Chapter 10: Brutal Body Tempering

It was a small stall tucked in a corner, displaying modern crafts and old items, mostly artificially aged. 

Occasionally, someone would inquire about a price, but sales were low.

What caught Jiang Feng’s eye was a piece of scrap iron at the stall’s edge, placed near the vendor’s feet to weigh down a cloth spread on the ground, preventing the wind from blowing it away. The scrap iron, about two meters long and a palm wide, resembled an ancient sword but didn’t quite fit—too long, too wide, unlike traditional sword craftsmanship. Covered in rust, it seemed on the verge of corroding through, its odd, unattractive shape standing out.

When Jiang Feng first glanced at it, he faintly sensed an invisible sword intent pressing toward him, startling him slightly and piquing his interest. But upon closer inspection, focusing intently, he couldn’t feel it anymore, leaving him curious.

He walked over, squatted down, examined it briefly, and asked, “Boss, can I check this?”

The vendor, a middle-aged man with a sleazy look but sharp eyes, chuckled and praised, “Young man, you’ve got a good eye, spotting my stall’s treasure at a glance. This sword’s a family heirloom, so be careful.”

Jiang Feng smiled faintly. He’d overheard the vendor’s chats with other customers and didn’t buy the nonsense. Picking up the scrap iron, he found it surprisingly heavy—slightly denser than pure iron. Given its severe rust and corrosion, it should’ve been lighter, but it defied logic. After inspecting it closely, he found nothing else unusual.

Frowning slightly, Jiang Feng almost thought he’d imagined the earlier sensation. He weighed it a few times, then asked, “How much?”

The vendor glanced at Jiang Feng and Ma Lianhao. Jiang Feng wore casual Armani, while Ma Lianhao’s clothes, though unrecognizable, screamed luxury. Sensing big fish, the vendor’s eyes glinted as he smiled, “Young man, you’ve got an extraordinary air—clearly someone important. I’ll cut you a deal, make a friend. Look after my little business in the future.”

Ma Lianhao laughed heartily. Though a mess himself, he was sharp. “Cut the crap. How much?”

Rubbing his hands, the vendor flashed yellow teeth. “Ten thousand.”

“Hell no, ten thousand for scrap iron? You’re robbing us!” Ma Lianhao snapped, seeing the vendor sizing them up as easy marks. He had money, sure, but it didn’t grow on trees.

The vendor huffed, “Hey, watch it! This sword’s my stall’s treasure, a thousand-year-old heirloom. Ten thousand’s a steal—my old man would spit blood and call me unfilial if he knew I sold it this cheap.”

“Five hundred,” Jiang Feng said.

The vendor’s face fell, whining, “You’re too harsh! Fine, for your decent vibe, eight thousand—no less.”

“Eight hundred,” Jiang Feng replied calmly.

He didn’t know antiques, but he knew people. Eight thousand wasn’t the vendor’s bottom line.

“No way, six thousand!” The vendor stomped.

“One thousand, take it or leave it,” Jiang Feng said, setting the scrap iron down.

“Five thousand.”

“One thousand.”

After fierce haggling, they settled at two thousand. The vendor feigned heartbreak, as if losing a parent, but inwardly rejoiced. He’d scavenged the scrap iron from a junkyard for ten bucks, studied it fruitlessly, and left it on his stall. Dozens of outings later, no one cared—until Jiang Feng and Ma Lianhao showed up, ripe for the fleecing.

Jiang Feng slashed the price from ten thousand to two thousand, but even then, the vendor gleefully pocketed a two-hundred-fold profit—faster than robbery.

Wrapping the scrap iron in old newspapers, Jiang Feng left with Ma Lianhao, who winked, “Young master, since when do you haggle?”

Jiang Feng never haggled—always buying the priciest, not the best. Ma Lianhao knew this, stepping in to save him from being fleeced, only to find Jiang Feng outdid him.

Jiang Feng smiled, “Two thousand for scrap iron—what’s there to be happy about?”

“Isn’t it a treasure?” Ma Lianhao asked, surprised.

“I never said it was,” Jiang Feng replied.

“—”

Back at the villa, Jiang Feng studied the sword-like scrap iron but found nothing. Tossing it aside, he grabbed a book from the study.

Jiang Dai’er entered with a bowl of bird’s nest and white fungus soup, giggling at Jiang Feng. Blinking playfully, she said, “Brother, you went out, didn’t you?”

Jiang Feng smiled, “Just wandered a bit. Something up?”

“Not really, but school starts in a couple days. Don’t go gallivanting again—you’re still grounded. Grandpa will be furious if he finds out,” Jiang Dai’er warned.

She knew Jiang Feng’s rebellious streak made advice hard to swallow, but flawed or not, he was her brother.

Jiang Feng sipped the soup, nodding absently.

He’d nearly finished the useful books in the study over the past few days, ignoring the useless ones. Yanjing University, a top-tier school, had a vast library to satisfy him. But studying hard? Not his style.

Seeing him nod, Jiang Dai’er’s eyes lit up. “It’s a deal then—we’ll go to school together.”

A high school sophomore at Yanjing University’s affiliated school, she’d join Jiang Feng, a college sophomore, on the commute. Besides Jiang Hao and Jiang Ping, who worked in key family roles, other siblings studied but rarely crossed paths.

As she spoke, Jiang Dai’er spotted the scrap iron, paused, and picked it up. “Brother, what’s this? A sword? It doesn’t look like one—such a weird shape.”

Weak and frail, she couldn’t hold it steady. It slipped, clanging to the floor. Startled, she stepped back. Jiang Feng’s eyes shifted as he saw the scrap iron pierce the floor, standing upright.

After sending Jiang Dai’er off, Jiang Feng examined it again. Swinging it at a table corner, it sliced clean through with a faint crack, leaving a smooth cut. He grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen and struck the scrap iron— the knife snapped.

“Strange,” Jiang Feng muttered, seizing a cleaver and hacking again.

A sharp “bang” rang out. The cleaver notched deeply, and rust flaked off the scrap iron. Without hesitation, he pounded it with the cleaver, shedding more rust. Three ruined cleavers later, the scrap iron shrank from two meters to about one-point-eight, its width slightly altered, though rust remained heavy.

Seeing this, Jiang Feng stopped. The scrap iron was odd, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Best not to mess with it—he stashed it away.

At night, he changed and stepped out, returning an hour later with bags of herbs from various pharmacies, costing nearly a million.

In his room, Jiang Feng unpacked, sorting the herbs swiftly with dazzling hand movements—some for internal use, some external, enough for a week. He sighed; even if Grandpa lifted his financial restrictions, money would still be tight.

After the servants slept, he went to the kitchen, brewing medicine in two pots—one small for drinking, nourishing his organs; one large for soaking, tempering his body.

Three hours later, he poured the thick, black concoction from the small pot into a bowl, downing it hot. Carrying the large pot to the bathroom, he emptied it into the tub, set the water to scalding, and filled it.

Stripping down, he sat in the tub. The steaming heat reddened his skin instantly. Gasping, he followed the body-tempering technique, forming hand seals and striking his body. Each seal normalized his scalded skin slightly.

After hundreds of seals, his skin returned to normal. His mind settled, ascending into a meditative trance—peaceful, selfless, lost in oblivion…