Most disciples avoided the forests after dark, preferring their quarters or the common areas.

  That suited me perfectly.

  The walk took ten minutes, following a winding path that led away from the main sect buildings. The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense, but the practice area just before it was well-maintained. Several training posts stood in neat rows, their surfaces scarred from countless strikes. More importantly, there were trees at the edge..

  I approached one of the larger trees, its trunk thick enough that I couldn't wrap my arms around it. The bark was rough and weathered, clearly ancient. This tree had probably stood here longer than the sect itself.

  First, I walked through the technique slowly, breaking it down into individual components.

  Mountain Root Stance, check.

  Explosive forward step, check.

  Alignment of every muscle group, check.

  One-inch striking distance, check.

  Target point visualized and locked in.

  I went through the full sequence three times at reduced speed, making micro-adjustments each time. A slight shift in foot angle here. A minor change in shoulder rotation there. By the third repetition, it felt smooth, like all the pieces were finally clicking together.

  Time for the real test.

  I reset my stance ten feet from the tree, far enough that I'd need the explosive step to close distance. My breathing steadied. My mind cleared of everything except the technique's mechanics. I visualized the exact point on the bark where my strike would land, imagining it as the Shaohai meridian point on a human opponent.

  Then I moved.

  Mountain Root Stance released its stored energy, my legs extending like compressed springs. The explosive step carried me forward in a blur of motion, my right foot planting exactly where I needed it. My entire body torqued, hips rotating to add power, shoulder following through, elbow snapping at the last possible instant.

  My fist struck the tree with a crack that echoed through the forest.

  The impact traveled up my arm. My knuckles had landed perfectly aligned with no wasted movement.

  And on the tree trunk, exactly where I'd targeted, a fist sized impression had appeared in the bark.

  I stepped back and stared at the damage I'd caused. A grin spread across my face, wide and slightly manic.

  The technique worked!

  The realization settled over me with giddy excitement. This wasn't simply adapting something from a manual or slightly modifying an existing form. This was built from principles by combining elements that worked together in ways that formed a synthesis of styles.

  My heart was racing and I could feel adrenaline singing through my veins. This was real. This was actually real. I'd taken abstract principles from multiple martial forms, synthesized them through analytical thinking, and produced something that worked in physical reality.

  The scientific method applied to cultivation, hypothesis to experimentation to confirmed results, and it had worked.

  What should I call it?

  My first instinct was something dramatic, something that captured the technique's essence. Heart Stopper. Meridian Disruption Strike. Qi Circulation Killer. But all of those felt too on-the-nose, too much like techniques from mediocre web novels. The best techniques in this world had names that were either elegantly simple or mysteriously poetic.

  Actually, why worry about the name now? Names could come later, probably in the heat of actual combat when the moment demanded it. That's how it usually worked in stories anyway. The protagonist would use some unnamed technique, an opponent would demand to know what it was called, and the perfect name would emerge spontaneously.

  For now, I could just think of it as "my technique" or "the meridian strike" or even just "that thing I do to win fights."

  I approached the tree again, running my fingers over the dented bark. Against a human opponent, that force concentrated on their heart meridian would certainly disrupt their qi circulation and blood flow. They'd drop like a puppet with cut strings.

  But I needed more practice. This first successful execution was promising, but one good strike didn't make a reliable technique. I needed to be able to perform it consistently, in different angles, and against moving targets, all while under pressure.

  I needed the technique to be able to execute the technique without thought.

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  I reset my stance and prepared for the second attempt. This time I paid attention to different variables. How did my weight distribution change during the explosive step? Where exactly did the power generation peak? What was the optimal distance for maximum force transfer?

  The second strike landed clean, leaving another deep dent in the bark. The third came faster, my body already beginning to internalize the movement pattern. The fourth felt smoother, the transition from stance to step to strike flowing like water. Each repetition added another layer of muscle memory, another neural pathway being reinforced.

  By the tenth strike, I was laughing. I couldn't help it. The sheer joy of discovery bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest.

  This was what I'd been missing in my previous life. The ability to ask "what if" and then actually test it. To have wild ideas and watch them work in a world full of endless possibilities.

  Strike fifteen. My knuckles were starting to show some wear and tear, my skin abrading from the repeated impacts against rough bark. But the pain was easily ignored.

  Body Tempering Stage One meant my hands could take this punishment. More importantly, the feedback was valuable. I could feel which angles created the most efficient force transfer, and which slight variations in timing produced the cleanest strikes.

