Well, he could hope.
Wu Ying smiled as he walked into the apothecary hall, heading straight for the end of the hall and smiling at the attendant. Even the attendant’s slight flinch when she caught sight of Wu Ying and his large bag could not shake Wu Ying’s contentedness.
Sunlight filled Wu Ying’s courtyard, basking the cultivator’s shirtless and sweaty body. It gleamed off his well-developed pectorals, glinted off drenched muscles that were tight with exertion as they strained to keep Wu Ying’s body aloft. On a pair of suspended rings, Wu Ying hung inverted, arms spread as wide as he could, forming an inverted T. In that suspended position, the cultivator breathed in slow metronome, muscles trembling as he practiced the strength-building exercises his manual had provided.
Twenty-three.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five breaths later, Wu Ying relaxed his arms, allowing them to come back to his hips. He flipped over, allowing strained muscles to loosen as he landed on his feet. He crouched for a moment before forcing his tired body to straighten, air filling his lungs fully.
Better. Wu Ying smiled grimly. Better today than last week. But still not good. It was strange to him how the exercises in the manual rotated, forcing him to focus on different muscles every couple of days. It made little sense to Wu Ying, but for now, he followed them religiously. He did not have the requisite background knowledge to change the physical cultivation style. Not yet at least.
And in truth, over the last six months, Wu Ying had to admit he had seen the effects of the exercise manual. His strength had grown by leaps and bounds, even as his cultivation had stalled. That was not a bad thing, since Wu Ying used the time to reinforce his cultivation, ensuring the numerous meridians he had opened were properly cleansed. In time, he would break through to the next level. Until then, the increases in strength—and yes, physical bulk—were proving to be useful. In his sparring matches alone, he had noted the sudden increase in explosive power giving his sparring partners increasing trouble.
As his breathing came under control, Wu Ying stretched, popping a few joints before he turned to the rings again. He reviewed his next exercise before hopping upward to grab the rings. No time to stop. Not yet.
A half hour later, Wu Ying finally collapsed on his back, groaning as the muscles in his arms and shoulders trembled uncontrollably. Even lying down, he hurt. Today, he had added a pair of breaths to each of his exercises.
Once his breathing was under control, Wu Ying sat cross-legged on the bare earth, eyelids drooping as he tapped into his dantian. Calling forth his chi, the cultivator guided the energy through his meridians, finding the sore muscles and the bones they sheathed. Not much damage this time, since he was mostly working muscles instead of compressed pressure or blows. On the other hand, yesterday’s sparring match had resulted in a series of almost microscopic cracks along his arms, ribs, and shins. Those cracks were where Wu Ying directed his chi, interlacing the cracks with motes of the power that sat within his body. The chi slowly reinforced the cracks and the bones around them, making them harder than ever.
Microscopic damage, tiny increases in density. Like water striking stone, wearing away the stronger material, except in reverse. In time, his bones would grow stronger. In time.
An exhalation as turbid air left his lungs. A breath in as lactic acid and other corruption was sweated from his pores. And a breath out as he drew in more chi into his body, sifting it through his dantian and meridians and making it his.
Slowly.
It was late afternoon when Wu Ying finally stood, his cultivation complete. If not for the need for sustenance and a bath, Wu Ying probably would have kept cultivating. As cultivators grew more experienced, stronger, their ability to focus, meditate, and cultivate grew in proportion. Minutes spent in meditation would grow to hours, then eventually days and weeks. By that point, sustenance pills would take the place of food. Placed under the tongue while cultivating, the chi-empowered pills fed the body, taking the place of regular meals and allowing the Core Cultivators to work undisturbed.
But unlike them, Wu Ying needed sustenance. And the food laid out on a nearby table was perfect.
Wu Ying deposited himself on a stone chair at the table, already tearing a drumstick off the chicken and smiling at Ah Yee. “Thank you.”
“No thanks required, Master Long.” After a moment, Ah Lee added, “Should I go out and purchase more cookies and snacks for tomorrow?”
Over the last few months, Wu Ying had learned to pick out the disapproval in Ah Yee’s voice. It was so faint, only someone who had spent as much time as Wu Ying had with her would ever notice it.
“Tomorrow?” Wu Ying blinked then chuckled. Of course. Tomorrow was the last day of Liu Tsong’s classes. The senior cultivator was likely to come over. “Yes. Please.”
The next day, Wu Ying was perched on a chair opposite Liu Tsong in his residence, shaking his head ruefully. “Did you have to end the lesson like that?”
“Not my fault!” Liu Tsong said. “Elder Wei insisted this is the best way to have them pay for actual lessons.”
“But…” Wu Ying sighed. The last lesson had not been so much a lesson as a tease, with Liu Tsong going over the vast sea of knowledge a pill refiner needed to assimilate before they could be considered competent. From the simplest things like the variety of herbs—of which they had managed to cover about a hundred—to the choosing and maintenance of pill cauldrons, the distribution and mixing methods of pills, and even chi impartation to pills were all briefly mentioned.
“You want to know it all, right?” Liu Tsong grinned evilly.
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“That’s how we get our contribution points.”
“Bah!” Wu Ying grumbled.
Liu Tsong smiled, making Wu Ying chuckle too. She was right. As much time as he had spent gathering points, he’d poured them down the drain of training, learning new recipes and spending time working the pill cauldron. As often as he could, it was under expert supervision. Fairy Yang’s earlier warning about how expensive pill refining was resounded in Wu Ying’s mind.
Even when he dropped his blacksmithing lessons, Wu Ying still found he had insufficient time. It was no wonder that progress in cultivation was measured in years and decades. Wu Ying almost regretted his time studying blacksmithing, but he reminded himself forcefully the no one, not even the gods themselves, knew how the threads of destiny would weave themselves.
“I heard you achieved another breakthrough in your Northern Shen Kicking Style. I thought you were working on the Mountain Breaking Fist,” Liu Tsong said.
“I was. I am,” Wu Ying said. “But martial styles aren’t a direct either/or, you know. The Mountain Breaking Fist has motions similar to my other styles. A few points of clarification in the style manual translated well with some unclear points in the Northern Shen. Once I applied it… well. You know.”
“Are you still focused on your pill refining?”
“Of course. But it’s slow.” Wu Ying shrugged. “Learning the herbs, the plants, and ingredients is simple, easy, compared to the actual pill refining. I don’t think I have any talent there.”
“Rubbish. I’ve watched you. You aren’t a genius, but you are competent. You just need time.”
Wu Ying sighed. “Blacksmithing was so much easier. Even when I made rubbish, it was usable rubbish.”
“Then why continue with pill refining?” Liu Tsong bit into her cookie.
“I’m not sure. It’s a challenge, I guess,” Wu Ying said, smiling wryly. “A synergy with my harvesting.”
“And you intend to continue? Harvesting?”
“For now. It’s not as if Elder Li is letting me take another assignment. And I’m good at it.”
“Good.” Liu Tsong picked up another cookie. “So. Tell me about your latest attempt.”