Practicing is easy when one has infinite skill points.

"Are you scared?"

Zhong Lin gently patted Little Shi's head, his voice filled with concern.

"N-No… not scared."

Despite his trembling legs and pale cheeks, Little Shi forced the words out. Though clearly terrified, his eyes remained fixed on Zhen Shan Hu's gruesome corpse.

Zhong Lin didn't press further. How could he not be afraid? Little Shi was just a five- or six-year-old child, after all.

He bent down and yanked the arrow from Zhen Shan Hu's eye socket, wiped it roughly with dirt, and slipped it back into his quiver. Then he squatted and began rummaging through the bandit's body.

Moments later, he pulled out a money pouch and a book wrapped in kraft paper.

The pouch didn't contain copper coins but silver—eight taels' worth. The unexpected windfall thrilled Zhong Lin, but his attention quickly shifted to the book, his heart pounding.

A book carefully kept by a bandit… could it be a martial arts manual?

With care, he unwrapped the kraft paper, revealing a yellowed, creased book.

The wrinkles showed it had been frequently handled, yet it was remarkably well-preserved, with no tears.

"Second Brother, is this a book?"

Little Shi's face lit up with curiosity.

"Mm!"

Zhong Lin gently opened it, only for his expression to twist into one of pained frustration.

It was indeed a martial arts manual—small figures practicing punches adorned the pages—but he soon encountered a maddening problem.

He couldn't read.

Next to the figures were text annotations, but he didn't recognize a single character.

"A 211 university1 grad in my past life, and now I'm illiterate," Zhong Lin muttered helplessly.

His predecessor was a simple mountain villager with no exposure to literacy. Without widespread education, writing was a privilege monopolized by certain classes. Being unable to read was perfectly normal.

Though the illustrations offered some clues, Zhong Lin didn't dare practice without understanding the text. He had no desire to cripple himself through reckless training.

With a sigh, he rewrapped the book, tucked it into his chest, and hoisted Little Shi onto his back, hurrying away.

"Young brother, if you don't mind, your little brother can ride on my ox cart," Cui Xian offered.

After a brief pause, Zhong Lin set Little Shi on one of the carts. Even malnourished, the boy weighed around twenty-five kilograms—carrying him too long was exhausting.

"I'm Cui Xian. May I ask your name, young brother? If not for your help, my family would've perished here," Cui Xian said, cupping his hands.

"Zhong Lin. Greetings, Elder Cui."

At over fifty, calling him Elder Cui felt fitting.

"Zhong? Not many in Heishan bear that surname—mostly from Xiaoniu Village, Shanghe Village, or Xiahe Village. You must hail from one of those, right? Who'd have thought a small mountain village could produce such a divine archer? Truly remarkable!" Cui Xian stroked his beard, full of admiration.

Zhong Lin glanced at him, surprised. "Elder Cui, you're quite knowledgeable."

"Not really. I've just lived longer, seen more. With this drought forcing us from our homes, I'm no better than a stray dog now," Cui Xian sighed, lamenting life's hardships.

Zhong Lin steered away from small talk, cutting to the chase. "Elder Cui, I heard you mention martial artists earlier. Could you explain more?"

"Haha, so you're curious about martial artists too! I don't know much, but I can shed some light," Cui Xian said, growing serious. "Martial artists are those who cultivate the martial path. Most people who train just become stronger or learn basic moves—they're called martial practitioners at best. Only those who reach a rank can be called martial artists."

"What does 'reaching a rank' mean?"

Zhong Lin leaned in, clearly intrigued.

"I don't know the details myself," Cui Xian admitted. "From what I've heard, when a martial practitioner trains to a certain point, they break past human limits, gaining extraordinary strength—that's 'reaching a rank.' They say martial artists are divided into nine ranks. The Ninth Rank, called 'Skin Grinding,' grants hundreds of kilos in strength. Most importantly, their skin becomes like cowhide—tough as armor. Take Zhen Shan Hu: arrows couldn't pierce him, blades left only white marks. It's like shooting at leather—unless you hit a weak spot, you can't break through." A flicker of fear passed through his eyes.

Zhong Lin nodded inwardly. That was indeed terrifying.

In ancient China from his past life, owning swords or knives wasn't a big deal, but armor? That was tantamount to treason. A man in armor with a blade, even lightly trained, could chase down dozens. An army of hundreds in armor could sway a battle of tens of thousands. A Ninth Rank martial artist was like a walking suit of armor—formidable.

"The Eighth Rank is 'Tendon Stretching.' Their tendons become elastic and powerful, with explosive strength and agility.

"Then the Seventh Rank, 'Bone Forging.' Their bones turn hard as steel, with boundless strength—supposedly a thousand kilograms. A single strike is unstoppable."

"What about higher ranks?"

Zhong Lin's eyes gleamed with excitement.

Cui Xian shook his head with a wry smile. "I'm just a village bumpkin. What I know comes from my son who works in the county town. I don't know the rest. But he said Skin Grinding, Tendon Stretching, and Bone Forging are the Lower Three Ranks, focused on tempering the body. Above that are the Middle Three Ranks, where they start cultivating 'qi and blood power.' As for what that is, I'm clueless."

Zhong Lin couldn't hide his disappointment, but it confirmed this world had structured supernatural power.

If the Lower Three Ranks were this strong, what about the Middle Three? Or the First Rank?

Were they even more powerful?

Could they split stone with sheer force or tear apart tigers and leopards?

Or move mountains, shift seas, and pluck stars from the sky?

His limited perspective constrained his logic, but not his imagination.

…

"We're here."

Zhong Lin looked up. Before him stood a tall city gate, beyond which he glimpsed green-tiled roofs, white walls, and a few lofty buildings.

"Heishan County—at last."

The closer they got, the more he saw: houses everywhere, roads paved with bluestone. These weren't mud walls or thatched huts but sturdy structures of stone and wood. Though not ornate, they exuded an elegant, ancient charm.

The village and county were worlds apart—night and day.

Soldiers with spears stood guard at the gate, watching as travelers and refugees streamed in.

No one stopped the incoming refugees, suggesting the city offered some hope—even if it meant selling oneself into servitude, it beat starving.