Chapter 4: The Iron Cloth Technique

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“Uncle Deng, buy some medicine.”
“What kind?”
“Get some for bruises and injuries, just in case. I got hit by a box earlier.”
“This one, this one, and this one—these are all topical. Use this for swelling from bruises, and for wounds, disinfect the injury, sprinkle some powder, then bandage it...”
...
Buying the medicine wasn’t difficult.
The clerk didn’t ask what it was for.
But the medicine was a bit expensive.
It cost one hundred and fourteen batteries.
More than half of the batteries he had saved were gone in an instant.
Back at the residence, Zhang Ji glanced around subtly, sensing nothing unusual. He then lightly knocked on the door.
No sound came from inside.
He opened the door and stepped in, but saw no one.
“Gone?”
Zhang Ji’s expression shifted slightly.
His mood was somewhat complicated.
He had considered this possibility, but the outcome still left him a little disappointed.
He put down the medicine, sat on the bed, and sighed.
This was the closest contact he’d had with the fighting world since arriving here.
Missing this chance, he wasn’t sure how long it would be before another would come.
After sitting in a daze for a while, Zhang Ji composed himself to rest, when suddenly there was a noise at the door.
“Squeak, squeak, squeak!”
The steel bars on the other door bent from a powerful push. Uncle Kui casually removed them and entered.
Then, with bare hands, he straightened the thumb-thick steel bars and placed them back on the door.
With such strength, Zhang Ji roughly guessed why his own door lock had loosened—it had been forcibly pulled open.
“Where’s the medicine?” Uncle Kui asked.
“On the table.” Zhang Ji stood and pointed to the medicine.
Uncle Kui strode over and lay down on the bed, lifting his shirt to reveal muscular flesh and a wound.
There was a bullet lodged in the muscle—not sure what caliber, but it hadn’t gone too deep, at least it hadn’t hit any internal organs.
“Use that to pull it out,” Uncle Kui said, pointing to a pair of needle-nose pliers nearby.
“Oh... okay!”
Zhang Ji reacted, picked up the pliers, then grabbed a lighter, intending to sterilize them.
Uncle Kui watched silently.
Zhang Ji heated the pliers with flame before approaching Uncle Kui.
Uncle Kui lay back while Zhang Ji carefully moved the pliers toward the bullet.
The bullet was slippery and hard to grip, requiring a deeper grasp.
Zhang Ji glanced at Uncle Kui, whose expression remained calm, seemingly unfazed by the pain.
Knowing he couldn’t hesitate, Zhang Ji pushed the pliers deeper into the flesh, then gripped tightly and pulled outwards.
“Pfft!”
The bullet came out.
Meanwhile, the muscles around the wound contracted, tightening to stem the bleeding.
“Need to disinfect and apply medicine...” Zhang Ji said.
“Yeah, you do it.” Uncle Kui nodded.
Zhang Ji rinsed and disinfected the wound, sprinkled powder, and applied gauze.
Throughout, Uncle Kui said nothing.
When Zhang Ji finished, Uncle Kui suddenly asked, “How did you get here?”
He meant how Zhang Ji had come to Goodwill Island.
This place was for exiling criminals, and usually petty thieves serving short sentences weren’t sent here.

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In present-day Eastern Empire, only those sentenced to over five years for serious antisocial crimes were sent here.
Uncle Kui didn’t see such traits in Zhang Ji.
“Not exactly sure,” Zhang Ji honestly replied.
God knows how this whole transmigration thing worked.
“Lots of people get dumped here these years; they treat this place like a garbage dump. Anyone who rubs them the wrong way gets tossed here,” Uncle Kui said.
He misunderstood Zhang Ji’s situation.
But Zhang Ji had no intention of explaining—it wasn’t an easy thing to explain.
“I’ll stay here for a few days. Just live normally. If I’m okay, I’ll give you what’s due. If something happens, don’t worry; you won’t be dragged into it,” Uncle Kui said.
Zhang Ji stared at Uncle Kui; indeed, he wanted to get something from him, but it wasn’t what Uncle Kui meant.
“My stuff can’t be given to you. You’re smart enough to know those things would bring trouble,” Uncle Kui said, noticing Zhang Ji’s gaze.
“I want to learn martial arts, become a fighter,” Zhang Ji stated plainly.
Uncle Kui rejected the idea immediately.
“Too late. You’re too old. True martial artists start training at age three, with certain innate talent. It takes massive financial investment and relentless effort, constant refining of the body and spirit. Only then can one achieve some success by twenty-five, and that’s just the beginning. To be extraordinary, you need to endure even more inhuman training, face life-and-death trials multiple times, break human limits, and enter that realm...”
“I still want to learn,” Zhang Ji said seriously.
Nothing in this world is easy.
But not trying—that’s the hardest thing.
Uncle Kui and Zhang Ji exchanged a look; in Zhang Ji’s eyes was unwavering determination. A slight smile appeared on Uncle Kui’s lips. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Rest for now.”
That night, Zhang Ji gave the bed to Uncle Kui and slept on a piece of cardboard on the floor.
Not much different from sleeping on the bed—just one high, one low.
The next morning, he grabbed some food and returned to eat.
Two portions—one for Uncle Kui.
Fortunately, Zhang Ji always had a big appetite. Sometimes he’d save his stomach to eat roast duck rice, eating less or skipping meals, so no one suspected anything.
“I’ll teach you a breathing technique. Learn it,” Uncle Kui suddenly said during the meal. “Breathe in—breathe in and out—breathe in—breathe in and out—breathe, breathe, breathe...”
Follow this rhythm continuously until it becomes instinct.
The breathing method was somewhat complex, but Zhang Ji memorized it. His memory had never been better.
He began practicing it, averaging one cycle every minute or so.
He didn’t feel much difference at first.
Then he went to work.
Staying here too long would be suspicious.
The warehouse operated steadily, just like before. Uncle Kui’s absence seemed not to have affected things.
That meant no one wanted news of Uncle Kui spreading for now.
Zhang Ji worked, keeping up the breathing rhythm.
Whether psychological or not, he felt his power was smoother using this breathing.
He worked until evening, then brought a large roast duck meal back.
Uncle Kui wasn’t there.
But Zhang Ji already had an inkling of something.
After a while, Uncle Kui knocked on the door.
This time, no need to show force.
Zhang Ji opened the door; Uncle Kui entered and headed straight for the meal.
While eating, Uncle Kui observed Zhang Ji, noticing he was still maintaining the breathing rhythm.
He nodded silently, no mistake, and with a proper attitude. He didn’t mind teaching.
After the meal, Uncle Kui said, “Take off your shirt.”
Zhang Ji didn’t misunderstand; he quickly stripped off his upper clothes.
Uncle Kui grabbed a piece of cardboard, rolled it into a tube, and struck Zhang Ji’s back hard.
“Smack!”
It hurt, but Zhang Ji only frowned slightly.
“Feel anything?” Uncle Kui asked.
Zhang Ji thought for a moment, then Uncle Kui struck again.
“Smack!”

