Snap! The box snapped shut.

Chen Jiashang had let everyone peek, but only briefly before his reluctance showed. “Oh, don’t be upset, folks. This pill’s precious. If it loses potency, that’s trouble!”

The young apprentices returned to their bunks, disappointed.

Lying on his bed, Xiangzi recalled the “Skin-Grinding Pill’s” appearance, his hand unconsciously reaching for the small cloth pouch in his robe.

Inside was an item identical to Chen Jiashang’s pill.

Xiangzi wasn’t certain what it was, but he’d taken it from the ninth-rank guard at the Li family mine. Recalling that guard’s remarkable skin defense, Xiangzi had a bold guess—

Barring surprises, this was a Skin-Grinding Pill.

The question now: if it was, how to use it?

From the youths’ chatter, it was meant for medicinal baths.

But with Xiangzi’s rich experience of “recklessly taking pills,” he didn’t dare experiment. Since swallowing that tiger demon’s blood marrow in the Li family mine’s desperate straits, his body had undergone strange, indescribable changes.

Beyond his uncanny eyesight, his recovery ability felt eerily unnatural.

Lately, Jin Fugui’s horrifying image haunted him.

Jin Fugui, infected by “mine miasma” after consuming five-colored ore, became a monstrous thing, neither man nor ghost, his fate unknown.

And Xiangzi… had swallowed a ninth-rank peak tiger demon’s blood marrow.

This was why he kept the other marrow hidden, not daring to entertain the thought.

The martial artist’s four arts—eat, soak, nourish, train—each was a profound study. Missteps could halve results or leave hidden dangers.

Uncle Jie had stressed this to Xiangzi.

Sighing, Xiangzi’s gaze flicked to the smug Chen Jiashang.

Skin-Grinding Pill?

Sorry, I have one too.

—

Just past dawn, moonlight lingered, and the morning glow hadn’t fully broken.

The apprentice courtyard shimmered with a hazy air.

Outside, it was packed with people.

“Not bad. No one’s late. Compared to the last batch, you’re decent,” a black-robed disciple said, standing with hands behind his back in the moonlight.

“Once you’re an apprentice, ditch those rich-kid airs. I, Zhao Mu, say this upfront: no matter who’s behind you, if you can’t meet my standards, I’ll report it to Senior Brother Liu.”

Young, barely in his twenties, Zhao Mu’s steady demeanor stood out.

He was one of the trial instructors and an examiner in yesterday’s blood energy test.

The apprentices shouted, “Teacher Zhao!”

Nodding, Zhao Mu continued, “This week, you’ll learn Iron Shirt Thirteen Tensions. I know many of you were raised on elixirs…” A trace of disdain crossed his face. “Elixirs are proper for martial artists, but relying on them without skill leads to ‘stiff skin, rigid bones,’ and you’ll never grasp the true martial path.”

“Your outside skin-tempering methods can’t compare to Baolin’s foundational technique.”

His blunt words dismissed the entire courtyard.

These young lads, some with family techniques, bristled with indignation.

One glance, and Zhao Mu knew their thoughts—youngsters, always stubborn until they see the coffin.

Wasn’t I the same?

“Hmph, I know you’re unconvinced. I’ll pick a strong one. Watch closely.”

The apprentices stirred—Teacher Zhao was about to show real skill.

Scanning the crowd, Zhao Mu’s eyes landed on the big fellow. “You, the big guy, step up.”

“Grab an iron hammer from the weapon rack.”

Xiangzi froze, then realized—his performance yesterday had caught Zhao Mu’s eye.

Being singled out stunned the apprentices.

Didn’t he say a strong one?

Why this guy?

Chen Jiashang and a few others got top grades yesterday.

—

Chen Jiashang’s smile froze.

He’d puffed out his belly, expecting to be chosen.

But Zhao Mu picked that big fellow?

Watching Xiangzi step forward, Chen Jiashang’s emotions churned—

Does this kid have real backing? Why else let him steal the spotlight?

This wasn’t mere youthful pride. For Chen Jiashang, the trials were everything—he’d staked all on this chance, with no retreat.

He knew more about this unusual trial than most.

Otherwise, with his “brimming blood energy,” how could he have used that clever trick in the blood energy test? He’d known the test’s details.

He’d toiled half a year in the Chen family mines for that top grade.

Half a year of grueling labor, countless days of blood and tears, only to be overlooked by Zhao Mu?

His sources said the three examiners, handpicked, could directly appoint first-rank apprentices.

A shadow of gloom crept into Chen Jiashang’s eyes.

—

Xiangzi reached the weapon rack and picked up a heavy, ancient hammer.

Its massive head, nearly as big as a human’s, was daunting.

With a flick of his wrist, the hammer whistled through the air.

The apprentices blinked—this big fellow had real strength.

Zhao Mu smiled lightly, shedding his black robe to reveal knotted muscles.

“Watch my movements. I’m demonstrating the first three tensions of Iron Shirt Thirteen Tensions, focusing on adjusting breathing and mastering ‘tension force’ to let blood energy seep into the skin and shallow fascia.”

“Do this, and your resistance to blunt strikes will soar, allowing you to withstand the bone-tempering broth’s escaping potency without your skin collapsing!”

Zhao Mu stood feet shoulder-width apart, hands hanging naturally, palms forward. Within breaths, his skin seemed to writhe faintly.

In an instant, his back glowed faint red—likely the “blood energy seepage” he mentioned.

Xiangzi, closer and with his eerie vision, saw clearer—this Iron Shirt Thirteen Tensions seemed built on stances?

Unlike stances’ “blood-driven, cycling force,” this technique required dispersing blood energy to the skin.

So this is skin tempering, Xiangzi realized.

“What’re you waiting for? Hit me!” Zhao Mu urged, seeing Xiangzi’s focus.

Xiangzi raised the hammer but hesitated—full force?

He didn’t want to hide his strength, but what was Zhao Mu’s realm?

If only early ninth-rank, a full strike might kill him.

Not long ago, Xiangzi had felled a ninth-rank entry guard at the Li family mine.

But an instructor in the apprentice courtyard wouldn’t be an ordinary outer disciple—likely at least Liu Tang’s level, perhaps ninth-rank great mastery or perfection.

And Zhao Mu’s skin technique looked formidable.

With that, Xiangzi surged blood energy in his dantian.

The hammer roared, buzzing through the air.

At the strike, he twisted his wrist, pulling back half his strength—equivalent to a top-grade apprentice’s force in the blood energy test.

That should be safe, right?