For the next month, the courtyard of the Body Refinement Division became a crucible of extremes.
There was no rhythm to their torment. Some days, they were roasted until their skin blistered, drenched in boiling oil, or pressed against stones hot enough to burn flesh from bone. On others, the world froze around them, their lungs clawed by air so cold that every breath felt like swallowing knives. Dawn to dusk, the trials never ceased, and never once could they predict what awaited them when the instructors arrived.
The disciples called it hell. Yet even in hell, seeds began to sprout.
Their bodies, once frail and mortal, had begun to change. Muscles grew denser, bones heavier, skin tougher. One by one, the fruits of their suffering revealed themselves.
It was Tian Yīn who first broke through.
The bald-headed youth had always carried himself with unshakable confidence, his once-flowing silver locks long gone to the flames. On the twelfth morning, as the heat bore down upon them, he suddenly exhaled a mist of steam that should not have been possible under the sun. His body, once trembling under strain, steadied. His flesh glowed faintly, as if lit from within.
The instructors confirmed it he had stepped into the Second Stage of Mortal Flesh Realm.
He was not alone for long.
The burly youth from the stair trials,the one who had once climbed with twin sacks slung over his shoulders while others collapsed was next. His name was Meng Zhang, a name as broad and blunt as the man himself. His breakthrough came during one of the ice trials, his body refusing to freeze even as others collapsed around him.
With their advances, the dam broke. One after another, disciples began refining their flesh past mortal limits. By the end of the month, nearly half the courtyard had crossed into the second stage.
Among them was Hei Lóng.
The shift was subtle, almost hidden compared to others. His bald head hung limp from sweat, his expression plain as ever, but within, something had changed. His skin no longer split so easily, his muscles no longer tore under strain, and his blood carried warmth even in frost. Though only just stepping into the realm, he too now possessed what the instructors had promised: resistance. They could stand in temperatures that would kill ordinary mortals outright, and though far from invincible, their bodies had begun to edge toward something sturdier than humans.
It was on such a day, when the disciples gathered once again expecting either flame or frost, that another figure appeared before them.
A man in who looked his late forties strode into the courtyard, his steps unhurried, his presence steady yet commanding. A thick beard framed his weathered face, and in the center of his green robes, a furnace was embroidered, its lines simple yet profound. At his chest, like all others of the sect, rested the White Crane insignia.
The disciples stiffened. This was no one they had seen before.
"I," the man announced, his voice deep as grinding stone, "am Wei Tong. Inherited disciple of the Medicine Hall."
A murmur swept through the crowd at the unfamiliar term. Seeing their confusion, Wei Tong chuckled, the sound rumbling from his chest.
"I see the lot of you have yet to learn the hierarchies of our White Crane Sect. Very well, listen closely. This knowledge is as vital as any tempering you endure."
He began to pace slowly before them, eyes sharp beneath his heavy brows.
"At the lowest rung, there are servant disciples. Mortals, untalented cultivators, or those born into the sect without promise. They sweep floors, haul water, and cook meals. Their lives are humble, their paths near non-existent. You would do well not to look down on them, for every sect needs its foundation."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Above them stand outer disciples also called junior disciples, such as yourselves. The bulk of our sect is made of you. Some come from clans, some as outsiders, but all passed the trials or earned referral to stand here. You have qi in your veins, however faint, and potential yet unshaped."
A few disciples straightened with pride at this acknowledgment, though their scars, bald heads and exhaustion did little to make them look dignified.
"Next," Wei Tong continued, "are the inner disciples. To become one, you must earn contribution points or reach sufficient cultivation. Inner disciples enjoy privileges you cannot yet dream of, manuals, resources, and recognition."
His eyes narrowed, gleaming with weight.
"Finally, there are inherited disciples. We are chosen directly by the elders. Some rise through points, but most are handpicked for talent and potential. To be an inherited disciple is to walk beneath an elder's tutelage, and to have the backing of the sect's core itself. That is what I am. That is why I stand before you."
The courtyard fell silent. Even Tian Yīn's smug expression softened with thought.
Wei Tong let them linger in awe before his tone hardened.
"Now, why is one such as myself from the Medicine Hall sent to deal with you, battered disciples of the Refinement Division? The answer is simple. All of you have now entered the second stage of Mortal Flesh. Your bodies are strong, resistant to heat and cold, impervious to most mortal weapons. But strength blinds. Body cultivators die young because they ignore what crawls beneath their noses—the path of poison."
At that, the man's lips curled into something between amusement and warning.
"Even the smallest of creatures can slay a giant with venom. That is the lesson you will learn under me."
The disciples shifted uneasily.
"For the next few weeks," Wei Tong continued, "you will be exposed to poisons of every kind. Venoms, toxins, powders, fumes. Your task is not to flee them, but to endure, to adapt, or to force them out. Body refinement without resistance to poison is like armor with holes."
He folded his hands behind his back, gaze sweeping the group.
"And before you think me cruel, I will offer you one truth the last two did not. Though you are body cultivators, qi remains your ally. It is the ambient breath of the world. It heals, it circulates, it resists corruption. Two of you have already figured this out in training. The rest of you have not. Let this be your warning."
Some exchanged glances. Others frowned, realizing only now what they had overlooked.
Wei Tong's expression softened into something almost kind.
"Today's training is simple. It is called Dú Huà Liàn Tǐ -Venom Baptism. Your only goal is survival."
Then his hand waved lightly.
A strangled cry erupted. One of the disciples collapsed, convulsing violently upon the frost-scorched stone. Foam bubbled at his lips as his body jerked uncontrollably.
Wei Tong's beard split into a smile.
"Oh? Did I forget to mention? The trial has already begun."
His eyes glinted with mirth as chaos spread through the ranks.
"You are all poisoned. Adapt or dispel it. The choice is yours."
With that, he turned and walked away, his laughter deep and cruel in its casualness.
Tian Yīn, standing among the crowd, clenched his jaw as a hot curse slipped through his teeth.
"This bastard…"
But instead of anger, a grin spread across his face.
Blood trickled from his nostrils, then from the corners of his eyes. His smirk never faded.