High Martial: I Grind Professions

Chapter 38: Chapter 20: The Disease of Poverty

He quickly lowered his hand and tried to sit up straight, forcing a nonchalant smile onto his face. He waved his hands repeatedly, his voice hoarse from coughing:

”COUGH COUGH... It’s nothing, it’s nothing... COUGH COUGH... Maybe it’s because, hmm, the weather’s gotten colder recently, and I accidentally caught a chill... Just a bit of a, COUGH COUGH... a slight cough. It’s fine, just a minor thing. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

His gaze flickered, not daring to look his son in the eye.

”Is that so?” Li Wen’s tone was calm, but his dark, deep-set eyes were like mirrors that could see into a person’s soul, clearly reflecting every trace of his father’s panic and deliberate understatement.

”COUGH... It is! You don’t need to worry about me!” Li Hong’s voice suddenly rose a notch, carrying an almost commanding urgency.

”Hurry back to your room. Final exams are coming up, your cultivation is what’s important! Don’t waste any more time!”

As he spoke, he stood up, practically on the verge of physically pushing Li Wen into his room.

Li Wen took a long look at his father’s sallow, sickly complexion, which couldn’t be hidden by his forced composure, and the tired, red marks in the corners of his eyes that were impossible to conceal.

”Hmm... as long as there’s no problem.” Li Wen’s voice betrayed no emotion. ”I’ll go in and cultivate then.”

After speaking calmly, he walked straight to his small room and gently closed the door.

In the space now cut off from the living room, Li Wen leaned back against the cold door panel and slowly closed his eyes. His heart felt as if it had been viciously squeezed by an invisible hand, a suffocating panic rising within him.

His father’s suppressed coughs seemed to still echo in his ears. The door didn’t just block the sound, but also the heavy burden of worry his father refused to place upon him.

All distracting thoughts—his father’s forced smile, the deep-seated exhaustion in his mother’s eyes—were forcibly stripped away, compressed, and sealed in the deepest corners of his consciousness.

’It must be an illness he’s hiding. What kind? It doesn’t matter.’

’Because there’s only one sickness in this world—the sickness of poverty.’

The sickness of poverty. The phrase was like a tempered steel needle, piercing the core of his understanding.

In this era where Spiritual Energy catalyzed the growth of all things, physical illnesses for ordinary people were, in theory, no longer incurable.

Vitality potions extracted from mutated plants, nano-level repair technology, even certain High Tier Martial Arts Secret Skills involving Life Origin... as long as one had enough resources, regrowing a lost limb was no empty boast.

But the prerequisite was money.

Enough of it. A vast amount of it.

His family didn’t have it.

His parents tightening their belts to barely support his martial arts training was already their limit. Once the pillar of the family fell, their fragile financial balance would instantly collapse.

What was his father worried about? It wasn’t an incurable disease. It was the Qi and Blood Potions and nutritional meals that would dry up once he lost his job. It was the uncertain future of his son, a high school senior on the Martial Dao. It was the crumbling hope of this family.

Tell him? It would only add to his worries and would likely disrupt his mindset for the upcoming Martial Dao college entrance exams. His parents’ choice was silence, to swallow the pressure and pain alone, just as they swallowed the bitterness of life.

And Li Wen, on the other side of the door, understood this bitterness all too clearly.

He took a slow breath, the turbulent emotions in his chest replaced by something colder, harder.

CLICK. The lock sounded softly as he stepped into his own small space.

His gaze swept over the old, worn-shiny mat beside his bed. He kicked off his slippers and stepped onto it barefoot. The mat’s cold touch shot up from the soles of his feet, instantly coursing through his entire body and carrying away the last trace of hesitation.

’Get stronger! It’s the only way! The fastest way!’

The thought flowed like molten lava, needing no time to brew, no room for hesitation. He spread his legs slightly, his spine straightened like a spear, and his hands formed a seal in front of his chest. The familiar path of his Cultivation Technique lit up in his mind instantly.

’Activate—[Absolute Focus]!’

The silent command was issued, and the world suddenly faded and simplified. His consciousness was elevated to an infinite height, like a deity looking down upon himself.

The surging Qi and Blood roared and accelerated along the precise track of the [Splitting Blade Golden Killing Skill].

Each cycle was like the most precise forging hammer, tempering his muscles, sinews, and skin with greater efficiency, even faintly touching the deeper level of his marrow and blood.

The benefits brought by the advancement in his Cultivation Technique’s realm were crystal clear.

The physical hunger from the high-speed strengthening was temporarily sated. The subtle increase in his strength was no longer a slow trickle but a stream formed from converging brooks.

His body’s greedy absorption of Spiritual Energy and the attrition from the circulation of his Qi and Blood were all being gradually optimized and reduced under the control of the Minor Achievement stage.

The shackles of his limit were still there, but he had viciously pushed them back an inch.

One hour and three minutes—a precious three minutes longer than yesterday!

When the feeling of absolute control receded like a tide, an intense emptiness and a wave of weakness that instantly washed over his body nearly consumed him.

Like a wineskin squeezed dry, his knees gave way, and he collapsed to the ground.

His face was a horrifying, bloodless white. A vein throbbed faintly at his temple, and sharp, stabbing pains emanated from deep within his brain—a warning, as if his Spiritual Power had been severely overdrawn.

After repeatedly experiencing this complete exhaustion for three consecutive days, the pain remained, but the tearing sense of powerlessness seemed to have been integrated into his muscle memory. It had become a new normal that he could endure by gritting his teeth and surviving the initial impact. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

He gasped for breath, beads of sweat dripping from his jaw and splattering onto the old mat, creating dark stains.

A few minutes later, mustering a sliver of strength, he dragged his nearly numb body toward his desk. He reached into the back of a drawer, where the last bottle of a dark red potion lay.

His fingertips touched the cool glass vial. Uncork, tilt head back, all in one smooth motion.

The cold liquid of the Level 1 Qi and Blood Potion slid down his throat, instantly transforming into a gentle yet powerful warm current that rushed into his parched meridians and blood vessels, silently nourishing them.

A faint trace of life finally returned to his pale face.

’It’s only eight o’clock. Time is precious.’

After showering, washing away the sticky filth from his cultivation and the bone-deep weariness, he sat down at his desk.

Tomorrow’s academic final exams would take up the entire day, which meant he wouldn’t have a single moment to grind for Scholar experience.

He spread his books open under the lamp. Immersing himself in his studies was also a proper way to accumulate experience.

Although his thoughts were no longer as lightning-fast or perceptive as when he was in ”Absolute Focus,” the continuous, systematic absorption of knowledge was still effective. Sentences flowed past his eyes, and formulas were imprinted in his mind.

Two hours passed, and a line of text, visible only to him, quietly appeared:

[You have studied diligently for two hours. Scholar Experience +12]

[Profession: Scholar Lv. 3 (217→229/400)]

The experience bar nudged forward another small notch.

...

The next day, Li Wen was already awake as the first light of dawn appeared.

The house was silent.

He pushed open his door. The living room was empty, with only the faint, savory aroma of fried potstickers wafting from the kitchen—it was the breakfast his father had left for him.

’Is Father ”resting” again?’ He silently stared at the still-warm plate of food, his fingertips pausing on the wooden table. In the end, he didn’t knock on the master bedroom door. ’What good would it do to know? It would only give me more to worry about right now.’