The apprentices’ nerves were taut!

First, Xiangzi’s ease with the giant hammer stunned them—such strength, yet only second-rank?

Second, could Teacher Zhao really withstand that force?

Under their burning gazes, amid whistling air—

Thud! A muffled strike.

The hammer landed squarely on Zhao Mu’s back.

A faint grunt escaped him. He staggered, but with a deft stance, he spun and steadied himself.

His back flushed deep red.

The sequence left the apprentices wide-eyed—he withstood that?

“Wow, incredible! Is this a ninth-rank martial artist? Truly renowned!”

“Teacher Zhao’s skill is unmatched!”

“Teacher Zhao’s mighty!”

Amid cheers, Zhao Mu steadied, his chest churning with blood energy, nearly losing his breath.

But turning, he wore a calm, masterful air.

Applause shook the courtyard.

Hands behind his back, head high, Zhao Mu’s lips held a faint smile.

Close inspection revealed his face shifting—green, purple, red—like a dye shop.

—

Applause surged.

Zhao Mu showed no oddity, only glancing at the clapping big fellow, inwardly surprised—

Worthy of Lin’s recommendation. This kid’s got raw power.

Covering his mouth, Zhao Mu coughed lightly, steadying his breath, then boomed, “Run your stance ten times. Let me see your foundations.”

“To master Iron Shirt Thirteen Tensions, your stance must be solid!”

The apprentices quieted, striking poses.

Various stances filled the courtyard.

Zhao Mu paced, hands behind his back, nodding or frowning.

This batch had a few with solid stances—no small feat.

Especially yesterday’s top-grade apprentices, earning his silent approval. He disliked Senior Brother Liu’s greedy ways but admitted the old fox had picked good seeds.

These days, young martial artists relied on elixirs for blood energy, neglecting basics.

Most here had forced their Blood Energy Barrier with elixirs.

But as a top outer disciple, Zhao Mu knew: elixirs mattered, but the body and blood energy had to withstand their potency.

Why else would rich youths endure this?

To survive the bone-tempering broth’s potency.

His steps paused, eyes on the big fellow.

Xiangzi’s dark face was solemn, his steps steady.

His fluid form stood out among elixir-fed apprentices.

More astonishing, nearing ten rounds, Xiangzi remained calm, his movements flawless.

Zhao Mu touched his chest—no wonder this kid’s so strong. A decade of work to hone a basic stance like this.

Single-handedly lifting the second-rank iron horse? I couldn’t have done that as an apprentice.

A commoner with no elixirs, yet such robust blood energy—remarkable.

Zhao Mu grew curious about Xiangzi’s skin tempering potential.

Past trials showed commoners, unsoaked in elixirs, started weaker but often outshone rich peers with the hall’s resources.

Wasn’t I the same?

Elixirs worked better young, but their effects diminished with overuse.

Then it hit him—a commoner?

Did the ever-grinning old master choose me for this trial because of my roots?

Pressure mounting, Zhao Mu called, “All of you, change into hall gray robes and follow my Iron Shirt Thirteen Tensions drill!”

Many apprentices sighed, relieved.

Half collapsed, exhausted—pampered youths, barely enduring ten stance rounds, clung to sheer will.

But Zhao Mu added coldly, “After changing, run five more stance rounds.”

Wails filled the courtyard.

—

The sun climbed, bathing the courtyard in light.

In gray robes and new musk-leather boots—less prized than cow or sheep hide but sturdy—the apprentices stood.

Xiangzi and Xu Xiao Liu, commoners, had been thrilled receiving these boots yesterday.

Then Xiangzi recalled the musk-leather gloves he’d given Uncle Jie months ago.

Uncle Jie, frugal, rarely wore them on the mine route.

Xiangzi only saw him wear them once, at a Deyun House gathering.

Just that once.

—

Forty-Nine City’s weather was fickle.

Before noon, the sun blazed, but a sharp chill lingered, piercing pores alongside the heat—an ice-and-fire ordeal.

Zhao Mu, stern, had everyone shed their tops.

Summer neared, yet the wind’s bite remained. With the scorching sun, it was a dual torment.

Zhao Mu bared his chiseled, bronze torso, moving hands and feet in sync, chest rising and falling, exuding an indescribable aura.

“They say outer training tempers sinew, bone, skin; inner training, one breath. To temper skin, master this breath.”

“Focus on breathing, guide dantian blood energy outward, feel it flood the skin, then sense the ‘tension force’ in your skin!”

The apprentices mimicked him.

Soon, some showed faint skin movements—early signs of “tension force.”

A true teaching in one line. Zhao Mu’s skill and guidance shone, pinpointing the technique’s essence.

No wonder the old master chose him as instructor.

Zhao Mu stopped, pacing with a pleased look.

In moments, nearly half grasped the basics of skin tempering.

Senior Brother Liu’s clever—starting with a brutal blood energy test to scare off those here for credentials, sending them to third-rank courtyards, too lazy to train.

The remaining were mostly true martial aspirants.

But seeing Xiangzi, Zhao Mu’s mouth twitched.

He’d checked Xiangzi three times.

First, with high hopes.

Second, with lingering optimism.

By the third, he faced reality—

This big fellow had strength but mediocre skin-tempering talent. At his age, tempering skin, sinew, and bone was too much.

These were childhood arts.

Others his age fumbled awkwardly too.

Only Xu Xiao Liu and Chen Jiashang showed notable talent.

Sighing, Zhao Mu called, “Enough. Stop.”