Chapter Eight: Iron Sand Palm!

At dusk, the two returned to the small ancestral shrine. When Aunt Qing saw the wild rabbits, pheasants, and badgers they had brought back, she was naturally startled.

“Yulang, Bai Mo, where did you get all this game?”

“We caught them in the mountains.”

“You two caught them yourselves?”

“It was the young master who set traps for them, and they’re all still alive.”

Bai Mo’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he recounted in detail the process of setting traps on the mountain and capturing the animals, as well as how Li Zhao had dreamed of the Seven Kill Sage teaching him skills. However, he didn’t dare mention a word about eating carp or saving the White Spirit Dog, just as Li Zhao had instructed beforehand—not because he didn’t trust Aunt Qing, but out of fear that she would worry, or worse, let something slip if she knew. The fewer people aware of life-and-death matters, the better.

After hearing the story, Aunt Qing didn’t seem to doubt much. First, she embraced Li Zhao and wept uncontrollably, then ran inside to the shrine, where she cried at Madam Bai’s memorial for a long time, repeatedly exclaiming that Yulang had grown up and become a true man.

That evening, Aunt Qing spared no effort in preparing a table full of dishes. The three of them enjoyed a hearty meal.

The taste of meat—it was truly wonderful!

...

After dinner, Aunt Qing went back to her room to weave cloth. For women in this era, this was a nightly necessity and a significant source of household income. In the Guanzhong region, a fine bolt of silk was worth a full string of coins.

Li Zhao wasn’t idle either—he returned to his own room to begin another part of his plan.

First, he lit a clay brazier and set a large iron pot on it. Inside was fine river sand he’d collected days earlier, thoroughly washed and sun-dried until every grain was clean.

Bai Mo, holding an iron shovel, continuously stirred the sand to heat it evenly. He had no idea why this was necessary, but simply followed instructions.

Beside them was a half wooden basin of warm water, soaking a dozen or so herbs gathered from the mountains—radix angelicae, frankincense, wood incense, bone-penetrating grass, and more. All dissolved into the water, which immediately turned a deep red and gave off a pungent, bloody odor.

Swish—swish!

Li Zhao took a deep breath and thrust both hands forcefully into the scalding sand, pouring all his strength into each movement. He repeated this over a hundred times before stopping. Looking at his hands, they were already red and swollen, with some skin rubbed off and blood oozing out.

It’s said that the fingers are connected to the heart—a tiny splinter can make anyone scream. To have the skin forcibly scraped away is agony. Even with Li Zhao’s extraordinary willpower, he broke out in a cold sweat from the pain.

“Master?”

“Don’t worry. This is a form of training—the Seven Kill Sage taught me in a dream. You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, master. I swear I won’t say a word!”

...

Next, Li Zhao soaked his hands in the medicinal water. The wounds burned as if on fire, and the pain intensified. But after the searing pain passed, the swelling miraculously subsided, and the bleeding stopped. He took another deep breath and plunged his hands into the hot sand again, then back into the herbal water—over and over, until he was utterly exhausted. Only then did Bai Mo help him wrap his hands with gauze.

“Master, how long will it take to master this skill?”

“One hundred days to begin, three years for minor achievement, ten years for mastery, twenty years to roam the world unhindered. If you’re interested, we can train together.”

“No, thank you. I can’t endure that kind of suffering—having the skin of my palms scraped raw and bloody, it’s too painful!”

“Heh, only those who endure the bitterest hardships can stand above others.”

...

Li Zhao spoke the truth. This self-torment was indeed part of practicing a martial art—Iron Sand Palm.

Yes, the very technique often mentioned in martial arts novels, typically practiced by third-rate fighters—a palm technique not considered particularly powerful. First-rate masters in stories would pursue things like the Nine Yin Manual, Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms, or the Graceful Step upon the Waves—esoteric arts that don’t exist in reality.

In truth, those legendary skills are pure fiction. Iron Sand Palm, however, is real. When mastered, one’s hands become as hard as iron, capable of breaking stone and splitting monuments.

Still, this skill requires gradual progress—starting with fine sand, then coarse sand, and finally iron sand.

Iron sand contains rust, and rust carries iron toxins. Through repeated friction, the toxins slowly seep into the hands and, with the help of herbal medicine, coexist with the body in a delicate balance.

If struck upon a person, the iron toxin penetrates flesh and blood, damaging meridians and organs, with almost certain fatality. Even the strongest hard-qi techniques, like Golden Bell or Iron Shirt, can’t withstand a blow from the Iron Sand Palm. It’s a domineering art, neither wholly righteous nor evil.

