Chapter 23: Immortal Force, Wind and Rain Rage Outside the Gate

Taking the Spirit Yang Gallbladder is a complicated process.

First, you need a certain foundation in internal organ cultivation; after swallowing it, you must soak in a wine vat, with the help of a boxer who has already achieved the “Food as Immortal” state.

On this day, Chu Tianshu skipped dinner, emptied his intestines, slept through the night, and skipped breakfast the next day before reentering the cellar and swallowing the Spirit Yang Gallbladder.

When he stripped off his top and sat cross-legged in the wine vat, watching the liquid rise to his collarbones, he felt that just smelling the scent was enough to make him drunk.

Zhong Jinqiu walked slowly around the vat, pressing his palms against its outer wall one by one.

His palms made no sound when striking the vat’s exterior.

Yet each time his palm landed, Chu Tianshu felt a dull pressure in his chest, and countless tiny bubbles mysteriously rose in the wine.

The pressure piled layer upon layer until Chu Tianshu felt his blood throughout his limbs and bones surging inward toward his chest and internal organs.

His limbs felt hollow and weightless, while his chest grew heavy and swollen, surging with heat—as if a thick, expanding flame burned inside his chest cavity, and every other part of his body was merely smoke rising from the fire.

Chu Tianshu hated pain but was not afraid of it; the lingering sensations from his dreams had long become familiar.

Yet now, his fingers trembled uncontrollably, his facial muscles twitched, and he gritted his teeth from the torment of this complex sensation.

The wine, which had begun with tiny bubbles, now boiled violently, gurgling and bubbling.

The temperature had not truly reached boiling point, but it was significantly warmer than before—once icy cold, now slightly above body temperature.

After two full hours, Zhong Jinqiu concluded his cultivation, and Chu Tianshu finally drew a breath, his vision dimming slightly as he leaned his neck back against the edge of the vat.

“Is it done?”

Zhong Jinqiu’s face was sweaty; he poured a bowl of water. “The Spirit Yang Gallbladder has dissolved. Its medicinal power now permeates your internal organs, with the heart and lungs as the primary focus—nearly ninety percent of the power resides there.”

“You no longer need to soak in the wine vat, but you must practice the Fist Methods of ‘Food as Immortal’ frequently, generating force from your internal organs to refine the medicinal energy.”

Chu Tianshu climbed out and stepped into a nearby vat of clear water, exhaling deeply.

This wine isn’t alcohol—it won’t evaporate on its own.

If you don’t wash off quickly, the stench clinging to your skin will be unimaginable.

“But my fist set only stimulates the intestines and stomach—how do I generate force from internal organs?”

Zhong Jinqiu paused, startled. “A fragmented manuscript? It developed such strong intestinal effects yet lacks any internal organ force generation? What a pity.”

Chu Tianshu had originally planned to wait until he gathered more demonic spirit materials before designing a new fist set.

But he hadn’t expected to encounter something as valuable as the Spirit Yang Gallbladder.

He said outright: “I’ll write out the fist manuscript from memory later—Master Zhong, take a look and give me some guidance.”

Master Ma looked at his old friend.

Zhong Jinqiu pondered for a moment, then nodded.

An hour later, dressed in fresh clothes, Chu Tianshu sat in his room, writing furiously.

Zhong Jinqiu held the newly written manuscript, flipping through each page, his expression growing increasingly strange.

“The Back-Striking Fist is said to originate from the White Monkey Ancestor Situ Xuankong of Emei Mountain during the Warring States period—I always thought that was a stretch. The Fist likely didn’t fully form until the Ming Dynasty.”

“But your Back-Striking Fist manuscript is far too archaic—none of the three paths are separated, yet the effects are excellent. It’s at least the style of a Tang Dynasty ancient fist.”

Zhong Jinqiu murmured in amazement, “After seeing your fist set, I’d gladly give you my entire family’s manuscript. But…”

Chu Tianshu, writing the final half-page, looked up. “What?”

“Since you practice this fist style, and haven’t clearly distinguished between sinew strength and internal organs, there’s no rush to learn my fists.”

