The internal breath was continuous, seeming both real and illusory.

　　Continuing any further, however, brought no more of that tingling sensation; instead, there was a sense of emptiness. Only then did Edward Clark stop, his body already drenched in sweat, soaking through his clothes.

　　Qi refining is the process of transforming essence into internal breath.

　　A person’s own essence is limited, with a fixed daily quota.

　　The brilliance of the Baiyang Diagram lies in its high efficiency of refinement.

　　This improvement alone can save a considerable amount of time, and the amount of internal breath accumulated each day is several times that of ordinary techniques.

　　Over days and months, the gap naturally widens.

　　Checking the time, only an hour had passed. He finished his practice, stood upright, and quietly nourished his breath.

　　In the mountain’s morning, the air was at its most vibrant. Threads of coolness seeped into the heart and mind. Edward Clark calmed himself, and in the depths of his consciousness, ten characters floated amidst the clouds, each one vivid and alive, emitting a faint glow.

　　Edward Clark touched one, and this “character” instantly magnified tenfold in his mind. Its mysteries flowed forth, so that with a single touch, he could comprehend its meaning.

　　The Three Sections and Thirteen Classics, in total only a hundred thousand or so characters, concise yet profound, every word subtle and precise, containing true script. Even an ordinary person, if able to recite them daily—just like quietly reciting the Huangting on Earth—would have every word and phrase imprinted on their heart. In time, they would surely be imbued with the true script, awaken wisdom, and enter the Daoist path.

　　A hint of doubt flickered in Edward Clark’s eyes. The Three Sections and Thirteen Classics could be bought by anyone among the common folk; it was essentially like popularizing the law. Why was this so?

　　But the doubt passed in a flash. He continued to touch each true script, and in a short while, all nine Daoist classics were imprinted in his heart, without a single error.

　　“Of the thirteen sections, mastering nine is enough. I should go to the Daoist Palace for assessment now, lest delay brings trouble.” With this thought, Edward Clark swept his long sleeves and descended the mountain.

　　County Prison

　　George Foster walked in to take a look. He was the head constable, and recently the county magistrate had ordered him to also oversee the county prison, so he came to inspect.

　　The prison was gloomy, filled with a gray-black air. Not far away, several jailers were playing mahjong with the prison warden. When they saw George Foster approach, the warden called out, “Old Foster, making your rounds? Come, play a few rounds with us.”

　　The warden was also of low rank, actually about equal in status. It was only a few days ago that the county magistrate had ordered George Foster to oversee the prison, making him half a rank higher, but not truly a superior.

　　George Foster smiled and said, “No, I’ll just take a look and be on my way.”

　　As soon as he entered, he saw several jailers dragging a man out. The man was already a corpse, covered in wounds—clearly beaten to death.

　　George Foster asked, “What happened?”

　　A jailer came over and grinned, “Sir, officials can skim off the top, soldiers can draw ghost pay, I only get two taels of silver a month, and ordinary jailers just one. If we don’t squeeze the prisoners, who else can we squeeze?”

　　“As long as the prisoners don’t escape, we let prisoners manage prisoners. It’s easy work, and the ringleaders pay tribute. But this guy was stubborn and refused to pay, so the ringleaders beat him harder, and he ended up dead…”

　　George Foster listened and said, “He’s been beaten to death—what now?”

　　“It’s fine for now, it’s cooled down a bit. During the hot summer days, wasn’t there a corpse carried out every day?” The warden chuckled. “Just report it as a sudden illness and file it away. Even if there’s injustice, it’ll never be overturned—with the Prison God suppressing things.”

　　As he spoke, he pointed to a terrifying idol enshrined not far away—this was the Prison God.

　　George Foster was an old constable, long aware that the hearts of the people were as hard as iron and the law as harsh as a furnace. But hearing the warden speak so casually about a human life, he couldn’t help but shudder. Truly, killing was as common as cutting grass, without a sound. Before he could ponder further, the warden produced a small pouch. “Sir, this is your monthly customary offering.”

　　Weighing it in his hand, he knew there was about ten taels of loose silver. George Foster knew that every tael was stained with blood, squeezed from the prisoners and their families. But he also understood that if he refused, he’d be an “outsider,” unable to be accepted by the prison system. So he had no choice but to take it, saying, “Alright, I’ll handle things from now on.”

　　With that, he didn’t bother inspecting further and left.

　　The warden escorted George Foster to the door, watching as he departed.

　　George Foster weighed the silver, pondering for a moment: “It’s always been this way. I don’t feel guilty taking it. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

　　As he thought this, his mood gradually calmed. Just then, footsteps approached.

　　George Foster looked up and saw a yamen runner leading a young man inside. The young man had delicate features and was now dressed in a blue robe. Recognizing him, George Foster quickly saluted, “So it’s the Third Young Master.”

　　The third young master, David Bolton, looked at George Foster and returned the salute with a slight cupped fist. “Chief Foster, can we find somewhere to talk?”

　　George Foster was startled, glanced at the man, and said, “Please!”

　　He strode into a room in the east wing not far away. This was originally a reception room for visitors. They took their seats as host and guest. Before any yamen runner could bring coarse tea, David Bolton glanced at the departing runner’s shadow outside the window and said, “I’m here this time at my father’s request. He’d like to ask Chief Foster to handle a matter.”

　　Such directness surprised George Foster. Though he was a trusted aide of the county magistrate, he dared not offend the county deputy. The deputy rarely handled affairs, but was still nominally the county’s second-in-command. He immediately said, “Please give your instructions, Young Master. If it’s within my power, I’ll do it at once!”