Curiously, once mastered, the hands not only remain smooth, but become even more delicate, without a trace of callus—beautiful as a young maiden’s, with a metallic sheen.

For all its might, however, few ever practiced Iron Sand Palm.

The pain of training is excruciating—the skin of the hands must split and heal thousands of times, if not more. Only those with hearts of iron can endure it. Moreover, the practice requires large quantities of expensive herbs; without them, forcing the training can ruin the hands entirely.

In his previous life, when Li Zhao was in the mountain troops, his old squad leader came from a family of martial artists and happened to know this skill. He had won many championships in army competitions with his iron palms—earning the nickname “Unrivaled Iron Palm.”

Li Zhao had spent over a year currying favor and coaxing the squad leader to teach him the method, but ultimately learned only the basics. It wasn’t for lack of effort on either side, nor was Li Zhao unable to endure hardship—there were other reasons.

First, Iron Sand Palm should be trained from a young age. By the time Li Zhao started, he was already too old and missed the optimal window, making progress slow and difficult. Second, the practice required herbs that were nearly impossible to obtain, regardless of wealth.

So, after more than a year, Li Zhao had only scratched the surface. Even so, his hands were far stronger than most people’s—he could split seven or eight bricks with a single strike.

But things were different now. Reborn into the Tang Dynasty as a fifteen-year-old, Li Zhao’s bones were at the perfect stage for training. There were no wildlife protection laws in the Tang era; with enough money, any herb could be acquired without restriction.

Most importantly, according to history, in a decade or so, chaos would engulf the land—wars and turmoil everywhere, countless lives lost. Li Zhao had resolved to protect his loved ones, no matter the pain or bloodshed—he would master Iron Sand Palm.

...

While diligently training, Li Zhao ventured into the mountains daily—to gather herbs, fish, hunt, and tend to the wounds of the White Spirit Dog, feeding and caring for it.

After more than a month of meticulous care, the White Spirit Dog finally recovered, able to run freely through the mountains and hunt on its own.

...

During the hunts, Li Zhao witnessed the White Spirit Dog’s prowess: sharp-eyed, keen-nosed, lightning-quick, and ferociously strong. Any prey it spotted rarely escaped. Once, after chasing through the mountains for half a day, it managed to bring down two wild boars, each weighing over three hundred pounds, without suffering a scratch itself—a true king among dogs, living up to its reputation.

Having saved its life and fed it well for over a month, any other dog would have already prostrated itself, tail wagging in loyalty. But not the White Spirit Dog. It remained aloof, barely acknowledging Li Zhao, never wagging its tail or showing affection—like a frosty goddess of the mountains. Indeed, the White Spirit Dog was female.

Yet Li Zhao wasn’t upset; he could sense the bond of friendship forming between them, built on trust. When a dog rolls over and exposes its soft white belly, it means absolute trust—and the White Spirit Dog had done so many times.

Unfortunately, happy times are always fleeting.

A few days later, word came that the hunters, after months of fruitless searching in the mountains and repeated encounters with venomous snakes and beasts—suffering many casualties—had given up their dreams of sudden wealth and begun returning home.

In other words, it was no longer safe for the White Spirit Dog to linger near Black Dragon Spring; returning hunters could discover her at any moment.

What to do?

Bringing her back to the shrine, even if she agreed, would be like imprisonment for a creature who roamed the wilds. Sooner or later, someone would find her.

In the end, there was no choice but to let her return to the deep mountains.

“Remember: traps, snares, pits, hidden arrows—no matter the danger, the key is the bait. As long as you’re not tempted, you’ll be safe. Once you’re back in the mountains, take care of yourself. Don’t come out unless you must; beware, people’s hearts are more venomous than snakes or scorpions!”

With her abilities, the White Spirit Dog could easily reign supreme in the mountains—even tigers and black bears were no threat. Only humans could truly harm her.

Therefore, Li Zhao demonstrated all the hunters’ common traps for her, confident that with her intelligence, she’d remember and avoid them in the future.

Man and dog played together one last time, then reluctantly parted ways. Watching the white figure disappear into the distance, Li Zhao felt a deep loss, as if he’d lost a good friend. But as the saying goes: part for now, and someday we’ll meet again.

...

In the days that followed, Li Zhao lived a disciplined life. By day, he entered Zhongnan Mountain to gather herbs, hunt, and run through bramble-covered hills to strengthen his body. At night, he hid in his room and practiced Iron Sand Palm, letting his hands split and bleed over and over, never uttering a sound.

Only by enduring the harshest hardships can one rise above others!

After two more months of this, Li Zhao grew much stronger. His cheeks glowed, his energy was vibrant—he was a different person from the sickly boy he had been.

But with this progress came a new problem—he was running out of money.