The next day, at the crack of dawn, the sky had just begun to lighten, carrying a hint of autumn chill.

Yang Jing woke up at his usual time and pushed open his door. There was already activity in the courtyard.

His cousin, Yang An, was busy in the kitchen. A clay pot of Spirit Fish was bubbling away, its rich aroma drifting through the window and permeating the chilly air.

Yang Jing observed Yang An discreetly for a moment. His cousin was wearing an apron, focused on adding firewood to the stove. A good-natured smile was on his face, and he occasionally hummed a few lines of a tuneless little song. He was clearly oblivious to what had happened last night and hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

He felt relieved and walked over to the well in the corner of the courtyard to wash up.

Splashing the ice-cold well water on his face instantly dispelled any lingering sleepiness, invigorating him completely.

By the time he finished washing up, Yang An had already set the dishes on the square table in the main room.

The Spirit Fish in the clay pot was steaming, a layer of fine oil droplets floating on the surface of the milky-white broth. Beside it was a platter of tiger meat cut into large chunks, glistening with a deep reddish-brown sheen. There was also a plate of leftover horse meat from last night, which had been reheated. As always, a large bowl of brown rice sat on the corner of the table.

"Brother Jing, hurry and eat. The Spirit Fish Soup is perfect, and it’s very nourishing."

Yang An pushed the clay pot toward Yang Jing, then picked up his own chopsticks, grabbed a piece of horse meat, and began shoveling it down with his rice.

Yang Jing acknowledged him, ladled out a bowl of Spirit Fish Soup, and took a piece of tiger meat.

The Spirit Fish meat was tender and savory, while the tiger meat was satisfyingly chewy. The flavors of the two meats mingled in his mouth as a warmth slid down his throat, nourishing his meridians.

The meal passed in peace.

After the meal, Yang Jing picked up the cloth bag draped over a cabinet and said to Yang An, "Brother An, I’m heading to the Martial Arts Hall. If anything comes up at home, come find me there."

"Alright, got it," Yang An said, nodding repeatedly, his mouth still full of food.

Yang Jing smiled, slung the bag over his back, and left the courtyard.

As he pushed open the courtyard gate, the morning sun streamed in from the mouth of the alley, casting a long shadow on the ground.

He took a deep breath of the cool air and started walking toward Chengping Square.

The bluestone slabs underfoot were damp with morning dew, feeling cool beneath his feet.

Yang Jing deliberately slowed his pace, his gaze occasionally sweeping over the shops and pedestrians along the way.

A breakfast stall on the roadside had just been set up. The shopkeeper was busy lighting the stove while a few early customers sat around, eating porridge and idly chatting about everyday trifles.

The general store on the street corner had its doors wide open, and a clerk was humming a little tune as he moved crates of goods inside.

All along the way, he didn’t hear a single word about Shen Lie. The streets and alleys remained as peaceful as ever.

Yang Jing understood. ’Either Shen Lie’s death hasn’t been discovered yet—after all, he lived alone and died late at night. His hired housekeeper hasn’t come to work, so it’s only natural no one would notice for a while. Or the news just broke and hasn’t spread to the West City Marketplace yet.’

After crossing two streets, he arrived at Chengping Square.

The main gates of the Sun’s Martial Arts Hall were already open. Above them, the hall’s plaque glowed with a dark red luster in the morning light.

When Yang Jing stepped into the Martial Arts Hall, the courtyard was exceptionally quiet.

The bluestone slabs of the front courtyard had been swept clean, and the equipment was neatly arranged. Only a few servant disciples were busy at the edge of the training grounds.

Two of them were working together to move a bluestone pillar half the height of a man, intending to place it near the front gate wall.

Another held a rag, carefully wiping down the long spears on a nearby weapons rack. Their tips glinted coldly in the morning light.

When the servant disciples saw Yang Jing enter, they quickly stopped what they were doing and bowed. "Good morning, Senior Brother Yang!"

"Morning."

Yang Jing nodded slightly, a gentle smile on his face. His gaze swept across the front courtyard; it was still early, so no other disciples had arrived. He then walked straight toward a side wall.

He set down his cloth bag and stretched his arms and legs.

He took off his outer tunic and casually tossed it onto his bag.

The cool morning breeze grazed his skin, but he paid it no mind, instead beginning a set of warm-up stretches.

He rotated his arms in wide circles, twisted his torso like a drawn bow, and kicked his legs out with solid force, loosening up his muscles and joints. Every muscle gradually tensed, revealing sleek, defined lines.

Warm-up complete, he sank into his stance and assumed the opening form of the Mountain-Shattering Fist.

He slowly raised both fists. Inner Strength circulated through his meridians, several times more potent than usual, like a raging river surging through his body.

Yang Jing focused his mind, deliberately reining in the amount of Inner Strength he used. He exerted only a level of force comparable to his usual output, making his fist techniques look no different than they normally did.

"Hah!"

With a low shout, he threw a punch. The force of the blow cut through the air, smashing into nothing with heavy, ferocious power.

The air vibrated slightly where his fist passed, yet he kept the effect perfectly controlled within acceptable limits.

He practiced the forms of the Mountain-Shattering Fist over and over, from the Mountain-Opening Form to the Rock-Shattering Form, and then the Heaven-Collapsing Form. Each punch was executed by the book, yet he was constantly making minute adjustments to his output of Inner Strength.

The surging Hidden Strength in his body was like an untamed wild horse, difficult to control at first. Occasionally, a trace of its domineering power would leak out between forms, making the force of his punches suddenly sharper.

But with each repetition, Yang Jing’s control over this surging power grew more adept, like an experienced rider taming a fiery steed. The circulation of his Inner Strength became smoother, and the force of his punches gradually stabilized until it was indistinguishable from his usual performance.

He did not practice the Raging Wave Kicks.

His Raging Wave Kicks technique had just broken through to the Hidden Strength realm. The agility of his Body Technique and the sharpness of his kicks were far superior to before. Even if he deliberately held back, the profound sense of improvement radiating from him would be difficult to completely conceal.

The rhythm of his footwork and the cadence of his power generation were both subtly different from how they were at the Obvious Strength level.