Chapter Twenty-Three: The First Day of Class

As Yang Fan stepped into the familiar dormitory, he immediately collapsed onto the sofa, paying no heed to the grime covering his body. At this moment, nothing mattered besides resting—let it get dirty if it must, who cared? Though his body was limp on the sofa, his mind replayed the brutal battles he had fought on the island. Until now, he either hadn’t had the time or simply didn’t want to recall those memories, but once he relaxed, they resurfaced naturally.

His heart yearned for strength, knowing that true power came from learning from experience and relentlessly seeking improvement. After the fight, Yang Fan was already aware of his many shortcomings. His mental strength far surpassed that of practitioners at his level, a gift from the silver page, though he still couldn’t wield it directly. Even so, its benefits were evident: his extraordinary memory allowed him to recall every moment of combat with photographic clarity. Each move, each strike, was etched deep into his mind.

Reflecting on the battles, Yang Fan realized he had panicked too much, failing to fully utilize his skills: the stable stance of his level, the basic body-bending and shadow-dodging techniques, even the nearly instantaneous Twin Thunder Blade—all had been forgotten in the heat of fear. Combat had not yet become instinct for him; terror had drowned out everything else. When the wild beasts bared their bloody jaws, his heart faltered. He hadn’t even thought to use his lightning ability at first, and had he not tried it as a desperate last resort, he might have become the first casualty of this year’s Shanghai Cultivation Academy—an unfortunate fate, especially for someone with first-rank talent.

In truth, he understood now that he didn’t know himself as well as he’d thought. Before the island, he had no real grasp of his lightning power’s might. Practicing five hundred overhead chops, five hundred thrusts, and five hundred horizontal slashes each day hadn’t ingrained these moves into muscle memory. Even the way he used his strength was flawed—though he possessed the power to lift five hundred pounds, he could barely unleash half of it. If he could channel it all, that tiger would have stood no chance, and the two leopards he faced afterward would have been felled in a single stroke; their bones weren’t as tough as a tiger’s, after all.

There were secrets to channeling power in the Twin Thunder Blade style, but Yang Fan had never delved deeper into them. Now, he was paying the price. With the problems laid bare, he knew what must come next: correction through relentless practice. The mission tower would be an excellent place to temper himself.

He had made up his mind: since he had chosen the path of cultivation, he would think of nothing else. Battle was the destiny of a cultivator, the honor of a warrior. He resolved to break through to the second rank as soon as possible, then visit the mission tower. If there were suitable missions, he would take them; if not, he would continue training. The pursuit of power could never be relaxed.

Having faced life and death, he now felt a burning hunger for strength. He also understood the academy’s intentions more profoundly: this trial was a line drawn to judge each student’s abilities, to let them see where they truly stood—how weak they still were. It was meant to awaken their yearning for power, for only by becoming strong could one be truly safe.

If someone wished to kill you, you needed to sever his head before he could sever yours. But first, you had to be stronger than him. Weakness deserved no pity—just as no one pitied the beasts the students slew. As Yang Fan dwelled on these thoughts, sleep slowly overtook him.

He was utterly exhausted, body and soul—this was the first true sleep he’d had since entering the Shanghai Cultivation Academy, utterly unburdened.

All the new students were eighteen, most had never seen blood before, and this ordeal had shattered their previous perceptions.

...

The next morning, upon waking, Yang Fan cleaned himself up and headed straight for the infirmary.

“All right, come back once more tomorrow and your wound should be almost healed,” said the female instructor who had treated him by the seaside.

Yang Fan examined his wound. Once so gruesome, it had nearly healed in just over a day, with fresh pink flesh already visible.

“Thank you, teacher. May I ask your name?” he inquired politely.

“Ouyang Yunlei,” she replied in a calm tone.

“Thank you again, Teacher Ouyang. I have to get to class now, so I’ll be going!” Yang Fan put on his clothes and left after expressing his gratitude.

He wondered at the miraculous ointment she had used—if he took on missions in the future, he would need to bring some along. But how much did it cost? He didn’t have much money to spare. As he walked, he gazed up at the sky, lost in thought.

By the time he arrived at the classroom, many students had already gathered. Some clustered together in conversation, while others pored over the basic cultivation manuals handed out the previous day. Yang Fan took his seat and drifted into a daze, pondering ways he might earn some money.

“Hello, my name is Tan Hao. Mind if I introduce myself?” said the robust student sitting beside him.

“I’m Yang Fan, nice to meet you,” he replied, glancing at Tan Hao. Socializing had never been Yang Fan’s forte; apart from a few friends from the orphanage and Zhou Yiyi, the girl he’d only recently met, he had few acquaintances.

