Chapter 1: Touching the Scroll, Summoning Thunder

雨夜。

The corrugated iron roof of the abandoned workshop groaned with a sickening shriek in the howling gale. Rainwater seeped through the rusted seams, dripping down to splash into the stagnant oil stains on the ground, kicking up a fine, freezing mist. Shen Jingzhe huddled in the deepest corner, his back pressed against the cold brick wall. He was soaked to the bone, and the chill crept into his pores, drilling deep into his marrow.

The knuckles of his hand, clutching that tattered copy of the *Mountain-Collapsing Fist Manual*, had turned a sickly white. His fingernails were so pressed into the leathery cover that they nearly gouged through it. The air was thick with the stench of cheap, potent liquor intermingled with years of mold, a mixture so foul it made suffocation seem like a mercy.

In the murk of his disoriented eyes, scenes from yesterday’s humiliation at the mansion flashed back. Lin Wanqing’s face as she tore up the marriage contract in public—that aloof, contemptuous look, as if she viewed all humans as mere weeds—was still imprinted in his mind, sharp as a blade slicing through his nerves.

Once the most powerful family’s live-in son-in-law, he had endured for three whole years. The result? A single word of disdain: “Waste.” For three years, he had served tea, bowed his head, and stomped on his own dignity to keep a sliver of life, yet he had never seen a shred of respect in her eyes. Tonight, the silence was over.

This ancient manual, dismissed by everyone as scrap paper, might be the only lever he had to turn the tide. If fate was unfair, he would break the deadlock with his fists. He would use sheer power to wipe out the arrogance of all those who had ever treated him like a beggar.

The moment his fingertips brushed against the faded ink marks on the manual, the world stopped.

It wasn’t a metaphor; it was a real sensory disconnect. Brilliant golden light erupted from his fingertips, instantly piercing his pores and flooding his brain like a hundred rivers merging into the ocean. His foggy consciousness was violently ripped open, and the cheat ability 【Fragmentary Scroll Mending the Sky】 fully awakened under the extreme pressure.

The surrounding air seemed to solidify. Even the raindrops about to fall froze in mid-air, suspended as countless crystal beads. Shen Jingzhe’s pupils contracted sharply. A tremor born from the deepest part of his soul swept through him—it was the venting of long-suppressed air, a precursor to the arrival of a true powerhouse.

Inside his mind sea, the content of the manual unfolded like a holographic projection. The lost techniques of the Mountain-Collapsing Fist demonstrated themselves automatically, each move imbued with the staggering source of martial art. Energy values skyrocketed, leaping from a weak baseline to the peak in seconds. The power sealed away by time transformed into visible streams of light, raging wildly within his body.

Shen Jingzhe felt a磅礴 (panhuo? no, "panhong" - vast/powerful) force surge up his spine, straight to the top of his head. It was a baptism of pouring light, a reshaping akin to reincarnation. His bones restructured with a cracking snap, his muscles transformed through tearing and healing, and a sense of unprecedented clarity flooded his entire being.

Agony crashed over him like a tide. Shen Jingzhe let out a low grunt, his body trembling as cold sweat instantly soaked through his clothes. The meridians, blocked for years, began to open up inch by inch, much like ice melting under the sun. The hidden injuries and bottlenecks that had stagnated his qi and blood rapidly healed under the nourishment of the martial source.

He forcefully suppressed the rampaging true qi inside, keeping his breathing hidden. However, the faint golden aura radiating from his body could no longer be completely concealed. Outside the workshop, several faint glows flickered, probing the anomaly here. Danger was closing in.

“Bang!”

The workshop door was kicked open with such force that the panel slammed against the iron wall, showering rust and dust to the ground. Lin Wanqing strutted in wearing delicate high heels, flanked by two escorts in black uniforms. The sound of the rain seemed to fade into the distance; the sharp click of her heels on the ground was gratingly loud in the silence, each step stomping on Shen Jingzhe’s dignity.

