“Hey!
Hah!
Hey!
Hah!”
On the Feng family’s training ground, rows of young figures jumped and moved as they practiced a basic fist technique.
The blazing sun hung high overhead, and the children were drenched in sweat.
But none of them complained.
Shouts and cries filled the air—a scene of fervent martial practice.
Across the Tianwu Continent, martial arts were a universal passion.
Strength was the ultimate law, passed down through generations, etched into the very soul of the people.
The Feng family, built on martial principles, was no exception.
“Put some muscle into it!
You kids haven’t eaten?”
A rough-featured middle-aged man stood watch.
His eyes gleamed sharp, his face stern.
He barked corrections at regular intervals.
His name was Feng Ren.
He was a full Martial Master, one of the pillars of the Feng family, and well-known throughout Yulan City.
He was also the elder these children feared most.
Under his commands, they redoubled their efforts, the thud of fists and feet growing heavier.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Feng Ren’s mouth.
Clearly, he was satisfied with their performance.
“Hey!
Hah!”
Among them was a twelve-year-old boy with a handsome face still touched by youth.
His expression was utterly serious, his long hair tied behind his head.
Every punch and kick he threw was at full strength.
His clothes were soaked through.
He had been at it for three hours without a moment’s pause.
It was Feng Hao.
“Ha!
Heh!”
Every movement was precise and textbook-perfect.
With each swing, he created a faint rustle of displaced air.
At only the mid-stage of the third-rank Martial Apprentice, his training was nothing more than body tempering.
On the path of cultivation, tempering came first.
Only by forging the body to be as firm as stone could a martial artist then train the breath and cultivate “martial essence.” And only after forming martial essence could one truly be called a martial artist.
“Morning practice—dismissed!”
Feng Ren looked up at the sun, planted his feet, and barked the order.
“Ahh, I’m dead.”
“Huff…
huff…”
The children collapsed to the ground, a chorus of groans and gasps rising around them.
But when they caught sight of Feng Ren’s darkening expression, the noise quickly died down.
They were all around ten years old.
Two hours of morning training drained every ounce of their strength.
“Ha!
Hah!”
On the entire training ground, only Feng Hao was still going.
A pool of sweat had formed beneath his feet, and droplets sprayed with every swing of his arms.
Feng Ren glanced at him, said nothing, and strode off the field with heavy steps.
“Hmph.
All for show.”
A sturdy-looking boy shot Feng Hao a contemptuous glance, muttering under his breath.
“If I had herbal medicine to nourish me, I’d be at the fourth rank by now.”
This was Feng Lei, the grandson of the Feng family’s second elder.
He was the same age as Feng Hao and had already reached the third rank as well—but only the early stage.
On the surface, Feng Lei’s talent clearly surpassed Feng Hao’s, and he resented Feng Hao for getting the resources he felt he deserved.
Feng Lei wasn’t alone in that sentiment.
Even the second-rank Martial Apprentice children felt the same way.
Because of this, Feng Hao was basically isolated among the younger generation of the Feng family.
They mocked him openly, to his face.
Strength was everything.
Without it, you earned neither recognition nor respect.
Feng Hao’s unremarkable performance meant he couldn’t command the others’ acceptance.
“Huff!
Hah!”
Feng Hao acted as if he hadn’t heard the bitter remarks.
He kept swinging his fists and kicking.
From the time he was old enough to understand, these voices had been a constant companion as he grew up.
But he had no way to explain that the herbal medicine had never worked for him.
When the sun was directly overhead and his strength was completely spent, Feng Hao finally stopped.
Pushing further would bring no improvement—on the contrary, it would only strain and tear his muscles.
That was a lesson he had learned the hard way.
“Huff…
huff…”
Once he had caught his breath, he didn’t join the other children in sparring or playing.
He dragged his exhausted body toward a courtyard.
“Well, well.
Our little genius is already tired?”
Feng Lei blocked his path, backed by three other boys.
All of them wore mocking grins.
“Here we go again.”
“Serves him right.”
“Trash is trash, but he takes up all the best resources.”
The children on the training ground pointed and gossiped, but no one stepped in to mediate.
They all watched like it was a show.
Feng Hao frowned.
He stepped to the side and tried to walk around.
“Oh?
Our genius is giving us the cold shoulder?
Hahaha…”
Feng Lei sidestepped to block him again, grinning smugly.
The four of them were all third-rank Martial Apprentices, completely unafraid of Feng Hao.
In fact, every time they fought, Feng Hao came out the worse for wear.
One man against four was bad odds, and he was only a minor rank above them—the gap wasn’t enough to matter.
“Move.”
Feng Hao’s voice was cold and raspy.
“What, you think you’re going to teach me a lesson again, genius?”
Feng Lei stepped forward, closing the distance.
Thump!
Feng Hao’s fist answered for him.
And so the daily ritual played out once more on the training ground.
The result was the same as always—Feng Hao got beaten black and blue.
…
“Hao’er, you’re back.”
As he entered the courtyard, a beautiful woman came out to greet him.
Seeing his sweat-drenched, exhausted face, her eyes filled with worry.
She was his mother, Qiong Su.
She came from a family of comparable standing to the Fengs in another town.
“Don’t push yourself so hard next time.”
She pulled out a white handkerchief and carefully wiped the sweat from his small face.
“You’re always so stubborn.
If something happens to you again, what will we do?”
Feng Hao had more than once overexerted himself during training, tearing his muscles in the process.
“Mother, I know.”
It was only around his mother that warmth crept into his eyes.
In his heart, his mother was the person who loved him most in the world.
So he almost always did whatever she asked without question.
“You…”
Qiong Su gently pinched his cheek.
“Alright.
Go wash up first, then come to the hall for dinner.”
“Mm.”
He headed toward a side room.
Grimacing, he peeled off his clothes.
His body was covered in dozens of bruises—a mix of old wounds and fresh ones.
The pain was something he had long since grown accustomed to.
The cold water washed away the heat and sweat.
He changed into a set of clean clothes Qiong Su had prepared and went to the main hall.
Inside, a square rosewood table held five or six dishes, their aroma drifting across the room.
A stern-faced middle-aged man was eating.
Qiong Su sat beside him, ladling soup.
This was Feng Chen, the current head of the Feng family.
When Feng Hao entered, Qiong Su set down the ladle and waved him over.
“Father.”
Feng Hao addressed Feng Chen respectfully.
“Mm.”
Feng Chen replied flatly, without warmth.
The three of them finished their meal in silence.