Jinghu Garden.
Building 6, Apartment 101.
The moment Fang Ping got home, he shut himself inside his little bedroom—the only space in the house that truly belonged to him.
Outside, Fang Yuan pounded on the door thump, thump, thump several times, but Fang Ping refused to answer. She nearly wanted to kick the door down in anger.
Right now, Fang Ping had no interest in whether Fang Yuan was fuming or not.
If not for a few things he didn't quite understand, he would have already found a quiet place to experiment the moment he withdrew that money.
…
Inside the small room.
The ten thousand yuan he had just withdrawn sat neatly on his left-hand side. To the right lay a crumpled ten-yuan bill—his actual net worth.
His expression had calmed down somewhat, though his face still carried faint traces of confusion.
When he withdrew the money at the ATM, the moment he held two thousand yuan in hand, his vision had suddenly blurred.
It was like the onset of floaters, yet different—because this time, what appeared before his eyes wasn't vague shapes, but several sharp, crystal-clear lines of text.
He remembered exactly what those words were:
Wealth: 2000
Vitality: 1
Spirit: 1
Just a few simple lines. A few words, easy to grasp.
The first thing Fang Ping thought of was, of course—a system.
He wasn't unfamiliar with such things. Even if he'd never eaten pork, he had at least seen pigs run.
But compared to what he'd seen in novels or games, this so-called "system" was… pathetically simple.
Only a handful of lines, with no explanations, no guides. What kind of system didn't come with a manual?
Was this some cheap knockoff spat out of a production line?
And it had appeared far too abruptly, catching him completely unprepared.
If it had shown up yesterday the moment he woke up in the classroom, Fang Ping could have calmly accepted it. But now—after a whole day? Why suddenly reveal itself?
The clue, he realized, lay in that number: "Wealth: 2000."
He had quickly tested it, trying to confirm whether it truly related to money.
As he withdrew cash, the number rose accordingly.
Sure enough, his guess was correct.
Yet not everything made sense.
For instance, yesterday he'd had 28 yuan on him, and today he still had 10 left. Why hadn't the numbers appeared then?
After pondering a while, Fang Ping guessed:
He was too poor.
The system must belong to a "wealthy master" type—less than 100 yuan simply wasn't worth counting. If someone else had been reborn with a fortune, they would have spotted the system instantly.
But Fang Ping? Dirt poor.
If not for needing cash for the Martial Arts Exam registration, his parents would never have given him a lump sum like this.
Had things gone differently, he might have gone years without ever knowing this system existed.
Yesterday, he had cursed heaven for being blind, lamenting how unfair it was for him, a reborn man, to live in such misery.
Now, he realized he had wronged heaven—his suffering lay in his own poverty.
"Poverty really is original sin!"
Sighing at the injustice, Fang Ping cursed his situation once more. If he'd never crossed the 100-yuan threshold, this system would have been wasted on him entirely.
That was his first puzzle solved.
The second discovery came as he withdrew more.
When his wealth reached 10,000, it froze. Even when he pulled more cash from the card, the number wouldn't climb.
After several trials, the wealth value stayed capped at 10,000.
He could only deduce on his own, since the system wasn't offering commentary or an instruction booklet.
Likely, the number only counted his money.
This 10,000 had been given by his parents specifically for his registration fee—it could be considered his. But the rest in the account still belonged to them.
Otherwise, if touching money alone was enough to add to his wealth, he could just get a job at a bank handling cash. That way, he'd rack up value endlessly.
Or take up some other job dealing with money—there were plenty, many with low entry standards.
Still, Fang Ping couldn't complain. At least it seemed the wealth value was tied to ownership, not mere contact.
"Alright. Wealth equals my personal assets. Not exactly consistent with this barebones system, but I'll accept it."
He muttered to himself, then frowned again. "But is it only cash? Or does it also count equivalent assets—gold, jewelry?"
Cash was fine when he was poor. But once his fortune grew, it was unrealistic to hoard only cash.
And what about stocks? Cryptocurrencies? Those were intangible—impossible to touch. Would they count?
