After emerging from the Jade Pendant space, Chen Ping’s head throbbed as if being sawed by a blunt knife, and every part of his body screamed with exhaustion.

He forced himself to lie down and close his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Though he had food in his possession, his heart grew even more vigilant. In this Shack, even a rat could steal half a mouthful of Gruel.

Before dawn broke, the Foreman’s shouts exploded through the air.

Chen Ping scrambled up. He still couldn’t break his old habit—his movements were too forceful, once again pulling at the wounds on his back and making him hiss in pain.

He got up earlier than the others.

He entered the Jade Pendant space very early and ate two handfuls of raw Spirit Rice.

This gave him more stamina than the others!

He followed the crowd toward the Pigsty. Today’s task was still Foraging.

Manager Wang’s greasy face looked especially gloomy in the morning light, his drooping eyelids sweeping over the line of servants.

Chen Ping kept his head down, trying to make himself as small as possible.

When he slung the basket onto his shoulder, that familiar grinding pain returned. He clenched his teeth and made no sound.

Arriving at the patch of wild grass, he picked up his Sickle and began to cut.

His movements seemed a bit more efficient than yesterday; swinging his arm didn’t feel as heavy. The cut grass quickly piled into a small heap.

He straightened up and tried to load the grass into his basket. After filling it halfway, he took a deep breath, grabbed the basket straps, and heaved it upward with all his might.

The basket left the ground and settled onto his shoulders.

Heavy! Extremely heavy!

The skin and flesh on his shoulders immediately tightened under the strain. But he stood firm, not staggering under the weight like he had in previous days.

He started walking toward the Pigsty. His pace wasn’t fast, but each step was solid. The basket straps dug deep into the old wounds on his shoulders—a fiery pain—but he endured it.

He carried that half-basket of grass back without stopping to rest.

Manager Wang leaned against the Pigsty doorframe picking his teeth. He glanced at Chen Ping but said nothing, only snorting through his nose.

A burly servant beside him sneered.

“Well now, Cripple Chen can carry half a basket today? Did you steal some rat droppings to eat last night?”

Chen Ping ignored him. He unloaded the grass, turned around, and headed back to the wild grass patch.

This time, he cut faster. The ache in his arms was still there, but that warm sensation seemed to be supporting his very sinews and bones.

He filled a basket to the brim, piling it high until it overflowed.

He squatted down, slipped the straps over his shoulders, grabbed them with both hands, and pushed upward with all the strength in his waist and legs.

“Up!”

The basket rose, forcing his back to bend sharply. His shoulder blades felt like they were about to crack. He gritted his molars fiercely, his face flushing red with effort, veins bulging on his neck.

Once again, he steadied himself and began inching back step by step.

His footsteps were heavy, crunching on the gravel beneath. Sweat blurred his vision and dripped into the corner of his mouth—salty and bitter.

But he carried that full basket all the way to the Pigsty entrance before setting it down.

Manager Wang stopped picking his teeth. He narrowed his eyes at Chen Ping.

The burly man beside him also stopped mocking, looking somewhat surprised and doubtful.

Chen Ping gasped for breath, wiped the sweat from his face with a swipe of his hand, turned around, and went back to cut more grass.

That day, he carried three full baskets. The broken skin on his shoulders stung fiercely from being soaked in sweat; the whip wounds on his back burned hotly.

But he endured it all.

At dusk when work ended, he felt tired; an ache seeped from deep within his bones. But he wasn’t completely shattered like before.

Returning to the Shack that night, he eagerly felt for another handful of Spirit Rice and stuffed it into his mouth.

That warm sensation surged through him once more.

He lay down and examined himself. The places on his shoulders rubbed raw by the basket straps had been bloody just yesterday. Today, they were covered with a hard, dark brown scab. The edges of several whip marks on his back had also begun to close up; they no longer oozed yellowish fluid.

This rate of recovery was much faster than when he was Starving.

The next day, Chen Ping felt as if his strength had grown a little more. Carrying a full basket of grass wasn’t as strenuous anymore.

On the third day, his speed at cutting grass noticeably surpassed that of several other skinny servants nearby.

