Chapter 015: Tempering

In the Luo family’s backyard, wild grass grew rampant everywhere, as though no one had tended it for ages. Following behind Luo Hanyi, Yao Qian entered to find thick wooden stakes, each about the width of a fist, standing upright amidst the weeds.

Some of the stakes were long and some short; the shorter ones vanished into the undergrowth, completely hidden from sight, while the taller ones thrust up several feet, standing out conspicuously.

Yao Qian glanced back at Luo Hanyi a little speechlessly, but Luo wore a calm expression and merely said, “Boy, clear out all the weeds, then we’ll begin.”

With that, he turned his back and went to recline on a wicker chair, basking in the sun.

Yao Qian had no choice but to grit his teeth. If he wanted to learn the Iron Shirt, he’d have to give it his all. He spent the better part of an hour clearing the weeds, then dug a shallow pit beneath the stakes and spread a layer of fine sand, finally finishing the task.

He didn’t know when Luo Hanyi had appeared behind him by the stakes, but suddenly the old man’s voice sounded, “Alright, get up there. Stand according to the positions in the manual. Don’t stop until I say so.”

Once Luo Hanyi began teaching, he was deadly serious and earnest, his reclusive master’s demeanor nowhere to be seen.

Yao Qian stepped onto the two shortest stakes, each just over a meter high. Placing both feet on them, he opened the Iron Shirt manual and reviewed the general principles before starting his initial cultivation.

The Iron Shirt, a form of hard qigong to strengthen defense, naturally required fortifying one’s vital energy; otherwise, the body would be rootless, like duckweed adrift.

Following the figures in the manual, he spread his legs outward in a V, knees slightly bent as if sitting, hands held before his chest with fingers half-curved, half-pressed together, his body upright, eyes gently closed, breathing naturally, and all his joints forming triangular bends.

This was the Vajra Standing Posture.

The body as steadfast as a vajra, unmoving as a mountain.

He managed to hold the stance for no more than the time it took to drink a cup of tea before his body felt leaden and on the verge of collapse. His legs were heavy as if filled with molten lead, sweat poured down his forehead, blurring his vision and darkening the world before his eyes.

With a thud, he finally couldn’t last and toppled from the stakes, sprawling in all directions.

Spitting out a mouthful of fine sand, he forced himself back onto the stakes to resume the posture.

By midday, he had at least mastered the basic form of the Vajra Posture. In the afternoon, he moved to taller stakes and began practicing the second stance of the Iron Shirt: the Tyrant’s Posture.

This pose differed from the first, except in one regard—he fell from the stakes over a dozen times.

Not until dusk did he finally climb down from the stakes. His whole body was slick with sweat, filthy, his clothes caked with bits of sand and clinging damply to his skin, making him miserable.

He felt utterly exhausted, every part of his body aching.

He drew in breath after breath, grimacing as he slowly peeled off his shirt. Bruises and swelling covered his arms, back, chest, and thighs—so severe that even he was taken aback at the sight.

“No wonder the old man had to clutch his manual and hide in the slums waiting to die. Who’d pay money to suffer like this?” he muttered, faltering for a moment. But when he thought of the executioner’s blade hanging over his head, he clenched his teeth and pressed on.

He collapsed on the wicker chair as if dead and only then noticed that the old man, apparently in good spirits, had brought inside a woman of considerable beauty. Yao Qian couldn’t help but wonder maliciously whether the old man could handle it.

But to his surprise, the old man marched straight over, pointed at Yao Qian, and said to the woman, “It’s him. Take him to the room, finish up, and remember to collect your fee.”

With that, he turned and left with his hands behind his back.

Yao Qian was dumbfounded. Did the old man really have to be this perverse?

Given his current state—completely drained—he’d be powerless even if a celestial maiden descended from the heavens, let alone this woman.

Yet when she saw him, her eyes lit up. She’d expected an old man but found herself faced with a handsome youth—a delightful surprise.

She walked over, helped Yao Qian up, and led him into the house.

He was too exhausted to move, let alone resist. Every step sent fresh waves of pain shooting through his legs and up into his head, making him gasp involuntarily.

The woman settled him on the bed and began undressing him. In just a few blinks, he was stripped naked, save for a pair of shorts covering his modesty.

“Quite the physique,” she teased with a coquettish laugh.

Yao Qian could only force a bitter smile. Now he truly understood what it meant to find pleasure in pain.

She climbed onto the bed beside him, produced a small black porcelain bottle from her pocket, and opened it.

“Seriously? You still need that stuff for excitement?” Yao Qian, seeing the bottle, instantly thought of all sorts of aphrodisiacs and stimulants. In his current state, he’d die on the spot!

He tried to resist but found his body wouldn’t respond. He was as limp as a pile of disassembled parts.

The woman’s laughter was sweet and sultry. She poured out a green ointment from the bottle and leaned over him…

Slick with green ointment, her hands massaged and kneaded him. His back and thighs were soon covered in streaks of the balm, which she worked in with firm, practiced strokes.

Yao Qian felt every inch of his skin and every cell on his back breathing in delight, never having experienced such comfort and relief. It was impossible not to moan aloud.

He glanced back at the woman—her massage skills alone would be more than enough to earn her a comfortable living.

But this pleasure was destined to be short-lived; Yao Qian soon drifted into a deep, muddled sleep.