Her makeup was flawless, fine droplets of water clinging to her lashes. Yet her eyes held an unmasked mix of disgust and smugness, as if she had come to sweep away expired trash.

Shen Jingzhe slowly lifted his head, watching her with cold detachment. A barely perceptible smirk curved at the corner of his mouth. In his mind, he was already calculating how to use his newly acquired fist intent to completely crush her. A revenge plan was taking shape—no more endurance, but precise, devastating strikes. Looking at Lin Wanqing’s hypocritical face, the corner of his heart that had once held warmth froze solid.

The man standing there now was not the submissive live-in son-in-law from yesterday. He was a monster about to swallow lightning.

Lin Wanqing stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over the mess and the torn manual in Shen Jingzhe’s hand. She sneered, “Shen Jingzhe, do you really think you’re someone special? Giving me your hand in marriage was the greatest act of mercy I ever performed. Being cast out now and you still can’t reflect? It’s truly repulsive.”

“What use is that junk in your hands?” She glanced disdainfully at the *Mountain-Collapsing Fist Manual*, her eyes full of contempt. “It’s just a pile of waste paper. And you’re worthy of being here in this shithole, drunk and dreaming?”

Shen Jingzhe didn’t speak. He just watched her silently. His eyes were clear and deep, seemingly able to see through all her fake masks. Lin Wanqing felt a strange sensation in that gaze, like facing an unfathomable black hole, but her arrogance quickly covered it up. She had no idea that the man before her had undergone a fundamental transformation.

One of the escorts stepped forward, roughly shoving Shen Jingzhe. He barked, “Sign this divorce agreement and get out! Don’t waste the young lady’s time.”

Shen Jingzhe didn’t move an inch, but the pressure radiating from his eyes alone was enough to make the man feel his soul being squeezed. The escort unconsciously took half a step back, his throat bobbing as he felt a chill rise from the soles of his feet. It was the instinctive fear triggered by the leakage of High Martial aura. Even a fraction of it was enough to terrify an ordinary person.

Seeing that the soft approach didn’t work, Lin Wanqing went with the old tricks. She pulled a massive check out of her bag and flicked it onto the table. The check traced an arc in the air before landing with a crisp sound, like an ultimatum.

“Take this money and buy the rest of your life,” Lin Wanqing said, lifting her chin with the arrogance of one bestowing charity. “This is the last shred of dignity I offer you. Don’t embarrass yourself here.”

The check landed on the table, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Shen Jingzhe reached out to catch it, but he didn’t look at the amount. Instead, he studied the unique seal and brushwork of Lin Wanqing on the check. The slight angle of the tilt, the distribution of the ink—he committed every detail to memory. This was his way of keeping score, and the evidence for his future revenge. Every insult was etched in his heart; he would never let them go.

“This is pocket money for a beggar,” Lin Wanqing said smugly, a ruthless glint flashing in her eyes. “Get out of the noble households and never appear before me again. Or, suffer the consequences. You know what happens when you offend the Lin Family.”

With that, she turned on her heel to leave, the high-heeled clicking sounds resuming, full of resolve and disdain. It was as if no one had ever existed in that room, as if their earlier conversation was just a minor, insignificant blip in her day.

Shen Jingzhe watched her back, slowly crumpling the check into a ball and tossing it into the trash can nearby. The sound of the paper crinkling was distinct in the empty workshop, sharp like a bone breaking.

“This money can’t buy back my backbone, and it can’t buy my forgiveness.” His voice was calm but firm, like water in a cold, deep pool, carrying a bone-chilling coldness.

Lin Wanqing’s steps paused, but she didn’t turn around. She assumed this was just Shen Jingzhe’s last death struggle, the weak whimper of a loser. She had no idea that the sound of that paper ball hitting the ground would be the herald of her nightmares. The rain outside intensified, thunder rumbling in the distance, as if playing the overture to the approaching storm.

