Chapter 342 - 191: Have I Been Too Nice to You?

Chapter 342: Chapter 191: Have I Been Too Nice to You?

Wan Ze’s goal for the night was clear: complete half of his training for the Mountain-Splitting Whip Leg.

Half, in this case, meant five thousand whip kicks.

This Leg Technique emphasized a combination of explosive power and resilience.

The leg shot out like a whip and retracted like a drawn bow. Each whip kick didn’t just rely on the strength of his leg muscles; it also required mobilizing the rotation of his waist and hips, even the force of his toes gripping the ground.

Brother Yu once said, "Train your legs but not your waist, and all your effort will be for naught in old age."

This was especially true for the Mountain-Splitting Whip Leg. Without power channeled from the waist and hips, a kick, no matter how fast, was nothing more than an empty, flashy move.

Out of five thousand, he had already completed just over two thousand eight hundred.

With every kick, his right leg carved a semicircular arc through the air. His instep was taut, his toes slightly hooked. At the apex of the kick, he would abruptly release his power... A crisp CRACK echoed as his instep whipped through the air, creating a small sonic boom.

He landed heel-first, immediately shifting his center of gravity forward as his left leg followed through. The entire sequence was fluid and seamless.

Wan Ze gasped for air, his chest heaving violently.

Sweat dripped from his chin, hitting the training hall floor with a soft patter.

He stopped, bending over to rest his hands on his knees as sweat streamed down his body. ℯℯ𝘭.

The scenes from last night in Huangliang Village were still vivid in his mind.

The glint of blades and the spray of blood had been utterly overwhelming.

Although he had managed to avert disaster at the critical moment, the feeling of his life hanging by a thread was deeply unsettling.

The alarm bells in his mind kept ringing, DANG, DANG, DANG, making it impossible for Wan Ze to sleep.

So he decided not to sleep.

Train!

He would train until he was utterly exhausted, until his mind was a complete blank, until his legs trembled and he could no longer clench his fists.

Wan Ze had been pushing through his Cultivation without a break, venting all his pent-up energy.

Taking a deep breath, Wan Ze straightened up. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, beginning his stance training.

Stance training was a fundamental of Martial Dao Cultivation and the preparatory posture for the Thunderbolt Breathing Technique.

He closed his eyes, tongue pressed gently against the roof of his mouth, and inhaled through his nose, letting the breath sink slowly into his Dantian. The energy circulated within him like water slowly clearing a blocked channel. The flow wasn’t strong, but at least it was moving.

The principle of the Thunderbolt Breathing Technique was ’to find stillness in motion, and motion in stillness’.

His external posture was static, but the qi and blood within his body were meant to roil and surge like a clap of thunder.

As he inhaled, he imagined the breath entering his nostrils, traveling down the Ren Meridian to his Dantian, and then spreading through the Dai Meridian to his limbs and entire body. Then, as he exhaled, impurities were expelled from his body while his qi and blood flowed back, creating a continuous cycle.

Under the influence of this Breathing Technique, the once-depleted qi and blood in Wan Ze’s body slowly began to surge.

The qi and blood flowed out from his Dantian, spreading through his meridians to his entire body. A warm sensation spread from his abdomen to his chest, and then out to his arms and legs.

Wan Ze could feel his muscle fibers gradually regaining their elasticity as they were nourished by his qi and blood. The post-workout soreness was enveloped by a gentle, warm energy, making him feel as if he were soaking in a hot bath.

His qi and blood began to recover.

For a Martial Artist, the essence of Cultivation was a cycle of "destroy, repair, and strengthen."

Training tore muscle fibers and consumed qi and blood. Then, during rest, qi and blood would nourish the body, repairing the damage and making the muscles and sinews even stronger than before.

Thus, recovery ability was directly linked to Cultivation speed. The more vigorous one’s qi and blood, the faster the recovery, and the higher the Cultivation efficiency.

Wan Ze maintained his stance, his breaths growing deeper and longer.

The interval between each inhale and exhale gradually lengthened, from three seconds per breath at first, to five, and then to seven.

This was a sign that his qi and blood were gradually being replenished; his body no longer needed to breathe so frequently to function.

Outside the window, the sky had begun to brighten.

A sliver of pale white appeared at the edge of the deep blue canopy, slowly spreading and bleeding out in all directions.

Before long, a faint orange-red glow appeared on the horizon, as if someone had lit a lamp at the edge of the sky. Light leaked through the gaps in the clouds, spilling onto the land below.

Through the glass window of the training hall, the light of dawn fell upon Wan Ze’s face.

The light was soft, not harsh, like a thin veil of golden gauze laid over his skin.

Wan Ze’s eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes.

His pupils contracted slightly in the light. He took a moment to adjust to the brightness, and his vision gradually sharpened.

The training hall had four white walls and a cement floor. A few old sandbags were piled in a corner, and a full-length mirror was nailed to one wall. Its surface was splattered with water spots—sweat he had flung onto it while training.

The window was an old, sliding aluminum-alloy model, its frame coated in a thin layer of dust.

Pulling his gaze away, Wan Ze rolled his neck, his vertebrae letting out a faint CRACK.

He raised his hands and looked at his palms.

His knuckles were a size larger than an ordinary person’s, and the veins on the back of his hands were faintly visible. He clenched his fist, and his knuckles let out a series of cracks, like a string of small firecrackers, the sound surprisingly sharp.

’At this rate, I should be able to gain a few more attribute value increases this week,’ he calculated silently.

There were no shortcuts to increasing one’s attribute value; it all came down to the slow, steady accumulation of effort, like water dripping through stone. Every perfect whip kick, every correct breath, every complete circulation of qi and blood was another brick laid in the foundation of his attributes.

Once he accumulated enough, a quantitative change would trigger a qualitative one, and his attribute value would increase.

The process was tedious, long, and seemingly endless.

But Wan Ze was long used to it.

The Cultivation of the Martial Dao was never some passionate, thrilling affair. Most of the time, it was just one person in a training hall, repeating the same motion thousands, even tens of thousands of times. You kicked until your legs gave out, punched until your fists went numb, and practiced your breathing until you were dizzy. Then you rested. And then you continued.