## Chapter 2: The Tiger Descends the Mountain, Blood Dyes the Autumn Leaves
The cold mountain wind howled through the courtyard of the Lu family compound, carrying with it the bitter scent of pine needles and impending frost. Lu Chen stood absolutely still amidst the swirling dust, the heavy, curved steel saber of the dead bandit gripped lightly in his right hand.
For the first time in over half a century, his back was entirely straight. The chronic, grinding ache in his lower spine—a constant, unwelcome companion since his fifties—was gone. The arthritis that had swollen his knuckles into gnarled lumps of wood had receded, leaving behind hands that, while still wrinkled and calloused, thrummed with a dormant, terrifying vitality.
He looked down at the massive corpse of the bandit scout bleeding out into the dirt. The man was easily six feet tall, corded with the kind of muscle built from a lifetime of violence and looting. Just a quarter of an hour ago, this man could have ended Lu Chen's eighty years of existence with a casual backhand.
Now, he was meat.
Lu Chen crouched down, his newly refined knees bending smoothly without the chorus of pops and clicks he was accustomed to. He grabbed the bandit by the thick leather collar of his armor. With an experimental tug, he hoisted the dead weight upward.
*Light.* It was astonishingly light. A two-hundred-pound corpse felt no heavier than a sack of dry rice.
A grim, humorless smile touched Lu Chen's lips. The Early Stage of Flesh Refinement. The absolute bottom rung of the martial arts ladder, the realm that talented youths in the cities reached before they hit puberty. Yet, to a mortal who had spent eighty years bound by the fragile limitations of ordinary human biology, it felt like becoming a god.
He dragged the body toward the back of the courtyard, his footsteps completely silent. His breathing was deep, rhythmic, and perfectly controlled—a passive benefit of the [Breath Nurturing Technique] operating at one hundred percent mastery. In his youth, he had tried to force this breathing pattern, only to end up dizzy and coughing blood. Now, his body performed it as naturally as a heart beats, constantly cycling a faint, warm current of internal energy through his newly cleared meridians, nourishing his flesh and staving off the mountain chill.
He reached the edge of the property, where a deep, dry well had been abandoned decades ago after the water table shifted. He callously tipped the bandit over the edge.
*Thud.* The body hit the bottom, thirty feet down, with a sickening crunch. Lu Chen kicked several heavy stones and a layer of dry brush down the shaft to conceal the grim secret, then turned back toward his house.
He needed to wash. The foul-smelling black sludge—the impurities purged from his body during the system's forced breakthrough—was drying on his skin, crusting like old mud. He moved to the water barrel by the kitchen, broke the thin layer of surface ice with a casual tap of his finger, and splashed the freezing water over his face and torso.
The icy water felt refreshing. As he scrubbed the grime away, he examined his reflection in the dark, rippling surface of the barrel.
He was still an old man. His hair remained a stark, snowy white, and his face was a deeply lined map of his eighty years. The system had not reversed his age to youth; it had simply optimized his eighty-year-old body to its absolute, theoretical peak. The paper-thin skin had thickened, clinging tightly to corded, wiry muscle. The liver spots had faded into obscurity. His eyes, previously clouded with the milky haze of impending cataracts, were now clear, sharp, and predatory.
He was an old tiger, perhaps past his prime, but with fangs and claws suddenly restored to lethal sharpness.
Lu Chen picked up the bandit's saber. The blade was crude, forged from low-quality iron, but it was thick, heavy, and viciously curved—designed for chopping through bone and rudimentary armor. He gave it a few experimental swings.
*Whoosh. Whoosh.* The air parted with a sharp hiss. His strength was undeniable, but his movements were stiff, awkward, and profoundly wasteful. He was relying entirely on brute physical force, lacking any foundational technique. He felt like a toddler wielding a butcher's knife.
"The scout didn't come alone," Lu Chen muttered to himself, his voice shedding its usual raspy weakness, possessing a new, resonant depth.
