61

Lei Qiuping awoke to darkness, his surroundings a blurry cave. His wrists and ankles were shackled with iron chains, tethered to the stone wall. A single move sent a clank echoing through the gloom.

A voice slithered into his ear, chillingly casual. "Third Uncle, how's it feel? Holding up okay?" Lei Zhengyang emerged, his face sporting a wicked, teasing grin.

Qiuping roared, "Zhengyang, what the hell is this? Chaining me up for training? Unlock me, now!" He yanked at the chains, but the forged steel didn't budge.

Zhengyang ignored him, circling like a predator. "Welcome to Qingsource Mountain—peaceful, no interruptions. Third Uncle, this is your training ground. From today until three months are up, this cave is home. I'll visit weekly. Water's by your side. Food? Figure it out."

Qiuping froze. "Zhengyang, you're joking, right? Just water, no food? I'll starve!"

"Relax," Zhengyang said. "Seven days on water won't kill you—maybe weaken you. Hungry? The cave's got plenty to eat." As he spoke, a bird flitted overhead. Zhengyang's hand shot out, a flicker of his Absorption Technique snaring it mid-flight. Stroking it cruelly, he smirked. "Bird meat's tasty, Third Uncle. Give it a try. I'll teach you the Absorption Technique—it'll help."

"Eat raw?!" Qiuping gaped. "Zhengyang, let's talk this over. Strength doesn't come from food, right?" Zhengyang's deadpan face unnerved him. This kid was serious. Trapped in this cave, no one would hear his cries.

Zhengyang was unmoved. "Your potential's untapped, but you're strong enough for the Absorption Technique. It thrives on a calm mind—plenty of that here. I'll give you the mantra. Meditate on it." Ignoring Qiuping's grimacing protests, he recited the technique and left, deaf to the shouts and pleas trailing him.

"You bastard! When I get out, you're dead!" Qiuping cursed, regretting his pursuit of Wu Xiaomin. No one was coming to save him.

He struggled for hours, but the chains held firm. Resigned, he decided to sleep—sleep dulled hunger. At home, skipping meals was nothing, but here, less than a day in, his stomach growled fiercely, more psychological than physical. Like a rich man and a pauper shopping, the mindset shifted everything.

Day two, Qiuping sipped water hourly, too restless to calm his mind. Tossing on the stone floor, he plotted: when Zhengyang came, he'd beg for a different training. But one day passed, then two, then three—Zhengyang didn't show. Water gone, hunger unbearable, Qiuping lost even the strength to curse. Spotting birds flitting above, he saw not pests but feasts, leaping frantically to catch them.

Hunger made anything edible—even humans, if it came to it. But the birds were nimble, and a day's effort yielded nothing. Recalling Zhengyang's Absorption Technique, he grudgingly practiced, mimicking the moves. By night, luck struck—a blind cat catching a dead mouse—and he snagged a bird. Elated, he devoured it, raw or not. A warm surge coursed through him. Survival trumped pride; he'd eat to outlast that bastard nephew.

Adversity sparked potential. Unbeknownst to Qiuping, Zhengyang had unblocked three of his vital meridians while he was unconscious. With focus, the Absorption Technique was within reach. Day four, he caught five birds. Day five, fifteen. Day six, thirty-four—not for eating but as training tools, catching and releasing repeatedly, losing track of time.

On the seventh morning, Zhengyang appeared, eyeing the disheveled but sharp-eyed Qiuping with satisfaction. His uncle was grasping the technique's power. "Third Uncle, nice progress! You're thriving. Look, I brought wine—pairs great with bird meat. Pure bliss."

Qiuping nearly sobbed. Seven days alone was inhuman. "Zhengyang, I'm begging you, let me out! This isn't training—it's torture! I can handle hardship, but swap this for something else. You're treating me like an animal!"

He ranted but guzzled the wine, its burn a fleeting relief. Zhengyang brushed off his pleas. "Today, I'm teaching you a combat fist technique. Pay attention. I left some spices at the cave mouth—might attract wolves or wild oxen. If you don't master this, things could get dicey."

"You bastard, trying to kill me?!" Qiuping howled.

Zhengyang began, movements slow. Forged in life-or-death struggles, this fist technique was lethal for close combat. Paired with inner energy, it could kill in one strike. Qiuping's nascent inner energy, sparked by the technique, already gave it bite. The liquor wasn't a kindness—it fueled his vigor, pushing him to a fevered peak in this harsh setting for rapid growth.

Despite Qiuping's curses, Zhengyang finished and left, tossing back, "Third Uncle, I'll check in two weeks. Hope you're still alive—beasts don't play nice. Wouldn't want Third Aunt widowed before the wedding!"

Qiuping's cursing fizzled. Was that concern? No, that jerk was baiting him with Xiaomin. Furious but wary, he took it seriously. Zhengyang was ruthless—if a beast ate him, it'd be a pathetic end.

Focusing, Qiuping felt a shift. The military's standard fist technique paled beside Zhengyang's moves. Simple yet laced with cold, lethal intent, they were unlike anything he knew. "Where'd Zhengyang learn this killer style? Did he really vanish to the Middle East that year?" The thought flickered, then vanished, consumed by the technique's allure. He was hooked.

Zhengyang hadn't lied. On day three, a 200-pound wild boar stormed in, drawn by the wine's scent. With a bellow, it charged, tusks gleaming. "Damn you, stupid pig, looking to die?" Qiuping cursed, leaping via his chains, kicking at the beast.

His kick landed hard, toppling the boar, but it scrambled up, unharmed, squealing louder and charging again. Qiuping hit the ground, fists flying with his new moves. He struck true, but lacked force. The boar's counter sent him sprawling. Had he not rolled, those tusks would've shredded his leg—crippling, if not fatal.

The chains, tangled under the boar's hooves, limited him. The beast closed in, its feral glare promising death. Qiuping had eaten pork, savory and rich, but this beast could gut him. "Come on, you pig! I'll be damned if I can't take you down!" Cornered, he braced for a head-on clash.

They collided with a crack. Qiuping lost, flung back, yanked by the chains. The boar, barely fazed, charged again, sensing weakness. In that split second, a surge of heat erupted from Qiuping's core, streaming through his meridians like a river. With a roar, he rolled to his feet, channeling the heat into his fist. He swung.

The punch smashed the boar's maw, shattering teeth. Squealing, it tumbled far, then fled. Qiuping collapsed, gasping. "Take that, you damn pig."

High above the cave mouth, Zhengyang watched, exhaling in relief. "Worth those two Viagra pills," he muttered. "Didn't expect a doped-up boar to push him that far, but it forced him to tap his inner energy." That final punch had carried its spark.