Unfortunately, poverty shackled him. He had nothing of value to test.
If he had gold, jewelry, or stocks in his name, he could try it.
For now, he could only shelve the thought.
"Sure enough, poverty has limited my imagination…"
Shaking his head, he moved on.
The third issue: did the system calculate net worth—or did it count debts as well?
It sounded odd, but this question would affect his future choices.
This current 10,000 was a gift, not a loan.
But what if he borrowed money? Would it still add to his wealth?
And once he paid the Martial Arts Exam fee, would the number decrease?
If so, then to preserve his wealth, he'd have to hoard money like a miser.
There was no way to confirm yet. He would have to wait and see.
What really drew his focus were the two other lines: Vitality and Spirit.
Fang Ping already had an idea.
He had seen those terms many times while browsing the internet yesterday.
Martial artists weren't so rare these days. And with information spreading everywhere, even ordinary people had some awareness.
Vitality and Spirit formed the foundation of a martial artist.
Lower-ranked fighters cared mainly about vitality. Spirit only became crucial for high-level experts—especially Grandmasters, whose strength was said to lie primarily in their spiritual power.
That was far off. For beginners, vitality was everything.
Vitality meant health, resilience, life-force.
Even in Fang Ping's past life, traditional medicine emphasized the importance of qi and blood.
A strong vitality didn't guarantee you were a martial artist—but every martial artist had to possess abundant vitality.
Martial arts weren't about meditation like Daoists. Martial artists pushed their bodies past mortal limits, beyond what ordinary humans could endure.
Only with robust vitality could the body withstand the strain.
"So increasing vitality means I'll be closer to qualifying as a martial artist… and afterward, I'll adapt to training faster and climb higher step by step."
Fang Ping muttered, then asked himself: "If wealth, vitality, and spirit are all quantified, does that mean I can convert wealth into the other two? But what's the ratio?"
He immediately dismissed a 1:1 exchange.
Right now, both his vitality and spirit were at 1.
If one yuan could double his vitality, that was absurd. No way it could be that cheap.
"So how does one convert?"
With no instructions, he could only experiment.
He stared at the numbers intently.
"System, system—add vitality for me?"
No reaction.
"System, I'll spend wealth to boost vitality?"
…
"Big bro, please? A little vitality?"
…
"Open sesame?"
…
"You alive, system?"
…
Nothing.
Fang Ping gritted his teeth. "Add vitality or I'll kill you!"
And then—suddenly, the numbers shifted.
Wealth: 0
Vitality: 1.1
Spirit: 1
"Holy shit!"
Fang Ping froze. So it worked like this?
You had to threaten it?
Staring dumbfounded, he suddenly felt his body squirm as if adjusting itself.
Soon, the discomfort faded, leaving behind a surprising lightness.
It was like a man freed from asthma, or a patient cured of anemia. Even gravity itself seemed just a fraction gentler.
"Comfortable…"
Only 0.1 higher in vitality, yet the sensation was more blissful than a massage parlor visit.
But like other kinds of fleeting pleasure, the euphoria quickly ebbed away.
Still, Fang Ping could clearly tell—his body was healthier.
No one knew his condition better than he did.
But then his expression darkened, staring at the wealth value: 0.
The conversion rate was outrageously harsh!
Ten thousand yuan for just 0.1 vitality?
At this rate, how much would it take to reach martial artist levels?
Heart racing, Fang Ping turned quickly to his desk.
The cash still lay there, untouched.
He sighed in relief. At least the money itself didn't vanish along with the value. Otherwise, how could he possibly explain it to his parents?
Clutching the red bills in his hand, Fang Ping fell into silence again.
If he wanted to walk the Martial Path, he had to earn money.
Wealth was the shortcut to vitality—and from vitality, to becoming a martial artist.
Even if he passed the Martial Arts Exam, the road ahead would demand endless resources.
Everything came down to money.
"As expected, the poor have no right to grow strong. This is forcing me to find ways to make money!"
(End of Chapter)