On the fourth day, not only could he finish cutting all the grass in his assigned area on time; he could even sneak a moment to catch his breath against an earthen slope when the Foreman wasn’t looking.

He didn’t waste this precious breathing time.

From inside a hidden layer of his tattered clothes next to his skin, he pulled out that small booklet wrapped in oilcloth—the “Vitality Technique.”

The booklet was thin; its pages yellowed and brittle. Using the faint daylight filtering through cracks in the Shack wall as illumination, he carefully studied its characters and diagrams.

The characters were written in an ancient script; some he couldn’t fully recognize. The diagrams were simple stick figures holding various strange postures.

He found a secluded spot behind some shacks where no one would see him.

Following what was shown in the first diagram, he stood with feet apart, knees slightly bent, hands held loosely in front of his abdomen as if cradling a ball.

According to the booklet, this was called “Embracing Origin, Guarding Unity.” It required coordinating his breathing: inhale while expanding the abdomen outward; exhale while drawing the abdomen inward.

He tried doing it.

Inhale, abdomen expands outward—it felt a bit awkward. Exhale, abdomen draws inward.

Just standing there coordinating his breathing…

Before long, he felt stiffness creeping into his waist and back; his arms also grew sore. But he persisted, his mind trying to focus on what the booklet called “Focusing Intent on Dantian”—though he didn’t know exactly where the Dantian was located, it was probably somewhere around the lower abdomen area.

He stood for roughly the time it takes half an incense stick to burn; his legs started trembling slightly.

The later part of the booklet contained another movement called “Pushing Mountain, Exploring Sea.”

He lowered his hands from the “Embracing Origin” posture. He stepped his left foot forward into a bow stance. Slowly, he pushed his left palm forward facing outward while drawing his right hand back to his waist.

Exhale while pushing out; inhale while drawing back. The movements were very slow.

He tried going through the sequence once.

When pushing out, he felt his left thigh muscle tighten intensely; his pushing arm also grew sore. His movements were clumsy; nothing like the smooth fluidity depicted by the stick figure diagram.

Slowly, he withdrew from the posture. He switched his right foot forward, now pushing with his right hand.

He repeated this several times back and forth. His movements became slightly smoother, but his muscles throughout his body began aching and heating up. Beads of sweat emerged from his forehead and temples.

Completing the entire set—actually not many postures—felt more exhausting than carrying a whole day’s worth of pig grass.

His whole body felt drained of strength; emptiness seeped from within his bone joints. Both legs trembled weakly.

Sweat soaked through his thin shirt. The cold wind blew, causing shivers to run down his spine. That warm sensation within his belly was long gone now, replaced by a fiery, hollow emptiness that made his heart panic with hunger.

He quickly slipped back to the Shack, making sure no one noticed, then immediately grasped the Jade Pendant, communicating with a thought.

HUM!

The familiar dizziness and headache struck—lighter than last time but still unpleasant.

He appeared upon the Black Earth. He didn’t bother with anything else; he staggered, stumbling toward that pile of gleaming white Spirit Rice.

He grabbed a large handful. He didn’t care about dirt; he frantically shoved it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

The hard rice grains grated against his teeth; he bit down hard, crushing them and swallowing.

A warm current rapidly rose from his stomach, quickly spreading throughout his limbs and entire body.

That terrifying emptiness gradually filled; drained strength bubbled forth like spring water.

He chewed greedily, handful after handful, until his belly was somewhat bloated from raw rice. That warm flow finally suffused his entire body, dispelling the complete exhaustion.

Gasping for breath, he sat beside the rice pile, feeling his strength return even slightly more abundant than before practicing the technique, though his mental fatigue remained.

He didn’t dare stay longer, fearing excessive mental consumption would make him unable to hold up outside.

He returned to the cold straw bedding, his mouth still lingering with the faint sweetness of Spirit Rice.

His physical weariness miraculously vanished, leaving only mental drowsiness.

He lay down and soon fell into a deep sleep.

These past few days of improvement left him quite satisfied. Continuing at this pace, it wouldn’t be long before he became a regular Laborer!