more than a week of his own efforts would have.
He didn't go to the ravine that night. He sat on his mat, cycling the new energy, feeling it nourish and repair. The One Moon Circulation glowed with newfound efficiency.
The next morning, during his creek-side training, he performed the Silent Moon Fist again. He cycled the qi. He punched.
This time, the thread of energy didn't sputter. It shot down his arm, through the cleared channel, and encapsulated his fist in a faint, shimmering shell the color of weak moonlight.
CRACK.
The sound was different. Not the wet thud of flesh on wood, but a sharper, more definitive report. When he pulled his fist back, the moss was gone. A clear, fist-sized indentation was left in the pine's bark, and a hairline split ran an inch up the trunk.
Lee Jin stared at his unmarked knuckles. No blood. Just a faint, fading silver glow.
[Skill Integration Breakthrough: 'Silent Moon Fist' proficiency elevated from 'Competent' to 'Proficient' through practical mastery.]
[Meridian Blockage in 'Lesser Yang Arm Meridian': 38%.]
[Spiritual Energy Capacity: 0.7 Moon Cycle Units.]
A slow, real smile spread across his face, one that reached his eyes for the first time in years. It wasn't the savage grin of triumph, but the quiet, certain satisfaction of a key turning in a long-locked door.
He had a foundation. He had a method to clear his paths. He had a basic combat art. And he had, against all odds, a single, silent ally.
He looked up from his fist, through the canopy of trees, towards the main training grounds where the morning bell was tolling. Soon, the disciples would be assembling. Senior Disciple Han would be strutting, demonstrating forms for the newcomers.
Lee Jin picked up his stones and stepped back into the icy creek. The burn in his muscles was a promise. The chill on his skin was a reminder.
He was no longer just copying skills. He was beginning to own them. And ownership, in the Murim world, was the first step towards power. The next step was testing that ownership. He would need a target. And he knew just the arrogant, bullying candidate.