Chapter 2

The sky was a dull gray, pressing down like a wet, un‑wrung rag. Li Ping'an stood before the two tiny frozen‑soil burial mounds of his parents, cold breath hissing from the seams of his bones. He licked his cracked lips, his throat burning. The little boost from Spirit Spring Water had been almost spent after the desperate digging he'd just done. His fingers burned with pain, the nail beds clogged with black mud and clotted blood, and his arms were so heavy he could not lift them.

Looking around, his heart sank to the soles of his feet. The village? Forget it, it was a bare skeleton of bone, completely stripped. The ground yawned wide, cracks wide enough to fit a fist, hard enough to bruise the feet. The small river had dried to its bed, leaving only cracked mud channels that smelled of earth. A few withered trees at the village entrance stood slick, bark stripped clean, the pale trunks like peeled bones. Dead silent, not a single bird feather, only the cold wind howling like a ghost between the broken houses and rotten tiles, making his heart hair‑rise.

"It's really clean…" Li Ping'an forced a dry, hoarse sound from his throat. The village had not even a ghost's shadow left; anyone who could run or breathe must have fled the famine, leaving this deserted place. He needed to find something—anything would do, preferably something edible.

He dragged his lead‑laden legs, like a starving rat, rummaging through the ruins. At the base of collapsed walls, cold stove ash, the corners and crevices… his fingers felt carefully in the bone‑chilling soil, gravel and broken stones. Hunger made his eyes sharp, and his visual acuity also became especially keen.

A few shriveled wheat grains, unrecognizable as his parents', were hidden at the very bottom of the stove ash.

Two corn kernels, wrinkled like an old woman's face, were jammed into the mossy wall cracks.

A small handful of gray‑capped, earth‑faced, unknown seeds with a soil‑stink fell out from the broken tile‑jar shards.

The items were as scarce as cold crumbs, making his heart ache just to look at them. Yet to Li Ping'an, they were golden nuggets for survival. He gathered them gingerly in his palm; that light, floating weight pressed his chest with a heavy feeling.

His eyes shifted to the roughly built blue‑brick house at the east edge of the village—the manor of the landlord Wang Lao Cai. Half of the courtyard wall had collapsed, the vermilion‑painted gate hung crookedly open, the interior a black void like a man‑eating maw. A chill crawled up his spine. Normally, a poor kid like him would have his calves cramp just from approaching. But now? Survival was paramount, and there was no time to worry.

He crouched, pressed against the wall base and slipped inside. A choking smell of ash and rotten wood hit his nose. The main hall had been turned upside down, its valuables long gone. Li Ping'an refused to give up, like a treasure‑seeking mouse, scraping inch by inch of floor. The kitchen? Empty enough to run a horse. The side room? Even a mouse would leave crying. Just as he was about to lose hope, his foot struck a solid brick!

He dropped down, using his blood‑stained fingers, and forced the solid brick open. Below was a dark, gurgling little cellar entrance! A strange odor mixing earth stink and moldy grain rose up. His heart hammered like drums as he crawled down the narrow earthen ladder.

The cellar was small; in a corner lay a few empty burlap sacks and moldy, rotten straw. By the pitiful light from the opening, he felt the walls and floor carefully. His fingers hit a spot of earth that felt unusually warm. After a few vigorous pulls, a hard, coarse earthen jar peeked out!

He lifted the lid, and peering inside by the light— it wasn't grain, it was money! A jar of copper coins, plus a small roll of paper‑wrapped legal tender! In these days, paper is worth less than copper, but even a mosquito's leg is still meat!

"Not bad, Wang Lao Cai, this belongs to a mouse, the hole's pretty deep!" Li Ping'an spat a mud‑splattered spit, forcing a slight grin. A rookie's treasure pack— they'd make do with it.

With a thought, the few cold‑crumb seeds and the heavy earthen jar in his hand vanished in an instant! The items settled safely in the corner of the spatial little house. The technique worked well, far more reliable than tucking them under flesh.

Dragging his near‑collapsing body, he shuffled back to the wind‑blown broken grass shed, and sat against the icy earth wall. Outside, the wind sounded like ghostly wails. He patted the empty space in his chest (the items were in the space), and the lingering power stored by Spirit Spring Water seeped back bit by bit, yet still far from enough.

He looked at his own hands, thin as chicken claws, then glanced at the outside wasteland that devoured people without spitting out bones.

"A year of great drought, people eat each other."

Those six characters pierced his mind like ice spikes. This wasn't something from a book; it was really happening! In the fragmented memories left by the original body, there was the neighbor's night‑time sobs… and the hair‑raising sounds of chewing. To survive, some people had already ceased to be human.

"Go out like this now?"

"Purely to deliver vegetables to the wolves in the wasteland, or the 'people' even fiercer than wolves!"

"Survive! Grow! Don't waste!" a phrase sprang in Li Ping'an's mind, its source unknown, yet fitting. Right now, the top priority: restore this broken body, harden the fists! The Eight Extremities Fist technique still lingered in his memory, but this body was a useless husk, like a top‑grade engine installed in a rickety three‑wheeler.

