Instructor Harris's words clearly conveyed his dissatisfaction with Branch Master Brooks, and Charles Carter didn't dare make a sound, secretly feeling delighted.

From this, it seemed that Instructor Harris was not an ordinary teacher. If compared to the main sect, this position would probably be something like a Transmission Elder? Protector level? That would make him a top aide to the sect leader. So, in this branch, Instructor Harris must also hold one of the highest ranks, qualified to challenge the branch master.

“All right, enough with the pleasantries.” Instructor Harris had a straightforward, bandit-like air and didn't waste words, jumping straight into teaching: “Blood Fiend Technique doesn't have any true qi circulation routes, but it does have a method to activate your blood energy. The basic method needs to be practiced together with basic movements—just follow the manual... As for the key to channeling strength, you obviously can't grasp it just by reading this booklet. You must do it like this, like this...”

Charles Carter quickly became absorbed, the instructor's words echoing in his ears. He seemed to be able to see the flow of his own qi and blood inside his body, like a stream, starting to surge and boil from its quiet trickle.

Before long, he could feel a kind of restlessness, like the feeling of getting worked up after losing at the World Cup—eyes red, head dizzy, blood rushing so much you could smash the TV to pieces.

And the power that could be unleashed in this state was, of course, much greater than usual. Was the Blood Fiend Technique designed to let people actively enter this kind of frenzied state?

Even more amazing, last night when he tried practicing those movements, his legs had gone weak after only a short while, and he couldn't hold out. But now, he didn't know where this surge of heat was coming from—it seemed to ease the soreness and strengthen his muscles and bones, letting him persist longer and longer.

And this was just the beginning—what would it be like if he mastered it?

Was this what demonic arts were?

At some point, the instructor's voice had faded away, and the surroundings became a bit noisy, a bit like... the sound of a college cafeteria after class.

Charles Carter slowly opened his eyes.

Damn, it really was a cafeteria...

A cook was pushing a cart over, with a wooden bucket of millet rice mixed with wild vegetables, and even a bit of meat. The aroma wafted over from afar. The disciples who had just been training all swarmed over with their bowls and chopsticks, and the cook served them one by one.

At this moment, Charles Carter also felt his stomach rumbling. After a whole morning of practicing the Blood Fiend Technique, his hunger felt like he hadn't eaten all day, so he dashed to his room to grab his bowl.

When he got back, David Sullivan was nowhere to be seen, but Charles Carter didn't care, grabbed his bowl, and rushed out to get food.

Despite being a bandit stronghold at its core, this place was still a sect and had its rules. The chaotic, jostling scene he had imagined didn't exist—everyone lined up in an orderly fashion. Charles Carter naturally queued up at the end, craning his neck to look. He noticed the cook was particular about serving: some people didn't get even a speck of meat, while others, like that Michael Bolton from earlier, actually got half a chunk of braised pork in their bowl.

Others looked at the meat in their bowls with envy in their eyes, but no one lost their temper at the cook. This area was probably under Instructor Harris's authority for rewards and punishments—whoever he said could eat meat, got to eat meat.

Finally, it was Charles Carter's turn. The cook glanced at him and, sure enough, gave him a piece of braised pork, even bigger than Michael Bolton's. Charles Carter was overjoyed—Instructor Harris really was treating him well, and meat was incredibly important to him right now!

Cradling his bowl happily as he squeezed out of the crowd, he saw Michael Bolton leading a few people over, grinning slyly. “Yo, a whole piece of meat, huh...”

Charles Carter's expression darkened, and he frowned. “Seriously, are you really going to make a fuss over this? This kind of brainless villain is a bit low.”

“Make peace? What peace do we have with you!” Michael Bolton didn't understand the second half of his sentence and sneered, “A traitor who got recognized by the sect just because you stabbed your own young master and got taught the Blood Fiend Technique—fine, whatever. But now you're sucking up to Instructor Harris, and it's making the rest of us get less meat. Peace?”

Charles Carter was speechless. “So, in the end, it's just about a piece of meat.”

A vicious glint flashed in Michael Bolton's eyes. Of course it was about a piece of meat—what's so strange about that? From meat to martial arts, it's all just “resources.” Even if there's nothing to fight over, you have to find something. And you, a newcomer? We're bandit cultists—when have we ever talked about being polite to you?

He couldn't be bothered to argue with Charles Carter and waved his hand. “Take it!”

The few bandits who were close to him rushed forward. Charles Carter was still holding his bowl—how could he fight? He tried to protect his bowl, dodging left and right, but still took several hits to the back, and the wild vegetables on top of his rice spilled everywhere.

A crowd gathered around, cheering and making a racket, as if this was all perfectly normal.

He could vaguely hear people whispering, “This Charles Carter is hogging all the attention. I can't stand him. Michael Bolton is doing a good job putting him in his place.”

“Instructor Harris seems to treat him well, even pulled him aside to talk... Isn't Michael Bolton afraid the instructor will punish him for this?”

“What is there to be afraid of? Anyone can see Branch Master Brooks doesn't like him. What can Instructor Harris do to protect him?”

Amidst the whispers, no one noticed that Charles Carter's eyes were growing redder and redder, like blood.

That same urge to smash the TV during a soccer match surged up inside him. Suddenly, Charles Carter stopped dodging, and with a heavy swing, smashed his bowl to the ground. “If I don't get to eat, you think you will?”

Bang! The rice bowl shattered, scattering rice and meat all over the ground, mixed with broken porcelain—no one could eat it now.

Michael Bolton and his gang were all stunned. “Damn, this guy's hardcore.”