No Money to Cultivate Immortality?

Spiritual Realm.

Li Xingyu stood quietly to the side, closely observing Zhang Yu’s condition.

When he saw Zhang Yu’s pain tolerance hit Level 37, he knew the boy had reached his limit.

“At this rate, he won’t last.”

Li Xingyu glanced at the top of Zhang Yu’s head—his view was overlaid with biometric readouts: heart rate, breathing, and more.

“He’s reached the threshold of endurance. We should start lowering the pain level.”

“At this stage, it’s still within the range of a Level 1 Dao Heart. Nothing too special. And yet he managed to grasp the Celestial Martial Diagram?”

Just as that thought crossed Li Xingyu’s mind, Zhang Yu’s aura suddenly shifted. The contorted expression on his face gradually relaxed—and even curled into a faint, savage grin.

“Huh? He’s holding on?”

“This aura... it’s like the martial intent in the Celestial Martial Diagram?”Li Xingyu stared at Zhang Yu in surprise, watching as the seconds ticked by, and the boy endured until the full sixty minutes were up.

More impressed now, he calculated silently: “With this level of willpower, his Dao Heart is close to Level 2.”

“Though he hasn’t fully mastered the martial technique from the Celestial Martial Diagram, he’s clearly tapped into its deeper essence to strengthen his resolve.”

“This guy’s got some real potential. His intel might actually sell.”

With that, Li Xingyu typed up Zhang Yu’s details and posted them on the intelligence forum. He priced the info at 1,000 yuan.

Then, after a moment’s thought, he bumped the price to 10,000.

He titled the post: “Shocking! A Martial Genius Emerges at Songyang High!”

…

Peeling off his Spiritual Realm Mask, Zhang Yu shakily stood up. Even though the simulation was over, phantom pains still prickled all over his body.

Next to him, a student tried to stand but collapsed immediately, legs giving out beneath him.

All around, the same scene repeated. The aftershocks of the Spiritual Realm exam were still rippling through the room.

Some students immediately grabbed their personal pill bottles and popped a pill.

Zhang Yu figured those were Dao Heart Buffers.

While methods like the Basic Heart-Forging Method or the Celestial Martial Heart-Forging Technique—used with the right mental discipline—could slowly raise one’s Dao Heart level, many students still preferred the quicker route: Buffer Pills.

These adjusted neurotransmitters and brain chemistry to boost mood and focus, making it easier to strengthen willpower and level up the Dao Heart.

But they weren’t without drawbacks. The higher the pill quality, the stronger the effect—but also the higher the cost, the worse the dependency, and the nastier the withdrawal symptoms.

Once you started, you had to stay on them. If you quit, your Dao Heart could backslide.

Zhang Yu’s original self had suffered exactly that. He ran out of money to refill his prescription, and his once nearly Level 2 Dao Heart had gradually deteriorated.

Only recently—through intense trials and insights from the Celestial Martial Heart-Forging Technique—had he clawed his way back to that level.

Now, Zhang Yu had no intention of touching those pills again.

He trusted his potential. And his discipline.

But there was no time to rest.

The second exam of the morning was about to begin. Students hurried off, scrambling toward the next testing ground.

…

The Mana Exam.

By the time Zhang Yu arrived, the assistant instructors and test instruments were already set up.

When it was his turn, electrodes were affixed to his arms, chest, and abdomen. At the instructors’ instruction, he began circulating mana—channeling it from his dantian to his palms.

This exam was clearly more precise than usual—meant to avoid any discrepancies in monthly scores.

The patches didn’t just measure mana volume. They also tracked mana circulation efficiency with each pass.

It was a safeguard against students who bulked up their reserves with cash, yet lacked mastery.

Compared to the Dao Heart exam, this one was far less nerve-wracking. Most students were visibly more relaxed.

After all, your mana reserves were mostly fixed before the test. It wasn’t something you could fake last minute.

Either you had it, or you didn’t. Either you knew how to use it, or you didn’t.

When Zhang Yu finished, the assistant instructor recording his data let out a soft exclamation, casting him an extra glance.

“Is something wrong, Teacher?” he asked.

The instructor quickly shook her head. “Nothing.”

But inwardly, she muttered, “Such high circulation efficiency... definitely another filthy rich kid.”

…

Lunch break.

The cafeteria was filled with zombie-like students.

Some were still reeling from the Dao Heart exam. Others were anxious about their poor performance. A few looked ready to jump.

Bai Zhenzhen plopped down with a long sigh.

