If Xiao Yan had imagined that the eight layers of Eight Pole Collapse were something he could grasp overnight, then the very first morning of his new training made a thorough mockery of that naive notion.
At dawn, a thin veil of pale white mist clung to the rear mountain, muffling every sound into a soft, drowning silence. Yet within that cold, clinging fog, the echoes of a heavy, ragged breath rose and fell without end, punctuated by a series of dull, sodden thuds as fists and feet slammed into flesh. It was a rhythm born of pure, unrelenting suffering — and it belonged entirely to Xiao Yan.
Standing beneath a great, gnarled tree, Yao Lao held his hands loosely behind his back, his aged eyes bent upon the young man before him with a satisfaction almost clinical. He studied Xiao Yan's trembling legs, the fresh trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, and only then did the old man allow the ghost of a smile to curl across his lips. The technique of Eight Pole Collapse might have demanded little of one's Dou Qi at the outset — but its true price was carved into the body itself, for a close-quarters Dou Technique of such ferocious power would sooner shatter weak flesh than break a foe. And the fastest road to that strength, as Yao Lao had so cheerfully informed his disciple, was to get beaten.
Xiao Yan had not truly believed him at first. He had stood there, shivering in the dawn cold, half expecting some esoteric ritual or a scroll of secret methods. Instead, Yao Lao had simply flexed his wrist — and then the true meaning of "training" had come crashing down upon him.
The first strike had sent him flying clean off his feet, tumbling head over heels through the air before he slammed into the earth with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. He had barely staggered upright, gasping, before another blow landed upon his ribs, and another upon his back, driving him to his knees. Yao Lao's voice, calm and unhurried, had drifted through the mist: "Slam your fists at me. Feel how your own body learns to take a hit."
Xiao Yan had thrown himself forward with everything he had, his fists driving at that lean old figure with all the fury of his four stages of Dou Qi. And Yao Lao had simply been there, everywhere at once — sidestepping, deflecting, never struck by even the graze of a finger. The old man moved like mist, and every time Xiao Yan's wild attack left an opening, a blow found his flesh with mechanical, effortless precision.
It went on for the better part of a morning. Xiao Yan swung until his shoulders screamed, until his knuckles were raw and bleeding, until the world swam before his eyes. And every time he so much as staggered, Yao Lao's voice cut through the pounding in his ears. "Slower. Again. Do you call that a fist? A cripple from the streets could hit harder." Each taunt was followed by another blow, driving him further into the cold, wet ground.
By the time the sun had climbed past the treetops, Xiao Yan could no longer stand. He collapsed beneath the great tree, his whole body a patchwork of bruises and raw red welts, gasping for breath as the fog slowly burned away around him. His limbs felt like lead, and there was a ringing in his ears that refused to fade. The beating had been so thorough, so methodical, that he could no longer tell where one bruise ended and another began.
He spat a mouthful of blood onto the earth and, dragging himself unevenly upright, shot a resentful glare at his master. Yao Lao, utterly unruffled, examined him with an appraising nod, as though a piece of raw ore had at last shown a promising seam. Then the old man's voice twisted through the mist, repeating the same earnest, worried counsel he had already given a dozen times. "Hurry back and soak your body in the Foundation Liquid at once. If you don't, the accumulated blood lingering inside you will deal you serious injury!"
Xiao Yan nodded dully in comprehension, pulled his torn clothes back over his battered frame, and began the long, painful walk down the rear mountain, one aching step at a time.
Back in his little hut, his body already incapable of bearing the torment another moment, Xiao Yan quickly bolted shut the doors and windows. Then, stripping off his clothes a second time, he scrambled hand and foot into the wooden basin that sat against the wall — the basin someone had filled, in a moment he could not recall, with a quiet, deep green liquid.
The cold, green water touched his bruised and welting skin, and Xiao Yan drew several long, blissful breaths of cool air. That floating sensation of pure, unbroken comfort made him shut his eyes in enjoyment, lying stiff and utterly still within the basin. Little by little, the racking, trembling pain began to ease, and he slumped limply against the basin's rim, his rapid, ragged breathing gradually settling. In the end, a faint, low snore came muffled from his nose. Having endured such an ordeal of torment, Xiao Yan had finally surrendered to the doubled exhaustion of spirit and body, sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.
While he slept, the green liquid trembled faintly. Thread by thread, a subtle, gentle energy slipped in through the slightly opened pores of his entire body, washing away the angry, savage-looking bruises one after another. At the same time, it ceaselessly poured reserve and vitality back into a body that had reached its absolute limit, mending torn muscle and strengthening tendons until something within him that had once been brittle began to harden. The strengthening went on without a sound, without even Xiao Yan himself knowing anything of it.
And as that green liquid reinforced and repaired him, it slowly grew paler. Clearly, the medicinal power contained within the water was being drained dry by his devouring need — spent, drop by drop, upon the transformation of a single, battered boy.
He could not have said how long he slept. Xiao Yan only remembered that when he finally awoke, the fierce, burning sunlight had already flooded the room with brilliant, blinding light, spilling across the floorboards in lazy golden pools. He had not felt this rested — this whole — in months.
Lazily stretching out, his entire body crackled like a string of firecrackers popping one after another, a sound so crisp it startled even him. He raised his head, felt that indescribable surge of vigor and fullness running through every single limb, and could not help crying out in delight: "How refreshing!"
Rising to his feet from the basin, he was suddenly struck dumb. He stared, and stared again. The liquid that had once been a deep, opaque green had now turned utterly clear and transparent, so pure that he could see the very bottom of the wooden basin through it. Not a drop of color remained — the water had become plain, ordinary water.
"The medicinal power... all absorbed?" Rubbing his nose, Xiao Yan shook his head in helpless wonder. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and joy crept onto his face. Softly closing his eyes, he carefully felt out the condition of the Dou Qi within his body.
What he found made his heart leap. The gentle, invisible current of Dou Qi that circulated through his meridians was unmistakably thicker, stronger than it had been on the day before. It surged through him with an ease that bordered on the sublime, and there was not the smallest obstruction in its path.
A long moment later, Xiao Yan opened his eyes, a brilliant light sparkling within them. Clenching his fists, he felt the gathered strength swelling in his palms, and let out a light laugh that barely concealed his overflowing delight. "At last — the fifth stage of Dou Qi!"
So the piercing force of that night's Foundation Liquid, combined with the brutal, body-tempering beatings of a single morning, had pushed his cultivation forward by a full stage. He could only imagine what the days to come would bring.
A sudden, familiar, and thoroughly annoying cackle drifted in from outside the hut. "Not bad," Yao Lao's voice rang out, dry and teasing through the closed door. "Not bad at all. Now come out — the beating hasn't even begun."