Lu Lin had said the vanguard was twenty miles away. But if a scout was already infiltrating the village compound in the dead of night, it meant a forward element was much closer. They were likely mapping the village perimeter, identifying the wealthiest houses—like the Lu family compound—and preparing to strike at dawn when the villagers were most vulnerable.
If he waited for morning, the village would be bathed in blood. Qingshan, Lu Lin, little Ming... they would all be slaughtered like livestock.
Lu Chen pulled a dark grey tunic over his newly forged physique and wrapped a thick, dark sash around his waist, tucking the heavy saber through it.
He opened the system interface with a thought.
**=== STATUS ===**
**Name:** Lu Chen
**Age:** 80 / 81 (Lifespan remaining: 5 Years, 2 Months)
**Realm:** Flesh Refinement (Early Stage)
**Free Attribute Points:** 0
He needed more points. The 1 point he had earned from the scout had fundamentally altered his destiny, dragging him out of the abyss of mortality. What could ten points do? What could a hundred do?
He looked toward the jagged, imposing silhouette of the Cloud Mist Mountains, rising like a wall of jagged teeth against the starry sky. For eighty years, those mountains had been his cage, limiting his world to the terraced fields and the village square.
Tonight, they would be his hunting ground.
Slipping out of Qingyuan Village was remarkably easy. There were no guards, no walls, only a few wooden fences meant to deter wild boars, not men.
Lu Chen moved with a surreal, ghostly grace. His Early Stage Flesh Refinement granted him an agility (8 points, hovering near the peak of a normal adult) that, combined with the absolute control of his perfected breathing, allowed him to traverse the uneven, rocky mountain paths without making a sound.
He didn't have any formal tracking skills from the system, but he had something equally valuable: eighty years of intimate, unrelenting familiarity with this specific terrain. He knew every goat path, every hollowed-out tree, every false trail and treacherous ravine within a ten-mile radius.
He found the scout's trail almost immediately. Heavy boots, moving carelessly through a patch of damp fern. Broken twigs. Scuffed moss on a boulder.
The bandit had not expected anyone to track him; he had moved with the arrogant swagger of a predator in a sheep pen.
Lu Chen followed the trail upward, ascending into the dense, ancient pine forest that blanketed the lower slopes of the mountain. The temperature dropped significantly here, the air growing thin and biting, but the internal furnace of his Dantian kept him insulated.
After two miles of rapid, silent climbing, his enhanced senses picked up an anomaly.
*Smoke.*
It was faint, carrying the distinct acrid tang of green wood burning—a rookie mistake, or the mistake of men who believed they were entirely untouchable.
Lu Chen slowed his pace, dropping into a low crouch. He moved from tree to tree, becoming a shadow among shadows.
Through a break in the dense foliage, he spotted a flickering orange glow. It was a small clearing, sheltered by a massive, overhanging rock formation. Two men sat around a meager, smoking fire.
They were dressed similarly to the scout he had killed—filthy leather armor, mismatched scraps of iron plating, and heavy, mud-caked boots. Their weapons, a pair of long spears with rust-pitted tips, lay casually across their laps.
A butchered deer carcass hung from a nearby branch, its blood dripping slowly onto the dry leaves below.
"I'm telling you, old Zhao is taking too long," one of the bandits grumbled, spitting a glob of phlegm into the fire. He was missing half his teeth and had a fresh, livid scar running down his cheek. "It's a village of dirt-farmers. How long does it take to count the houses and find the grain silos?"
The other bandit, a younger, stockier man with a shaved head, laughed harshly. "You know Zhao. He probably found a young widow and decided to warm his bed before coming back. Let him have his fun. The boss said we attack at first light anyway. We'll have our pick of the women and the gold by noon."
"Gold?" The scarred bandit snorted. "These mountain rats don't have gold. Just grain and maybe some cheap copper coins. The real prize is the grain. With the war down south, grain is worth more than silver. We take the food, burn the village, and report back to the Vanguard Commander."