“The bastard who wrote this Dao Heart exam question doesn’t even deserve a horse’s ass! He should set up an online feedback form, shove his phone in his crotch, and turn on vibrate!”

She launched into a two-minute tirade of unbroken creative profanity, only stopping when Zhou Tianyi sat down.

Zhang Yu was sure similar curses were echoing across every high school in Songyang City.

Zhou Tianyi had barely sat when he said, “Did you guys hear? Several students from other schools had complete breakdowns.”

Zhang Yu and Bai Zhenzhen both tensed and turned toward him.

Zhou went on, “The rules were just too brutal this time. Some kids pushed their pain threshold too far to try and score higher. They fainted, got kicked out of the Spiritual Realm, and ended up with zero points.”

He shook his head. “Woke up and couldn’t take it. Just broke.”

“Zero,” Bai Zhenzhen said darkly. “That’s the ultimate humiliation in high school. It means you’ve lost all right to exist here.”

“If it were me, I’d break too. But I’d take that damn question-writer with me on my way out.”

Zhang Yu asked, “Then wouldn’t the exam author be in trouble? What if a rich kid failed? Wouldn’t their parents go nuts?”

Zhou Tianyi gave him a look like he was an idiot. “How could that happen?”

“You mean the exam writer has powerful backing?”

“No. I mean rich kids don’t fail in school.”

“They all pay for security packages.”

“The moment something goes wrong, the alarms blare, and security or a teacher rushes in.”

“Even if they jump off a building, the emergency team will still save them.”

He said it with absolute certainty. “Even if a rich kid wants to die, they’d need to find a different venue. Not even suicide works at school.”

Watching Zhou Tianyi’s dead-serious expression, Zhang Yu had to admit—this twisted world called Kunxu really was like that.

After lunch, Zhang Yu took advantage of the cooldown ending on his specialization and reconfigured his Feathered Tome to the Zhou Tian Qi-Gathering Technique. He squeezed in a few more breathing cycles.

Zhou Tian Qi-Gathering Technique Level 8 (3/160) → (6/160)

…

Afternoon. The final exam: P.E.

Inside the massive training hall, Wang Hai sat among the judges.

Alongside other P.E. teachers, he’d be scoring every first-year student today.

He skimmed the list, and his gaze lingered on one name: Zhang Yu.

In his mind, Zhang Yu was a model student—diligent with workouts, supplements, and acupuncture.

Hardworking. High drug tolerance. Last month, he’d even put him under observation.

If Zhang Yu stayed consistent, Wang Hai wouldn’t mind grooming him into a second Zhao Tianxing—a top scorer who could become another personal success story.

But this month, everything changed. Zhang Yu started defying him in class, even promoting the heretical slogan of Natural Body Forging.

At first, Wang Hai suspected someone else was supplying him—competing for market share in Songyang High’s elite freshman class.

But after Zhao Tianxing’s observations and report, he ruled that out.

Then came the rumor: Zhang Yu had been taken in as a disciple by a Gold Core Cultivator.

Wang Hai, despite being a star P.E. teacher, wasn’t high enough to verify matters at that level.

He had no way to confirm whether the rumor was true.

As he pondered, ten students stepped onto the testing platform.

They stripped to reveal every muscle, with sensors pasted across their bodies.

Roars erupted—bestial, raw.

Muscles surged and veins bulged as each of them exploded with power.

Sensor data streamed onto the judges’ screens, displaying muscle output down to the finest detail.

Unlike crude full-body scans, this exam assessed real-time exertion. It precisely measured each muscle’s strength during bursts of power.

Wang Hai and the others swept their eyes across the students, comparing data with physical form—muscle shape, body structure, explosive capability.

They assigned scores accordingly.

Raw strength wasn’t the only metric. Every dimension mattered: muscle distribution, structural efficiency, mass-to-power ratio…

Which structure yielded more explosive force? Which muscles mattered in a real fight? Which were active, and which were dead weight?

These answers came from experience and data combined.

Two bodies with the same strength could differ wildly in speed, power, and combat performance—just because of structural differences.

Wang Hai was a pro at this. As Songyang High’s top P.E. teacher, he’d seen everything from 200-pound slabs of fat to 500-pound war beasts.

He logged his scores and returned to thoughts of Zhang Yu.

“Let’s see what your score looks like.”

“If your performance has tanked after three weeks of isolation, then there’s no way you’re a disciple of a Gold Core Cultivator.”

“And in that case…”

A cold glint flashed in his eyes.

Anyone interfering with his sales pipeline needed to be expelled.