  Strike twenty. The explosive step was becoming second nature. My legs knew exactly how much force to generate, how to transfer weight from back foot to front without any wasted motion. The entire technique was compressing and becoming more efficient. t

  Strike twenty-five. I noticed I was hitting slightly harder now without trying to. The technique itself was optimizing through repetition, my body naturally finding the most effective execution. This was the difference between knowing a technique intellectually and knowing it instictively. The manual could tell you the movements, but only practice could teach you the feeling.

  Strike thirty. My breathing had fallen into rhythm with the strikes. Inhale during the stance. Exhale explosively during the step through. The breath control added another dimension to the technique, another way to maximize my power generation. I made a mental note to research breathing techniques more thoroughly. There had to be advanced methods that could enhance this even further.

  Strike thirty-five. The tree was starting to look more and more damaged. Multiple overlapping dents had created a crater in the bark, wood fibers splintering and compressed. I shifted my target area slightly higher, finding fresh bark to test against. Each new surface provided slightly different feedback, teaching me how the technique responded to varying densities and resistances.

  Strike forty. Something clicked. The explosive step, the body alignment, the strike itself, they all synchronized into a single flowing motion. There was no longer a mental checklist of components. My body just knew what to do.

  Strike forty-five. I was grinning like a madman, probably looking completely unhinged to anyone who might be watching. But I didn't care. This feeling, this pure undiluted joy of progress….this was why people became obsessed with cultivation in the first place.

  I stepped back from the tree as my chest began heaving. My knuckles were raw and aching, yet my face was hurting from how wide I was smiling. My entire body felt alive in a way it never had before. Every nerve ending was firing, every muscle engaged and warm from exertion.

  This was the privilege of being in a cultivation world.

  The ability to push your body beyond normal limits, to create something new through sheer will and effort, to punch through barriers both metaphorical and physical.

  I looked down at my damaged hands and then up at the battered tree as well as the scattered bark fragments on the ground. A wave of gratitude washed over me like a spring.

  I was actually here.

  Here in a world where this was possible. In a world where dedication and intelligence could translate into real, measurable power.

  The original Cao Chang had wasted this opportunity due to his own arrogance and blind adherence to clan politics.

  But I wouldn't.

  Every experience, observation and interaction was more data for me. Insights that I had read in various cultivation novels could not properly prepare me for the life of a cultivator. It would be like attempting to describe a place through images within a dream.

  Even something as insignifcant as witnessing Liu Wei's bullying had ultimately proven to be invaluable.

  Without seeing Lu Ming's desperate technique, I might never have conceived of creating my own.

  That thought sparked another realization. There was value in immersing myself in the sect's social dynamics and in paying attention to other disciples' struggles and triumphs. Other stories that spoke of transmigration would shy away from search things, wishing to avoid the chaos around them. I always wondered…why? This was a privledged life to live away from the mundane hustle and bustle of Earth. Why not take full advantage of a world that was several times larger and more grand than their own?

  It never made any sense to me. I’ll gladly look dangerous jade beauties in the eye and put myself in proximity to the “main character” types. It was far more fun that way.

  And speaking of which, both Liu Wei and Lu Ming were currently in the medical pavilion recovering from their fight. I could observe their injuries, ask questions about what they'd experienced, and maybe even learn something about Lu Ming's mysterious Coiling Dragon Strike.

  The medical disciples would be monitoring their bodies as well as their recovery rates.

  Plus, visiting them would serve multiple purposes.

  It would appear socially conscious, the kind of thing that might help repair the original Cao Chang's damaged reputation. It would also give me a chance to observe Lu Ming more closely, to see if there were other signs of that golden aura phenomenon.

  The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. This was perfect! I could satisfy my analytical curiosity while potentially learning something that would advance my own development. And all under the guise of showing concern for fellow disciples.

  I gathered my notes and tucked them safely into my bag, taking one last look at the damaged tree. The hole in the bark would be my secret for now, evidence of tonight's breakthrough that only I would understand. The technique would need additional refinement and testing against actual opponents, but the foundation was solid.

  The path back toward the main sect buildings felt shorter than the journey out. My mind was already racing ahead, cataloging questions I wanted to ask the hard working medical team.

  What did Lu Ming’s cultivation backlash look like up close? What kind of treatments did the medical disciples use for cultivation damage?

  The medical pavilion stood slightly apart from the main dormitories, a two-story structure with wide windows that let in natural light during the day.

  Now, in the evening, soft lamplight glowed from several of the rooms. I could see shadows moving inside as the medical disciples continued to make their rounds.

  I climbed the steps to the entrance and walked through the double doors.