Lu Chen listened from the darkness, his face an emotionless mask. The casual, bored manner in which they discussed annihilating his family, his friends, his entire world of the last eighty years, ignited a cold, absolute fury in his chest.
He didn't feel fear. He felt a profound, mechanical clarity.
He drew the heavy saber from his sash. The metal scraped softly against the leather, a sound masked by the crackling of the damp fire.
He evaluated the distance. Thirty feet. Two targets. Both appeared to be ordinary mortals, relying on sheer brutality and size rather than martial arts. However, they were armed with long spears, which gave them a significant reach advantage over his saber.
If he charged blindly, even with his Flesh Refinement strength, a lucky spear thrust could pierce his gut. He was stronger, not invincible.
He picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground.
With a flick of his wrist, powered by the surging strength of his refined muscles, he hurled the rock across the clearing. It smashed violently into the thick trunk of a pine tree opposite his position, shattering with a sound like a musket shot.
"What the hell was that?!" The scarred bandit jumped up, his spear instantly raised, pointing toward the noise.
The bald bandit followed suit, turning his back completely to Lu Chen's position. "A bear? A mountain cat?"
It was the oldest trick in the book, yet flawlessly effective.
Lu Chen didn't hesitate. He exploded from the underbrush.
His legs, infused with the power of Early Stage Flesh Refinement, propelled him across the thirty-foot gap in a fraction of a second. He moved so fast that the wind whistled past his ears.
Before the bald bandit could even turn his head, Lu Chen was upon him.
He didn't use the saber to slash—the angle was wrong. Instead, Lu Chen brought the heavy steel pommel of the weapon down like a meteor, smashing it directly into the base of the bald bandit's skull.
*CRACK.*
The sound of the cervical spine snapping was horrifyingly loud in the quiet clearing. The bald bandit's eyes rolled back into his head, his body instantly going limp as he collapsed face-first into the dirt, dead before he even realized he was under attack.
"Enemy!" the scarred bandit screamed, whipping around, his eyes wide with shock.
He thrust his spear forward, aiming blindly at the dark blur that had just materialized in their camp.
Lu Chen stepped to the side, his agility allowing him to easily sidestep the clumsy, panic-driven thrust. The spearhead sailed past his ribs, missing him by inches.
Before the bandit could retract the weapon, Lu Chen brought his saber down in a brutal, two-handed chop. The heavy, curved blade bit deeply into the wooden shaft of the spear, severing the top half entirely and leaving the bandit holding nothing but a blunt stick.
The scarred bandit stared at his ruined weapon in disbelief. He looked up, his eyes finally focusing on his attacker.
He saw a shriveled, white-haired old man, dressed in a villager's tunic, holding a massive, blood-stained saber with a grip of iron. The incongruity of the image broke the bandit's mind for a split second.
"A-A ghost?!" the bandit stammered, stumbling backward, his face draining of color.
Lu Chen didn't waste breath on villainous monologues. He stepped forward, closing the distance instantly. He swung the saber in a wide, horizontal arc.
The bandit desperately raised his broken stick to block, but it was futile. The heavy saber cleaved through the thick wood as if it were rotten bamboo, continuing its trajectory unchecked.
The blade bit deeply into the bandit's neck, severing the jugular and biting halfway through the spine before wedging in the bone.
Blood sprayed in a violent, high-pressure fan across the dirt and the flickering fire, extinguishing a portion of the flames with a loud *hiss*. The bandit dropped to his knees, his hands weakly grasping at the blade lodged in his throat, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his lips.
Lu Chen ripped the blade free with a brutal yank. The bandit collapsed, joining his comrade in the mud.
Silence, heavy and absolute, returned to the clearing, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the rapid, rhythmic sound of Lu Chen's perfect breathing.
A familiar, icy chime echoed in his mind.
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extracting Attribute Points...]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extracting Attribute Points...]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
Lu Chen closed his eyes, savoring the influx of power. Two points.
He wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve and opened the system interface.