Zhong Jinqiu thought for a moment. “I can teach you some secrets—enabling you to generate internal organ force using your current foundation.”

“You already have a large amount of medicinal energy in your organs; you don’t need to focus on cultivation steps yet. Just learn the force-generation secrets. As the energy is absorbed, cultivation will naturally follow.”

“Once the medicinal energy is fully absorbed, you can then learn the bulk of the internal organ cultivation techniques.”

Chu Tianshu’s eyes lit up.

Zhong Jinqiu’s suggestion was essentially an optimization of the Back-Striking Fist manuscript.

Not an evolutionary optimization, but a combinatory one—adding external knowledge points to it.

Right—right now he had no demonic spirit materials for the token to perform evolution, but a seasoned, experienced master boxer was itself akin to a token.

“Good! Good! Good!”

Chu Tianshu said, “Do I need a special training ground or equipment?”

Zhong Jinqiu shook his head. “You’re only learning internal organ force generation, and this requires minimal movement.”

“The ‘Immortal’ in ‘Food as Immortal’ isn’t just because practitioners feast on wind and dew and sense poison in grass—it’s because those who achieve this state generate force so lightly and ethereally, like an immortal.”

Zhong Jinqiu extended one hand, fingers naturally slightly spread. “For example, this hand—how many ways of generating force do you think it has?”

Chu Tianshu answered without hesitation: “Palm thrust forward, heel strike downward, palm flip slash, finger hook tear.”

Zhong Jinqiu smiled, lowered his palm, and lightly swept it across the tabletop.

Screech!

The tabletop erupted as if a shovel had violently scraped off a thick layer of wood shavings.

Chu Tianshu stared at the table in disbelief—this defied logic.

The human hand is too thick; even the edge can’t be as thin as a blade or shovel.

To achieve a slicing effect, one must rely on high-speed swings.

Zhong Jinqiu’s palm movement had been slow, almost a gentle brush—how could it produce a blade-like effect?

“That’s why sinew and bone cultivation focuses on gathering and dispersing, while internal organ cultivation is called the ‘True’ method.”

Zhong Jinqiu said, “Human sinews and bones are naturally coarse. Even if you strengthen them, they only become tougher, even thicker—not finer.”

“Internal organs are different. Each point is a nexus of qi and blood; move one point and the whole body responds. Only through internal organ cultivation can force-generation techniques become exquisitely refined.”

“Under the same force, your strikes become like a hundred needles piercing at once—delivering sharper, deeper damage. The direction of your force flows as effortlessly as your own limbs, shifting instantly between hardness and softness.”

Zhong Jinqiu raised his hand again and flicked his finger at the water jug.

The thick white porcelain jug, where his finger struck, remained untouched.

On the opposite side, however, a small hole exploded open, spitting out a shard the size of a fingernail.

“This is Immortal Force!”

Sometimes when your stomach aches, a tiny point of pain makes your entire body crumple and twist.

That’s what it means to move one point and affect the whole.

Conversely, if you master the movement of every point in your internal organs, you can influence your entire body, balance it precisely, and ultimately deliver far more refined damage.

Internal organ force generation doesn’t mean your organs strike directly—it means your organs serve as the trigger.

“I see.”

Chu Tianshu picked up the porcelain shard.

He understood the principle roughly; now he must use his sinew-strengthening experience as a reference, absorb Master Zhong’s proper techniques, and train his body toward this theoretical state.

External force cultivated internally, internal force expressed externally!

Master Ma knocked and entered. “Little Chu, the town magistrate has sent someone again to invite us to dinner. I’m not going—will you go today?”

Chu Tianshu was still holding the porcelain shard, eager to begin training immediately. He shook his head. “I have important matters. Who has time to eat at his house every day?”

Master Ma chuckled. “I figured you wouldn’t go—I’ll send him away.”

The town magistrate’s messenger left the tavern, driving his cart back to report.

Seeing the empty cart, the town magistrate looked disappointed.

Today’s invitation wasn’t just for the tavern patrons—it included Deputy Officer Zhou as well.

But Deputy Officer Zhou didn’t come either.

