Chapter 4 - Chapter 4: The First Spark in the Dead Meridians

The discovery of the Killing Account of Gods and Demons was like a ray of sunshine piercing the darkest clouds. Gù Ti?nháo now possessed a secret that could rewrite his destiny, a tool of unimaginable power. But the initial euphoria quickly gave way to an ice cream. That treasure was both an opportunity and a walking death sentence. If the Gu Family, or anyone else in this world where the strong predate the weak, discovered their existence, he would not live to see the next sunrise. Absolute secrecy was his first and most important rule. No one could know. No one could suspect. In the following days, he kept the facade of the Third Young Master useless and sick. He spent most of his time in his room, refusing visits (not that many were offered) under the pretext of weakness. But behind closed doors, his mind worked feverishly. He mentally reviewed, repeatedly, the information recorded in his consciousness by the Account: the Tyrannical Art of Body Refinement of the Demonic Dragon and the formula of the Opening Pill of Low Grade Meridians. The pill formula was his most direct hope for repairing damaged meridians. It listed about a dozen herbs. Some, such as Hundred Year Ginseng or Ice Spirit Flower, were clearly expensive and rare items, far beyond the reach of a young Master without resources and without status. Others, such as Green Serpent Herb or Deep Earth Root, seemed more common, perhaps found in the Maplewood City market, but would still require money that he did not own. The allowance of the ancient Tianháo was irrisory and often "forgotten" by family administrators. Acquiring the ingredients would be a challenge in itself, and the process of alchemy, even for a low-grade pill, required tools and minimal Qi control that he did not yet have. The pill would have to wait. This left him with the Tyrannical Art of Body Refinement of the Demon Dragon. The name alone sent a shiver down his spine. Unlike the standard Body Refinement techniques taught in the Gu Family, which focused on gradual absorption of Qi, slow and steady strengthening of muscles and bones, and gentle circulation to avoid damage, this technique was... barbaric. She described methods for pulling IQ out of the environment by force, ignoring the safe limits of the body. He taught to use his own pain as a hammer to season the flesh, to guide the IQ violently to crush small impurities and blockages in the meridians, even if it caused collateral damage. He talked about overloading the muscles to the breaking point to stimulate faster growth and using his own blood as a catalyst at certain stages. It was a path of controlled self-harm in search of quick power and brute force. It was scary. It was dangerous. But it was his only choice at the time. He did not require external ingredients, only Qi (which he could barely absorb), his own body and an inhuman tolerance to pain. Alex Chen, in his past life, had never been particularly physically brave. But the prospect of remaining weak and at the mercy of others in this cruel world was a stronger motivator than any fear of pain. He had died once; physical pain, however bad, was preferable to emptiness. He waited until the dead of night, when the Gu Mansion was plunged into silence and darkness, broken only by the distant sound of guard patrols and the lame of frogs in ornamental lakes. He made sure that the door and windows of his room were tightly closed. Not even the light of a candle he lit, trusting in the faint light of the moon that filtered through the cracks. He sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor in the center of the room. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous drum of his heart. He remembered the initial posture described in Tyrannical Art, a slightly different position from standard meditation designed to maximize forced absorption of Qi. Then he started. He followed the mental instructions, trying to extend his almost non-existent spiritual perception to feel the Qi in the air around him. It was like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. The Qi was there, he could feel it as a faint presence, but his body seemed to repel it, its meridians closed like locked doors. The technique required him to pull the Qi in. He concentrated, visualizing tentacles of energy extending from his body, grabbing the floating Qi wires and dragging them into his pores. It was an excruciating mental effort, and for a long time, nothing happened. Then a little spark. A tiny strand of Qi, thinner than a strand of hair, was pulled into his body. Immediately, it was as if acid had been poured into his veins. Its meridians, accustomed to stagnation, reacted violently to the intrusion. A sharp, burning pain ran through his arm. He gritted his teeth, the sweat beginning to sprout on his forehead. The technique said to ignore pain, to use the will to subdue the resistance of the body. He forced, pulling another thin thread of Qi, and then another. Each thread was a new wave of agony. It seemed that their power channels were being torn from the inside. After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to accumulate a tiny amount of Qi in his Dantian - the energy center below the navel. It was a pathetic amount, perhaps one hundredth of what a normal Level 1 Body Refinement cultivator could muster in the same amount of time. But it was his, conquered through pain. Now came the most brutal part. The technique required him to circulate this accumulated IQ aggressively, using it as a ram to attack the nearest blockages. He chose a main meridian on his right arm, one that memories of the ancient Tiannháo identified as particularly problematic. With a will effort, he pushed the small ball of burning Qi into the clogged channel. The resistance was immediate. It was like trying to force water through a pipe full of concrete. The pain increased exponentially, from burning to blunt. His muscles contracted, his teeth grinded so hard that he feared they would break down. Black spots danced before his eyes. He wanted to scream, he wanted to stop, he wanted to pass out. But the image of his father's cold gaze, of his brothers' smiles of mockery, of the silent despair of the ancient Tiannháo, kept him firm. He pushed. He pushed with all the strength of his soul. Crack! It was not an audible sound, but an inner sensation. Something tiny, a hardened impurity, a small knot in the flow of energy, gave way. For a fleeting moment, Qi flowed one millimeter ahead before stopping again at another blockage. The pain left him gasping, trembling, on the verge of collapse. But underneath the agony, there was a new feeling. An almost imperceptible lightness at that particular point of the meridian. A feeling of flow. It was tiny. Insignificant for anyone else. But for him, it was a monumental victory. It was proof that it was possible. Tyrannical art, however brutal, worked, even in its ruined body. He no longer had the strength to continue. Mental and physical effort had completely exhausted him. He fell to the ground, his body soaked in cold sweat, each muscle screaming in protest, the meridians throbbing like open wounds. But in his eyes, a feverish light of triumph shone. It took several minutes to catch his breath and strength to crawl into bed. Every movement was torture. He knew that the next morning, he would feel like he had been hit by an oxen cart, but it didn't matter. He had taken the first step. He had lit the first spark on his dead meridians. The path would be paved with unimaginable pain, and progress would be agonizingly slow at first. He would need resources, pills, more knowledge of the Account. But he was on the way. Hidden in the shadows, the Gu Family garbage had quietly begun to forge its own destiny in the fire of pain and relentless determination.