**=== STATUS ===**
**Name:** Lu Chen
**Age:** 80 / 81
**Realm:** Flesh Refinement (Early Stage)
**Free Attribute Points:** 2
He looked down at his martial arts section.
**=== MARTIAL ARTS ===**
**[Breath Nurturing Technique]** - Unranked / Mastery: 100% (Maximum)
**[Tiger Subduing Fist (Basic)]** - Unranked / Mastery: 5%
His previous fight had been sloppy. He had relied entirely on surprise and overwhelming physical force against unprepared mortals. If he went up against a trained martial artist, or even a large group of disciplined soldiers, his lack of technique would get him killed. Swinging a heavy saber like a club was a fast track to exhaustion.
He needed technique. He needed mastery.
"System," Lu Chen commanded mentally. "Allocate both points to the Tiger Subduing Fist."
**[Ding! 2 Free Attribute Points consumed.]**
**[Upgrading: Tiger Subduing Fist (Basic)...]**
The blue screen violently distorted.
**[Mastery: 5% -> 25% -> 50% -> 75% -> 100%!]**
**[Tiger Subduing Fist (Basic) -> Perfected.]**
This time, the upgrade was not a violent physical tearing of flesh and bone. It was something far more profound and surreal.
It was an assault on his mind.
Suddenly, it was as if a dam holding back an ocean of memories had collapsed within his brain. But they were not his memories.
He "remembered" standing under a blazing summer sun, his bare fists striking a wooden dummy until his knuckles bled and callous formed over callous. He "remembered" ten thousand mornings practicing the basic horse stance until his legs felt like lead pillars. He "remembered" the exact, microscopic shift in hip rotation required to transfer kinetic energy from the heel, through the spine, and into the fist.
He experienced decades of grueling, repetitive, fanatical martial arts training compressed into a single, blinding second.
The knowledge didn't just sit in his brain; it mapped itself directly onto his nervous system. His muscles twitched, his tendons tightened, his fascia rearranged itself to accommodate the new muscle memory. The stiff, awkward feeling that had plagued his movements vanished, replaced by a fluid, terrifying, predatory grace.
The *Tiger Subduing Fist* was a basic, unranked martial art, common among street thugs and lowest-tier martial halls. It was crude, relying on direct, linear strikes and brute force.
But at 100% Perfected Mastery, even the lowest martial art underwent a qualitative change. It was no longer just a series of punches; it became a complete understanding of biomechanical leverage, momentum, and lethal intent. Every ounce of unnecessary movement was stripped away. It was martial arts boiled down to its purest, most brutal essence: destroying the enemy as efficiently as possible.
Lu Chen opened his eyes. The world seemed... slower. Clearer.
He dropped the heavy steel saber into the dirt. He didn't need it right now. The *Tiger Subduing Fist* was an unarmed art, and holding a weapon he didn't know how to use would only impede the newly grafted instincts.
He took a slow breath and slid into the opening stance of the Tiger Subduing Fist.
In the past, he had practiced this stance ten thousand times, and it had always felt hollow, like mimicking a dance without hearing the music.
Now, as his feet rooted into the earth, his hips sank, and his fists raised, the music was deafening.
His entire body linked together like a perfectly engineered chain. His breath, governed by the Perfected Breath Nurturing Technique, synchronized flawlessly with his stance.
He threw a simple, straight punch.
*BANG!*
The air at the tip of his fist actually cracked, creating a sharp, explosive sound like a miniature whip. A powerful gust of wind shot forward from his knuckles, rustling the leaves on the trees ten feet away.
Lu Chen stared at his fist, a profound sense of awe washing over him.
He had not used any inner force—he didn't have any, as that belonged to higher realms. This was pure, unadulterated physical power channeled through flawless, perfected technique. Every muscle fiber in his body had coordinated perfectly to deliver maximum kinetic force.
He was an eighty-year-old man, and he felt as if he could punch a hole through a brick wall without bruising a knuckle.
