I punched the hard wall nearly fifty times before that “10000” in Arabic numerals reluctantly dropped by one, turning into “9999.” My fists were so swollen I couldn’t even feel the pain anymore; I even suspected that all ten of my finger bones had shattered. Blood dripped from my hands onto the equally hard stone floor, making me feel utterly exhausted.

“If this keeps up, I’ll die of exhaustion before I can break down the wall’s HP.”

I glanced around the empty underground hall. The instructor was already gone, and everyone else was desperately punching and kicking at their own walls.

In front of a burly man as strong as a polar bear, the wall’s HP had already dropped to eight thousand—he’d smashed over a thousand points, his strength truly terrifying.

But he wasn’t the strongest. The strongest was a medium-built, unremarkable-looking, yellow-skinned middle-aged man. The wall in front of him had already dropped to just over six thousand seven hundred. Every punch and kick from this man carried an indescribable ferocity that made your scalp tingle just to watch. Among these devilish guys, I was probably the weakest.

Back in school, I was always the best at sports—running, high jump, long jump, basketball, soccer—I was never worse than anyone else. Fighting was my specialty; my nickname as the top boss of the underground groups from five nearby middle schools wasn’t for nothing.

I never imagined that one day I’d find myself so ridiculously weak. Among these terrifying killing machines, I was like a helpless lamb.

“If this goes on, even if I survive today, I won’t make it through tomorrow. Sooner or later, I’ll die here, with no chance to avenge my parents.”

Just as anxiety and despair started to well up inside me, my eyes suddenly lit up as I noticed the people who had just been beaten to death or fatally wounded. No one bothered to clean up the corpses—they just lay there, gradually growing cold, their blood already dried. The gravely injured were just waiting to take their last breath; no one even thought about treating them.

I left my spot and found a secluded corner near a guy whose neck had been twisted off. I placed my palm on the ground, letting the golden burial shroud slowly extend from the floor.

I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but I noticed the golden burial shroud had grown a bit longer.

As the golden burial shroud crept closer to the corpse, countless tiny fleshy tendrils sprouted from it and began to devour the flesh. With every bit of flesh it consumed, my stamina—which had dropped to its limit—recovered a little, and the wounds on my body began to heal.

My numb hands suddenly started to ache—that was a sign the injuries were healing. Then I heard faint crackling sounds of bone restructuring from my hands. The skin and flesh, which had been so damaged you couldn’t see a single intact patch, actually began to regrow.

After about half an hour, all my strength had returned, and my injuries were almost as good as new. The corpse, on the other hand, looked like it had been dead for half a year—so ghastly I didn’t want to look at it again. I quietly retracted the golden burial shroud, which seemed a bit reluctant to leave, and returned to my wall.

This time was much better than before. I only needed a little over thirty punches to knock off another point from the wall’s HP, turning it into “9998.”

The result was still terrible. At this rate, there was no way I could break down the wall’s HP before noon, but at least it was progress.

My thinking was simple: as long as I was making progress, I’d eventually be able to complete this grueling training.

During the third “break,” that medium-built, unremarkable-looking, yellow-skinned middle-aged man stopped his punches and quietly walked over to me, speaking in a low voice: “Are you the one Edward Bennett mentioned?”

I was a little surprised, and discreetly withdrew the golden burial shroud.

Before I could ask how he knew Edward Bennett, the middle-aged man suddenly reached out and pressed his hand down. The hard concrete floor instantly cracked with spiderweb-like patterns. I never imagined I’d meet a legendary “martial arts master” in this dark training camp. Just that one move would be enough to shock the world outside, but the man didn’t care at all—he just stared at me with a piercing gaze.

The aura from this man completely dominated the scene, so all I could do was nod dumbly.

The middle-aged man said in a low voice, “I’ll teach you seven stances. These seven stances have been verified by modern kinesiology as the most effective ways to unleash the body’s potential for attack. If you do as I teach and give it your all, you’ll be able to eat lunch in a month!”

“A month? You mean this training goes on every day? I’ll starve to death before I ever get to lunch!”

The man gave me a deep look, didn’t explain anything, and just stood up to demonstrate a few stances.

The stances were simple—easy to memorize at a glance—but I didn’t believe these seven seemingly ordinary moves could hold any real secrets. After demonstrating, the man left without another word, leaving me unsure of his true intentions.