Lin Wanqing’s escorts were already losing patience. One of them, a man in a suit, stepped forward, pointing at Shen Jingzhe with a mocking sneer. “Young Master Shen, are you sober now? That punch earlier was mighty impressive, but look at you now, you can’t even stand steady. Sister Wanqing is only giving you this money out of some old-time sentiment, enough to buy you a few pounds of meat, and you’re playing the high-and-mighty act?

You think you can just throw away the Lin Family’s money?”

This remark stuck like a thorn in the ears of the onlookers. Shen Jingzhe didn’t lift his head; he just casually brushed the dust off his sleeve, even though there was none. The *Ink Soul* of the *Mountain-Collapsing Fist Manual* hadn’t fully faded from within him yet. That domineering force circulated slowly through his meridians, and the acupoints that had been blocked for years were beginning to loosen.

He sensed that although the man was acting tough, his breathing was long and shallow, and his lower body was weak—a classic sign of someone who trained only skin and flesh, not bones and sinew.

“Throw?” Shen Jingzhe finally spoke. His voice was hoarse but carried a strange resonance. “What I threw away is my own waste paper. But landing on the Lin Family’s territory, it’s soiling your eyes.”

He bent down, picking up the crumpled check from the trash can with the elegance of someone handling fine porcelain. With a light flick of his fingers, the paper ball unfurled, smooth as new.

“Take it back,” Shen Jingzhe said, holding the check out to the escort, his eyes cold. “Tell the head of the Lin Family that the debt the Shen Family owes, Shen Jingzhe will repay. As for you servants, you are not worthy of using Lin Family money.”

The escort’s face turned the color of a corpse, reaching to strike, but Lin Wanqing suddenly stopped. A cold arc of a smile formed on her lips. “Shen Jingzhe, you think spouting a few cryptic threats will let you turn the tables? Don’t forget, the injuries inside you can kill you at any moment. I’m tolerating you today only because I’m too lazy to humiliate a dying man.

In three days, at the Lin Family’s longevity banquet. If you dare show up, I will make you eat this check in front of a hundred family heads. Swallow it, vomit it up, and eat it again.”

Having said that, she ignored him completely, leading her escorts away. The sound of her heels faded into the distance, finally disappearing into the curtain of rain.

Silence returned to the workshop, broken only by the dripping of rain against the eaves.

Shen Jingzhe stood still, watching the check tremble slightly in his hand. He didn’t put it away. Instead, he brought it to his nose, catching the faint scent of perfume—Lin Wanqing’s usual “Fragrant Orchid.” He closed his eyes, rapidly mapping out the layout of the Lin Family’s old residence and the weaknesses of the family head in his mind.

The *Ink Soul* flickered in his mind sea, seemingly thirsty for more hatred and blood to nourish it.

“In three days…” he murmured, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

The rain began to ease, and a pale, fish-belly white started to appear on the eastern horizon. Shen Jingzhe walked out of the workshop. The crisp air rushed into his lungs, clearing his head a bit more. He looked in the direction Lin Wanqing had left, his eyes no longer carrying any desolation. In their place was a deep, abyss-like chill.

He raised his hand, casually wiggling his fingers. His joints popped with a sharp crack. The sound was jarringly loud in the early morning quiet, yet it sounded like a thunderclap, announcing the return of a forbidden power.

In the distance, a black sedan slowly rolled out of the alley. Through the rearview mirror, Lin Wanqing caught a glimpse of the solitary, upright figure at the workshop entrance. Her brow furrowed, and a strange chill rose in her heart, as if a venomous snake, long dormant, was now watching her.

She rolled down the window and ordered the driver coldly, “Drive fast. Contact the family guard team. Tomorrow, I want to scrub the household clean.”

But what she didn’t know was that Shen Jingzhe was standing in the rain, his gaze piercing through the layers of mist, locked onto the rear of that car. In his mind, that *Ink Soul* was expanding furiously, drawing up a dense map of revenge.

“Lin Wanqing,” he recited silently in his heart. “I will collect every penny of this debt, with interest.”

The morning wind swept up the fallen leaves, spinning and tearing them apart on the wet streets, foreshadowing the bloody revolution that was about to come.