"So this... is martial arts," he whispered, a tear of vindication prickling the corner of his eye. The dream he had abandoned sixty years ago had finally, miraculously, come true.
He took a moment to compose himself. The awe quickly faded back into the cold, calculated fury of a protector.
He retrieved the saber from the ground and slid it back into his sash. He examined the small camp. The two dead men, the butchered deer, the direction they had been facing...
He looked deeper into the mountains. The vanguard camp couldn't be far. These two were just an outer picket line.
With a surge of power, Lu Chen bounded forward, leaping over a massive fallen log with the effortless grace of a hunting cat. He vanished into the dense darkness of the forest, moving faster and more silently than before.
It took him another hour to find the main camp.
It was located in a natural depression near a dried-up waterfall, a highly defensible position surrounded by steep rock walls on three sides.
Lu Chen lay flat on his stomach at the top of the ridge, looking down into the depression.
There were four large bonfires burning, illuminating a grim, chaotic scene. Tents made of stolen, blood-stained fabric were haphazardly pitched. Empty wine jugs and gnawed bones littered the ground.
He counted them. Fourteen men.
Most were lounging around the fires, drinking, sharpening weapons, or sleeping wrapped in furs. They were armed to the teeth with a motley assortment of swords, axes, and halberds.
But Lu Chen's eyes were drawn to the center of the camp, where a large man sat on a makeshift throne of stacked supply crates.
The man was a giant, standing easily six and a half feet tall with shoulders as broad as a barn door. He was entirely bald, his head covered in intricate, blue tattoos that snaked down his neck and disappeared beneath a heavy, black iron chainmail shirt. Beside him rested a massive, double-handed executioner's broadsword, its blade easily as wide as a man's thigh.
Just by looking at the man, Lu Chen could feel a faint, oppressive pressure radiating from him. The man's breathing was deep, rhythmic, and powerful, noticeably altering the air around him.
*Flesh Refinement,* Lu Chen realized instantly, his eyes narrowing.
This wasn't an ordinary mortal. This was a true martial artist. Judging by the density of the man's muscles and the controlled power of his aura, he was likely at the Mid or even Late Stage of Flesh Refinement. He was the Vanguard Commander.
"Where the hell are Zhao and the picket boys?" the massive commander suddenly boomed, his voice echoing off the rock walls like thunder. He slammed a heavy clay wine jug down onto a crate, shattering it. "It's almost dawn! Are we attacking this dirt-farmer village blind?"
A smaller, weasel-faced bandit scurried forward, bowing nervously. "Commander Iron-Skull, they probably just found some moonshine stashed in the village and lost track of time. You know how Zhao gets. Should I take a few men and go look for them?"
"Forget it!" Iron-Skull spat, wiping wine from his beard. "We don't have time. The main army is moving up the pass tomorrow. We need this village cleared, the grain secured, and a perimeter established by noon. Wake the men! We march on Qingyuan Village in thirty minutes. Anyone who drags their feet loses their share of the loot!"
The camp erupted into chaotic activity. Bandits cursed, kicked sleeping comrades awake, and began donning their armor and strapping on weapons.
Up on the ridge, Lu Chen watched the preparations with a face carved from stone.
Fourteen men. One of them a superior martial artist.
If he went back to the village now and organized a defense with Lu Lin's militia, it would be a bloodbath. Pitchforks and hunting bows would be useless against Iron-Skull's chainmail and martial prowess. Dozens of villagers would die just to bring down the commander, let alone the thirteen hardened killers with him.
There was only one logical option.
He had to kill them all right here, right now.
Lu Chen stood up on the edge of the ridge. He didn't draw his saber. The saber was too slow for what he was about to do. He needed the speed and devastating close-quarters power of his Perfected Tiger Subduing Fist.
He took a deep breath, circulating the warm energy of the Breath Nurturing Technique through his limbs, priming his muscles to their absolute limit.
He looked down at the milling bandits, thirty feet below him.
"Old bones," Lu Chen murmured to himself, a grim smile spreading across his face. "Let's see if you can still dance."
