Bringing The Farm To Live In Another World Chapter 2286: Body Abuse

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Following lunch and a brief break, the afternoon labor resumed. Zhao Hai kept excavating rocks manually until he hit the one-thousand-jin mark. Afterward, he headed to Elder Xing’s dwelling and announced gravely, “Elder, Zhao Ling seeks an audience.”

Elder Xing’s response echoed, “Enter.” With that, Zhao Hai stepped into the cave. Elder Xing knelt on the ground in meditation, eyeing Zhao Hai as he inquired, “What brings you here?”

Zhao Hai responded solemnly, “Elder, this disciple has finished today’s assignments. May I use the leftover time as I please?”

Elder Xing paused in surprise at Zhao Hai’s words. Then he affirmed with a nod, “Indeed, you’re free to pursue any activity once the daily quota is met. Just ensure you rise for dinner.”

Zhao Hai acknowledged, “Understood.” He offered a fist salute to Elder Xing, then pivoted and departed the cave.

Exiting Elder Xing’s abode, Zhao Hai skipped returning to his own for repose. He ventured instead to a sheer rock face. Surveying it, he gave an approving nod. This outcrop jutted squarely from the hillside, extending over a meter outward. Positioning himself there, Zhao Hai expressed contentment with another nod. He then extended his limbs, aligned before the cliff, and flung his arms forward. They whipped against the stone like twin lashes, producing a barrage of sharp cracks that revealed the force of his blows.

The disturbance Zhao Hai caused inevitably drew attention from the rest. Stone-quarrying cultivators gawked in bewilderment, puzzled by his actions.

Eventually, one cultivator snapped out of his daze. He eyed the ore heap nearby, sufficient for the day’s requirement, yet he yearned to extract extra for future ease.

For generations, Forbidden Path Sect members endured harsh drills before mine duty. They slaved relentlessly at first, then lounged aimlessly in the closing phase, merely dining at mealtimes. Their stockpiles covered daily needs. The mine’s endgame served purely as downtime.

The sect tolerated this pattern, convincing cultivators it aligned with official intent: frantic mining early on, followed by leisure later.

Yet Zhao Hai’s display enlightened the group, jolting a key realization. They extracted ore here, boosting bodily might at best. Beyond callused palms, other areas never touched the mineral. Thus, while overall vigor grew, defenses elsewhere stayed static.

Essentially, Zhao Hai exploited idle hours for rigorous practice. He unlocked his frame’s full might, encompassing toughness across all zones.

A sudden epiphany struck the cultivators regarding why not every sect member endured a full year’s grueling regimen. Some ascended to inner ranks, others languished outer. Their methods proved flawed at the core. The sect recognized abundant spare moments, but those weren’t for dawdling—they demanded diligent self-improvement.

Observing Zhao Hai’s relentless arm assaults on the crag, Forbidden Path Sect members flushed with embarrassment. Soon, a cultivator who’d met his quota halted work. He dashed to a wall and pounded it with various limbs.

One pioneer sparked a wave. After his example, others joined swiftly. Before long, the gorge echoed with wall-thuds and stifled grunts.

Truthfully, Zhao Hai felt mild astonishment witnessing the cultivators mimic him. Still, he held his tongue and pressed on. Post-arms, he targeted legs, then torso. He rammed his form into the rock repeatedly. Despite the iron plating, agony flared, yet he persisted, aware this alone unearthed his physique’s utmost capacity.

Meanwhile, Elder Xing emerged from seclusion. He surveyed the self-inflicted battering against the cliffs and blinked in mild shock. A faint, uncommon grin cracked his stoic visage. He muttered, “Looks like strong spirits are in order. Flesh sans brew lacks true savor.” With that, he retreated inward, vanishing thereafter.

Dusk fell as Zhao Hai concluded his full-body regimen. Precisely then, Elder Xing called, “Dinner time!”

Elder Xing’s shout prompted many to crumple earthward. They’d clenched jaws through the ordeal. Frankly, such masochistic honing severely taxed resolve. A mere hint of frailty would spur instant surrender. After all, participation was self-chosen, unforced.

Still, they grasped that skipping meals meant doubling tomorrow’s share. Thus, they hauled their wrecked frames toward Elder Xing one by one.

By now, some had claimed evening rations from Elder Xing. It remained uncooked, gore-dripping flesh. Yet alongside the meat came a tiny vessel. This diminutive jar, wine-suited, held merely half a jin (250 ml). Recipients stared in confusion but withheld questions from Elder Xing. They accepted silently and retreated aside. Settling down, they uncorked the jar.