The town magistrate hoped to visit the old patriarch’s estate and first probe Deputy Officer Zhou about the old man’s preferences—ideally, he’d get Chu Tianshu and the others to join, making the visit seem more prestigious.

Unfortunately, for several days straight, he sent messengers daily—no one came.

Besides the opera troupe and soldiers, carriages arrived daily at the old patriarch’s estate—likely gifts from the commander. It seems the move isn’t finished yet.

Only after the old patriarch settles comfortably will Deputy Officer Zhou and the others stay here for at least ten to fifteen days.

The town magistrate hesitated, finally comforting himself: there’s still time—no need to rush.

Chu Tianshu, having declined all invitations, now trained in standing Zhuang exercises every morning and internal organ force techniques every afternoon—his routine was fully adjusted.

Even on the seventh day’s grand opera, he watched only two hours before returning to rest.

Fortunately, he left early; the next morning he woke to see rain pelting his window, told it had begun late the previous night.

Autumn rain, cold and intermittent, fell all day, dropping the temperature sharply.

By evening, the sky was as dark as midnight.

The tavern closed early, shuttered and lit its lamps.

Chu Tianshu and the two old men gathered in the main hall for dinner, their terms of address now changed.

“Uncle Zhong, watch this.”

Chu Tianshu had ordered a whole roasted chicken, holding his chopsticks and tapping lightly.

The plump bird, tapped from head to tail, remained intact on the outside but turned limp, its edges drooping over the plate like stewed trotter meat.

Zhong Jinqiu remarked coolly: “Eighteen taps to break the bones. Next time, get a whole lamb—you try tapping its bones.”

Chu Tianshu said, “Chopsticks won’t do then—I’ll use my hands.”

Master Ma scolded with a laugh: “Enough—don’t waste food. Why not tap something else…”

BANG BANG BANG BANG!!

A furious pounding on the door interrupted the conversation.

“Brother Chu! Uncle Ma!”

Chu Tianshu recognized Meng Shuangjiang’s voice, rose, and unlatched the door.

Meng Shuangjiang hadn’t brought an umbrella—he was soaked through, as if pulled from a river, and stumbled over the threshold as he rushed in.

Chu Tianshu hurriedly supported him, as he cried in panic, “Xiao Bao is gone—help me find him!”

“What?!”

Chu Tianshu frowned. “Such a heavy rain—you took Xiao Bao out?”

Although he had endured his impatience these past days and continued training, that strange unease in his heart made him occasionally meet with friends in town, warning them to be cautious.

Meng Shuangjiang shouted, “No! Xiao Bao was at home—he suddenly vanished! We’ve searched everywhere and can’t find him. My father is frantic—he dragged me here to find Uncle Ma!”

Master Ma’s face turned grim as he stepped forward and seized a strand of his hair.

Zhong Jinqiu had already drawn a square on the table with his chopsticks, its shape slightly irregular.

Chu Tianshu glanced at it and recalled the outline of the town as seen from the mountain—eighty percent similar.

“Weary birds lose the forest; an aging father seeks his child; scattered fire traces point to the return.”

Master Ma murmured a spell, twisting the strand of hair into a knot with deft fingers; it ignited like a stick figure and floated toward the table.

The flame swayed twice in midair, then landed on one spot within the square, leaving a tiny black mark.

Chu Tianshu frantically recalled: “Which part of town corresponds to this spot?”

Both Master Ma and Zhong Jinqiu’s faces darkened.

Zhong Jinqiu muttered, “No coincidence… I knew they weren’t up to anything good.”

Meng Shuangjiang suddenly recognized the place and cried out, “That’s the Xu Commander’s house! How could Xiao Bao be there?!”

Chu Tianshu suddenly turned toward the door.

Outside, the wind howled, rain slanted sideways.

The soaked wine flag, whipped by the gale, cracked like thunder.

Deputy Officer Zhou stood firm as a boulder, one hand holding a large yellow paper umbrella, staring blankly at the back of Meng Shuangjiang’s head.

Meng Shuangjiang spun around, his face ashen.

(End of Chapter)