He stepped off the edge of the cliff.
He plummeted toward the center of the camp like a hunting hawk. The wind rushed past him, tearing at his grey tunic.
He aimed straight for a group of three bandits standing near the largest bonfire, entirely unaware of the death descending from above.
Lu Chen landed with a resounding, earth-shaking *THUD*, directly in the center of the trio.
The impact kicked up a massive cloud of dust and ash from the fire, momentarily blinding the men. But Lu Chen, fueled by perfected technique, didn't need to see; he had already mapped their positions in his mind during his descent.
Before the men could even register the shock of his arrival, Lu Chen exploded into motion.
*Tiger Descends the Mountain!*
It was the most aggressive opening move of his martial art. He lunged forward, sinking his hips to generate immense upward force. His right fist, hard as forged iron, shot upward in a brutal uppercut, catching the first bandit squarely under the jaw.
*CRUNCH.*
The force was catastrophic. The bandit's jaw shattered into a dozen pieces, his head violently snapping back. The sheer kinetic energy lifted the two-hundred-pound man entirely off his feet, sending him flying backward into the bonfire, dead before the flames even touched him.
The second bandit, a spearman, gasped in horror and tried to backpedal.
Lu Chen didn't stop. Using the momentum from the uppercut, he pivoted on his heel, his left hand lashing out in a vicious, sweeping backhand—*Tiger Tail Whip*.
The back of his fist slammed into the spearman's temple. The man's skull audibly cracked under the impact. His eyes rolled over, blood spraying from his ears as he collapsed sideways like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Ambush!" the third bandit finally managed to scream, drawing a short sword.
Lu Chen stepped inside the man's guard with terrifying speed. He bypassed the sword entirely, his hands shooting out like twin vipers to grab the bandit by the lapels of his leather armor.
With a roar of exertion, Lu Chen lifted the man off the ground and slammed him headfirst into the solid rock face of the depression.
*SPLAT.*
It was over in less than three seconds. Three men, dead before the dust of Lu Chen's landing had even settled.
The entire camp froze. Eleven remaining bandits stared at the scene in absolute, paralyzing shock.
As the dust and ash slowly drifted away, the firelight illuminated the intruder.
They expected to see a rival Vanguard Commander, a giant of a man armed to the teeth. Instead, they saw a thin, hunched eighty-year-old man with snow-white hair, dressed in a cheap farmer's tunic, standing amidst a pile of broken corpses. His fists were dripping with blood, and his eyes burned with a cold, terrifying light.
"What in the hells..." the weasel-faced bandit whispered, his weapon trembling in his hands.
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
**[Target Scanned: Ordinary Mortal (Bandit).]**
**[Extraction Complete: +1 Free Attribute Point.]**
The rapid-fire chime of the system in his head was the most beautiful music Lu Chen had ever heard. It was the sound of his power growing, the sound of his family's safety being secured in blood.
Commander Iron-Skull was the first to recover from the shock. He rose from his crate throne, his massive hand wrapping around the hilt of his executioner's broadsword. His eyes narrowed, taking in the scene with a mix of fury and disbelief.
"Who are you, old ghost?!" Iron-Skull bellowed, his voice laced with the intimidating roar of a martial artist's inner breath. "Are you a master from the black market? To attack my Black Winds Vanguard, you must have a death wish!"
Lu Chen didn't answer. He didn't care who they were, what army they belonged to, or what their grand plans were. They were an obstacle to his peaceful life. They were points.
He slowly raised his blood-soaked fists, dropping back into the flawless, immovable stance of the Tiger Subduing Fist.
He looked at the ten terrified grunts, and then locked eyes with the towering Commander.
"I am just an old farmer," Lu Chen said, his voice surprisingly calm, echoing hauntingly in the small valley. "And I have come to harvest."
With a sudden, explosive burst of speed, leaving a crater in the dirt where he stood, the eighty-year-old tiger charged into the pack of wolves.