Chapter Ten: The Training Begins

Training Begins

While Bai Qi was troubled by the thought of how to avoid a grueling, devilish training regimen, on the other side of the Great Tang, a very different scene unfolded.

The entire mountain was bound in ice and snow, as though it would never thaw in a thousand years. Nearly all living creatures were frozen within the glacier—some near the surface, others buried deep beneath the earth. If one looked closely at the bodies embedded in the upper layers, they remained perfectly intact: every strand of fur was vivid and fresh, the branching blood vessels on their flesh visible and pristine. Even the expressions of their final moments, wide-eyed with incredulity, were preserved; some still held tender twigs between their teeth, never having had the chance to chew, while others seemed only to be sleeping—never to awaken again. Perhaps, someday… In the depths below, darkness reigned, and it felt as if countless eyes were staring, motionless, from the shadows, exuding a terror as unknowable as the abyss itself.

Amidst this oppressive, desolate, and deathly mountain stood a dilapidated temple halfway up its slope. The temple seemed to echo the mountain’s dark aura: its walls, constructed of jet-black obsidian, though battered with age, were joined with such meticulous craftsmanship that, if one could ignore the oppressive color, the place would seem fit for gods of old. Yet now, the place was steeped in death and gloom. Carvings on the four corners of the eaves showed people on their knees in supplication, so lifelike that, if one lingered too long, it felt as though one’s very spirit might be drawn into the scenes.

And it was from within this temple, in the heart of the glacier, that a low, murmuring chant could be heard, as if an ancient man was pleading for help—though the content of this “plea” was enough to shock.

“Hmm, such a familiar scent, yet tinged with youth. Have I really fallen so low?” The speaker was shrouded in tattered burlap, with only withered calves and forearms exposed, and an aged, spotted face. His body was gaunt, almost skeletal, and his clouded eyes seemed to gaze into the distance, wracked by coughs that threatened blood. All around him, the great hall of the temple was devoid of life; the two rows of standing pillars were inlaid with skulls, and the ever-burning greenish candles were fashioned from corpse fat, their flames flickering, occasionally spitting with a sizzling spray of oil.

Though this place lay within the borders of the Great Tang, it was so remote and barren that few ever discovered it—perhaps because it sat at the confluence of several provinces, or for some other reason.

Deep in the verdant mountains…

“Splash, splash!” Over and over, a half-naked figure was thrown into the river, gulping mouthful after mouthful of water, struggling even to breathe. This was Bai Qi; the old man drinking wine on the shore was none other than Kun himself.

Since the day they both recovered, Kun had begun training Bai Qi daily, starting with endurance. Each morning, Bai Qi was made to enter the icy, bone-chilling river, forced to constantly regulate his spiritual energy to defend his body. The training itself was simple enough, but Kun showed no mercy. Using his earth affinity, Kun would summon earthen pillars—starting with just two, each half a meter long—to attack Bai Qi in the water, sometimes sending in two earth balls as well, wrapped in spiritual power, one attacking from the riverbank, the other from underwater. Bai Qi had to both defend himself and dodge these relentless assaults, and whenever he was struck, he would be sent sputtering into the river, battered by pain and humiliation. The fiercer Bai Qi’s protests, the faster Kun’s attacks became—not in strength, but in frequency—until it became unbearable for anyone.

Through this relentless repetition, Bai Qi’s spiritual energy became more robust and focused; his speed in gathering it improved steadily. While not yet effortless, he could now draw energy to his palms with impressive swiftness.

This grueling regime continued for nearly two months. For meals, they hunted low-level spirit beasts from the surrounding area, thinning their numbers until Bai Qi had to search farther afield—sometimes encountering second-tier beasts, which he could handle after a few bouts. Against stronger ones, he struggled; some were swift and cunning, and more than once, Bai Qi found himself in stalemates, both sides retreating in the end. Once, while hunting, he even encountered a third-tier beast—the Crimson-tailed Spirit Monkey. If not for Kun’s intervention, he would have been torn to pieces by its vicious playfulness.

After each period of training, Kun would move their camp to a new location. Alongside physical training, he began teaching Bai Qi to identify medicinal herbs, understand formations, and concoct pills. Kun had often mentioned these things before, but now he taught Bai Qi directly, hands-on. Previously, Bai Qi had only seen such things on a computer screen, in the colorful effects of video games. Now, living it firsthand, he absorbed the lessons quickly, memorizing every detail Kun shared, asking questions whenever he forgot.

Two months later, the number of attacking objects had increased from four to ten, and their speed had grown as well. Bai Qi’s body bore cuts and bruises of varying degrees, making him look bloody and bedraggled. Naturally, as his master, Kun knew how far to push him. After each day’s training, while teaching him about herbs, Kun would have prepared a large bamboo tub filled with a medicinal infusion for Bai Qi to soak in, invigorating his blood and balancing his energy. Looking at his own strong muscles and chiseled face, so different from the bookish, frail self he’d once been on Planet X, Bai Qi couldn’t help but sigh inwardly; even the set of his mouth seemed to accept this new reality.

Noticing Bai Qi lost in thought, Kun interrupted him. “What is it? Feeling homesick?”

“Hmm… a little. I wonder how my parents are, and whether Blackie is in this world, too.” Bai Qi sighed helplessly, his longing evident in every word.

Kun, having lived a long life, understood Bai Qi’s feelings, but could do little to help. He himself knew nothing of the other world; though he’d spent years with Bai Qi, he rarely asked about the past—knowing only fragments. He did recall two key figures Bai Qi mentioned: their school principal, called “the Sage,” and another, described as mouse-faced. These clues meant nothing to Kun, so he let them be.

Kun placed a reassuring hand on Bai Qi’s shoulder. “Child, though I lack the power to bend space and time like the master you spoke of, I will give you everything I have. I may not be his equal, but in the Nine Provinces, I am not insignificant. What you must do now is work to become someone like that, so you can return home. Only then will this old man be at peace.”

Hearing these words, Bai Qi felt a warmth inside. Since arriving in this world, he’d been lucky to meet Kun, who took him in and taught him. He could feel only gratitude, nothing else. He nodded, his gaze fixed on the distance, eyes now more resolute than ever.

“All right, enough daydreaming. Starting tomorrow, your training will change. Rest well tonight, and prepare yourself for what’s to come. I believe you can go home, child. I have faith in you.”

“Yes, Grandfather. I understand.”