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Along with the pain, Zhang Ji vaguely felt a sudden rush of blood to a certain spot inside him as he breathed, which lessened the impact’s damage considerably.
“What’s this?”
Zhang Ji touched his shoulder, eyes widening in surprise.
“The breathing technique stimulates blood circulation. When hit, you focus your qi and blood to reduce damage,” Uncle Kui explained. “This is the basic theory behind the martial art ‘Iron Cloth’!”
“And then?” Zhang Ji became excited. “What do I do next?”
“Take the hits!” Uncle Kui said. “Start light, with wooden sticks, then iron rods pounding. The old method even used sandbags to evenly disperse force. The body suffers injury then self-heals; skin, flesh, and bones develop a protective keratin layer. But this method damages the body and exhausts potential, leading to illness and disability in old age. So now, with proper striking and medicinal treatment, the body can recover quickly, tempering all parts without forming unsightly keratin.”
“You do it!” Zhang Ji said.
“Not yet,” Uncle Kui shook his head. “No medicine, no way. You’d get injured permanently. You need to get the medicine first.”
“Where?” Zhang Ji asked.
“Warehouse West Number Two,” Uncle Kui said. “I have a few named disciples training there. Usually, I send someone to get the medicine. You just go, enter the code, and you can take it directly. But don’t just take that stuff—grab some other things too, so no suspicion arises.”
...
Warehouse West Number Two.
Taking advantage of a lunch break, Zhang Ji pushed a forklift over.
He had never been here before.
His side only handled loading and unloading; others pushed the forklift to move goods away.
This warehouse was quite large, storing many items.
After all, Kui District was sizable—supporting thousands wasn’t easy.
“Looking for something?” a man in work clothes approached.
“Where’s warehouse 3-5?” Zhang Ji asked.
“That way!” the man pointed.
“Thanks.”
Zhang Ji quickly reached the destination with the forklift.
He looked at 3-5, then moved to the adjacent 3-7 warehouse.
The door had an electronic lock requiring a password.
Zhang Ji entered the code Uncle Kui gave him.
“Ding! Password correct! Please wait, opening the door!”
The door rose, and Zhang Ji pushed the forklift inside.
All the crates inside were metal boxes with combination locks—much classier than ordinary cargo.
He found the boxes Uncle Kui mentioned, loaded them all onto the forklift, and also took some labeled “food,” stacking them on top to disguise the cargo.
Only after leaving and hiding the goods did Zhang Ji relax.
That night, he carried the boxes back to the residence.
Uncle Kui opened one box, revealing various ointments.
“These?” Zhang Ji asked.
“You’re overthinking,” Uncle Kui glanced sideways and moved the top ointments aside to reveal something beneath—several rifles.
Zhang Ji raised an eyebrow; he had guessed that Uncle Kui wouldn’t risk exposing himself just to have him fetch something simple.
“What about my medicine?” Zhang Ji asked.
“That one there, same password,” Uncle Kui said, pointing to another box, then checked his gun as if inspecting the items.
Zhang Ji opened the box, finding bottles filled with powdered substances. He took one out, opened it, and sniffed—it smelled strange, like a stink bug.
“Poisonous. Don’t sniff it randomly. It needs to be properly mixed before use,” Uncle Kui warned.
Zhang Ji startled and quickly closed the bottle.
Uncle Kui chuckled, put down the gun, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I keep my word.”
Zhang Ji said nothing.
He had no choice; the initiative was in Uncle Kui’s hands, and he could only passively accept everything.