The lid lifted, unleashing a potent liquor scent, thick enough to haze the air faintly. Typically, such potency repelled most. For raw-meat daily diners, though, it ranked as heaven’s finest bouquet.

Irresistibly, cultivators guzzled the brew heartily. Ages had passed since savoring such. At last, variety broke the meat monotony.

Soon, remorse hit. The portion proved pitifully scant—barely half a jin (250ml). For these hardy folk, mere swallows emptied it.

But worse followed. Post-quaffing, inner fires ignited, scorching from core outward, breaths flaming. Worst, clarity fogged, unmistakable drunken haze.

Disbelief gripped the cultivators. They were practitioners, sealed spiritual force notwithstanding, fortified in flesh. Half a jin triggering inebriation? Absurd! Reality stared back: they reeled. Acceptance dawned inescapably.

Then Elder Xing boomed, “Consume every scrap of meat, else double portions await.” Startled, they eyed the crimson slabs clutched tight. Wordlessly, they wolfed it down bite by bite. Flavors evaded notice, but throat blaze quenched upon ingestion.

Now tipsy, fretting ceased. All scurried to caverns, flopping into instant, profound slumber unmatched prior.

Contrasting the group, Zhao Hai inhaled the wine’s bouquet upon opening. He sensed its extraordinary nature—a potent herbal elixir. Space analysis confirmed: it mended internal wounds, amplified for somatic refiners.

Of course, Zhao Hai savored without waste. He alternated sips and chews delightedly. He noted this pairing neutralized liquor’s oral scorch, while infusing the once-gory, distasteful fare with wine-kissed sweetness, rendering it delectable.

This insight thrilled Zhao Hai, freeing him from beast-soul chats for meals. Though handy, it unnerved him, evoking feral instincts—unwelcome vibes.

Downing final meat morsel with wine chaser, Zhao Hai rose, sky-gazing, then ambled caveward. He claimed a spot and reclined. Snores filled the shaft; lesser souls might toss sleeplessly. Zhao Hai, however, wielded vast psyche, effortlessly muting din.

Night elapsed quietly; Zhao Hai roused at dawn. Eyes fluttering open, ambient rumbles persisted. A soft smile curved his lips as he rose. Candidly, stone had cradled his night. His robustness shrugged it off, mere unease lingering.

Emerging, Zhao Hai limbered up, then rinsed at the adjacent brook prior to mine return. There, fists balled, he flowed through basic punches to loosen sinews.

Shortly, folks stirred successively. Awakening, a cozy flow bathed their forms, blissfully soothing. Yesterday’s brutal taxing left zero ache today—bafflingly wondrous.

As somatic adepts, innate healing excelled, yet sealed essence slowed it markedly sans aura aid. Ordinarily, prior day’s frenzy would scream in every fiber now. Comfort reigned pain-free. Mild wonder yielded to last night’s jar recollection.

They deduced Elder Xing’s gift transcended mere tipple—it restored. Joy surged; they bounded out eagerly. Yet outside, Zhao Hai shadow-boxed. His routine wasn’t elite; it was plain Dragon Fist, universally known among True Spirit Realm adepts.

Novice practitioners paired aura work with Dragon Fist. Offensively mundane, it excelled in flexing frames and building power. Indispensable for starters.

Puzzled stares fixed on Zhao Hai—why this basic drill? Observation waned quickly; Dragon Fist’s simplicity endured, flair or not. Banal. Cultivators proceeded to brook ablutions.

Cleaned, they warmed limbs, shadow-sparred lightly. Elder Xing dispensed morn fare: uncooked flesh solely, wine absent.

No complaints arose. Querying Elder Xing for more? Unthinkable. In this pit, he embodied divinity. Defiance invited dire reprisal. Vengeance post-empowerment or rank-climb? Fantasy.

Elder Xing ranked among Forbidden Path Sect’s Supreme Elders, depths immeasurable. Supreme status loomed immense. Future core status wouldn’t shield retributive bids; sect wrath would crush even elites. Thus, for these, Elder Xing was deity. Docile compliance alone sufficed; stray thoughts futile.

Post-meal, toil recommenced. As before, Zhao Hai hand-quarried till quota, then solitary drilled aside. Today, peers hit marks sooner, infusing the site with vigor.

As anticipated, dusk brought Elder Xing’s repeat largesse: identical jars per person. Differing yesterday, hasty chugs yielded to Zhao Hai-esque nibbles, meat-wine synced, repose post-satiation.

Such rhythm endured days onward; adaptation set in. Routines mechanized. Intermittently, timers expired, departures occurred; newcomers swelled ascetic ranks. Headcount burgeoned, never waned.

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