Tan Hao didn’t mind the awkwardness and continued, “You’re a first-rank warrior, right? I remember seeing you that day when you came back to the shore, covered in blood, blade in hand—you looked incredible.”

“Thank you. You’ll all reach first rank soon enough. I only felt disheveled on the island, not mighty in the least,” Yang Fan said, surprised that anyone would call his ragged appearance awe-inspiring. Limping out of the forest, he’d hardly felt heroic.

“Don’t be so modest, brother. You don’t know how many girls were asking about you—the first to return as a first-rank warrior! Too bad you went straight to sleep after treatment, and when you woke up, others were gravely injured, so no one came looking for you.”

When Tan Hao mentioned the gravely injured, a flicker of fear crossed his eyes. Yang Fan himself had felt fear seeing a fellow student lose an arm. More than that, he was determined to grow stronger—he didn’t want to end up the same way.

“By the way, how are those who were badly hurt?” Yang Fan asked curiously. The academy hadn’t revealed details about those who’d lost limbs—how could they explain it to the families?

“If they brought back the severed parts, or if instructors found them in the mountains, the academy had the resources to reattach them. Those who couldn’t recover their limbs received compensation from the academy and could either continue cultivating or choose to withdraw. But those who continued would never achieve much—missing meridians meant falling behind at the first and second ranks; if the meridians weren’t connected or the bones weren’t whole, the path of cultivation would be arduous. It wouldn’t matter at higher ranks, but to start out like this... their journey is essentially over.”

Tan Hao sighed, thinking of a friend among the gravely injured whom he’d visited the night before. Yang Fan, too, felt a pang of sorrow for those young people whose paths had been cut short at the very start. The conversation weighed heavy on them, and they soon fell silent, each lost in thought.

At exactly ten o’clock, Feng Xiaolin entered the classroom.

All the students were present. Feng Xiaolin greeted them, “Good morning, everyone! Are you all well-rested after yesterday?”

“Yes, we’re rested.”

“Good, very good,” several students replied in turn.

“Since you’re rested, today I’ll explain the basics of cultivation. You all had a look at the manual yesterday, didn’t you?”

“We did.”

“Excellent. Let me first introduce you to the cultivation ranks. Most of you probably aren’t familiar, so I’ll go into detail. There are twelve transcendent ranks: First-rank Warrior, Second-rank Fighter, Third-rank Swordsman, Fourth-rank Martial Master, Fifth-rank Grandmaster, Sixth-rank Sage, Seventh-rank Grand Sage, Eighth-rank Exalted, Ninth-rank King of Warriors, Tenth-rank Martial Emperor, Eleventh-rank Martial Saint, and Twelfth-rank Martial God. This is the current path of cultivation. I’ve noticed we already have a first-rank warrior in our class—an advanced one, even. Yang Fan? Is that right?”

Feng Xiaolin suddenly called on Yang Fan in the middle of his lecture.

“Yes, I’m at the peak of first-rank warrior,” Yang Fan replied, a bit puzzled by the sudden attention.

“The first rank is about nourishing the body with vital energy, making the flesh resilient and powerful. Today, we’ll focus on how to train at this level...” Feng Xiaolin continued at length, but Yang Fan felt rather helpless. He was already on the verge of breaking through to second rank, especially after the island trial, which had further strengthened his vitality. Soon, he would be able to temper his bones with vital energy and ascend to the next level.

But the class was all about entering first rank and basic training at that stage, which was of little use to him. Time passed tediously; Yang Fan felt he’d be better off training in his dorm—he might even break through to second rank today.

...

By day’s end, every student except Yang Fan seemed to have gained much from the lesson. They departed for cultivation in high spirits, while Yang Fan walked down the road, wondering whether he should even attend future classes. For now, the curriculum offered him nothing, only stealing time from his blade practice and stance training.

After dinner at the cafeteria, he returned to his room and began drafting a training regimen for the coming days. Classes began at ten, so he would get up at six—first practicing his stances, then his blade work, then attending class, and focusing on vital energy cultivation in the evenings. Once he reached second rank, he would check the mission tower for suitable tasks.

Yesterday, he’d been too tired to even sense his vital energy or train, but during class today he noticed his control and concentration had improved significantly. It was clear that battle was the most effective way to advance. Tireless training was unavoidable, but a cultivator without combat experience could never be called a true warrior. These were words Zhou Ting had once told him, and he had always remembered them. The difference between a cultivator and a warrior was something Yang Fan was still exploring for himself.