He focused his thoughts into the ten‑something‑square‑meter spatial little house. Inside it was still empty, except for a basin‑sized spring of water in the center, glowing a warm green. He gently placed those few golden‑nugget seeds, with his mind, onto the moist, luminous black soil at the spring's edge. As his thought shifted again, the black soil opened a few tiny pits by itself, the seeds settled firmly, and the soil covered them. Hey, mental farming is far easier than digging with fingers! Not only can thought farm, it can extend the body dozens of meters away, just as the eyes see, and even retrieve objects through the void— a perfect aid for working in the dark.

After finishing these, he exited the space, curled his knees into the corner of the wall. Outside the shed, the cold wind howled like a ghost; inside, it was as cold as an ice cellar. The taut strings of fatigue relaxed, his eyelids immediately drooped, and he fell into a deep sleep.

After an unknown amount of time, Li Ping'an was jolted awake by a gnawing, gut‑twisting hunger! His stomach felt like an empty sack, frantically twisting, demanding food, fiercer than before! He almost rolled and crawled, shoving his consciousness back into the space.

The sight before him nearly made his eyes pop out!

The spot he had planted yesterday had completely changed!

A few sprigs of bright green wheat, standing like tiny flagpoles, leaves dewy and dazzlingly green! The two corn seedlings were even more astonishing, already as tall as his shins, their broad leaves sprightly upright. Even the handful of grayish unknown seeds had pushed out tender yellow shoots, peeking out to see the world.

"My dear mother!" Li Ping'an almost bit his tongue. This growth— even a sky‑leaping monkey couldn't sprout this fast! He suddenly recalled the glowing soil beneath the spring! Was this the divine effect of that stuff? This space was like a super‑accelerated private plot! He felt as if a gold ingot had struck his head with joy. Food! Plenty of food! He wouldn't starve! After drinking a few sips of Spirit Spring Water, he felt better.

He instantly exited the space, as if injected with chicken blood, and surged toward the ruins again. This time his target was crystal clear— any seed! Rapeseed, beans, even nameless wild‑grass seeds! He rummaged through the broken bricks and tiles with a manic frenzy, his fingers pricking painfully in the icy rubble, but he paid no mind. Each time he uncovered a small handful, his heart warmed a bit.

When he mentally "planted" the newly scavenged handful of assorted seeds into the space's magical black soil, a long‑missed sense of solidity finally rose from the soles of his feet. The stomach issue was finally looking promising!

With his biggest mental burden removed, another thought sprang up like a spear: fists! In these cannibalistic times, without something hard, even a golden rice bowl is just a ticket for Yama! The Eight Extremities Fist, etched into his bones, was his only hope.

He moved to a slightly more open spot outside the grass shed. The cold wind cut his face like a knife. He closed his eyes, straining to recall the Eight Extremities Fist memories in his mind. Sink the shoulders, drop the elbows, loosen the waist, sit the hips, stand with the feet steady, not wobbling. This is the most basic Eight Extremities Fist "Two‑Form Stance".

As soon as the posture was set, his broken body began to protest. His waist and legs were as soft as noodles, his arms trembled like sifting chaff, and the cold wind made his nasal mucus bubble up ready to blow out. The feeling was more feeble than a newly hatched chick.

"Damn, the furnace rebirth is really stifling…" he muttered low, his jaw clenched hard. The familiar fighting vigor in his soul began to surface bit by bit, grappling with this clumsy body, gradually merging together.

He stopped caring about whether his moves were correct, focusing solely on feeling the force from his soles into the ground, and pondering how the "Great Dragon" of his spine could be connected. The body was weak, but the "understanding force" brought by his soul was incredibly strong. Whenever a muscle twitched or his balance shifted, his mind instantly corrected it.

He moved slowly. No longer a rigid form, it now carried an indescribable flavor. A simple "supporting punch", the arm thrust forward, the force from the soles rolling through the ground (as he imagined) traveled to the waist and hips, then surged into the fist. The motion was as slow as a snail climbing a tree, yet carried a heavy sense. This broken body, in extreme depletion, greedily absorbed each tiny bit of power from each exertion. The vitality of Spirit Spring Water seemed to circulate along this leisurely fist form, seeping inch by inch into the aching muscles and bone joints, bringing a faint warmth and a sense of repair.

He was completely immersed, forgetting the cold, the hunger, the passage of time. His breathing followed the movements, deep and slow. Sweat droplets seeped little by little from his forehead—not from fatigue, but as a sign that his bones were reignited, his qi and blood beginning to thrum forward.

After an unknown span, he gradually released the stance and opened his eyes. A faint fish‑belly white had appeared on the horizon. His body was still weary, but the soul‑draining emptiness seemed to have peeled away bit by bit. Strangely, his mind was unusually clear, and his sense of control over his flesh and bones felt slightly stronger than yesterday.

He lowered his gaze to those still gaunt little paws, clenched his fist hard. The knuckles clicked softly. The strength was still pitifully small, yet a quiet confidence of "this body is now under my command" took root in his heart.

His gaze swung again toward the distant gray horizon, where danger that devoured people loomed, and where his sister was.

"Just wait…" Li Ping'an forced a hoarse sound from his throat, still raspy, but now with a heavy, fierce resolve, "wait until I grind my fists into blades, harden my bones… Ping Le, I'm coming!" He turned and slipped back into the broken grass shed, not to lie down but to re‑assume the slow yet stubbornly firm Two‑Form Stance. In the dim dawn light, that skinny figure, amid the dead silence of the ruins, repeated the most fundamental fist form over and over. The silent fist wind, laboriously, bit by bit, tore at the desperate dead air of this forsaken place.