’I have at least two hundred jin of strength... And that’s despite my poor foundation and Innate Body Weakness. The strength I gained after reaching the Entry Grade isn’t as much as others.’

’But that’s still far more than an ordinary person who can’t even get a full meal!’

’And what’s more...’

Fang Rui set down the wooden bed, found a pair of scissors, and slid them across the back of his hand. With a scraping sound, they left only a white line.

’As expected of the Ninth Grade Skin Grinding Realm. My skin is as tough as ox-hide!’

At this moment, Fang Rui’s eyes lit up as a thought struck him. ’Compared to others, even though my Innate Body Weakness means I don’t gain as much strength, I have an advantage: For various reasons, other people’s Skin Grinding always leaves them with weak spots. But since mine was enhanced with Tribulation Points, my whole body is flawless!’

’All in all, there are pros and cons. In a fight, I’ll have to do my best to play to my strengths and cover my weaknesses.’

So this was the Ninth Grade Realm: thick skin, tough flesh, and a bit more strength.

It might not seem like much against fully armed soldiers. In fact, even two or three ordinary men with broadswords could probably take down and kill a Ninth Grade.

But it all depended on the comparison!

In this day and age, were weapons really that easy to come by?

The Great Yu Empire forbade bows and crossbows, but not swords. However, a decent sword started at ten taels of silver—something an ordinary family could never afford.

You could afford scissors or kitchen knives made of low-quality iron, but it was very difficult to pierce the skin of a Ninth Grade Martial Artist with them.

Besides, most common people didn’t get enough to eat. How much strength could they possibly have?

Therefore, a Ninth Grade against a commoner was like a strong, healthy person in Cloth Armor fighting a malnourished peasant.

Seen in this light, a Ninth Grade Martial Artist was quite a rarity.

Even in the Tiger Gang, only a small number of Elite Gang Members were Ninth Grade—like Lord Hu. He was a Ninth Grade Martial Artist, and with some connections within the gang, he was able to land the cushy job of collecting protection fees from an entire alley.

’My father, Fang Baicao... his Nourishing Body Skill is very advanced at the Initial Glimpse stage, but he never reached the Entering the Hall and Room Realm. He’s still a Ninth Grade, but that’s enough for him to protect Caozhi Hall.’

’More than half a month ago, he managed to pull some strings and get drafted in my place. Besides his status as a Physician, his strength as a Ninth Grade Martial Artist must have been an essential factor.’

A realization dawned on Fang Rui. ’Also, the reason Lord Hu let me off so easily today wasn’t just because I was polite and paid up without a fuss. My father, the Ninth Grade Martial Artist who went off to the army, was probably a major factor too.’

’After all, Dad was only drafted. He’s not dead!’

’Now that I’m also a Ninth Grade and have this kind of strength, there are some things I can start doing.’

Fang Rui’s eyes glinted. ’Like going to the Black Market... Of course, I’ll have to wait until it’s much darker. Before that, I should take care of a few other things!’

He left his room.

Mrs. Xue of the Fang Family and Fang Ling had already eaten. The former was in the kitchen washing dishes, while the latter was hunched over the table, her little bottom in the air, huffing and puffing as she wiped it clean.

On a nearby chair sat a small burlap sack containing a jin of Sorghum Flour for the Chus, along with a clean bowl belonging to Third Lady’s House.

"Mom, I’m heading out," Fang Rui said, grabbing the sack and bowl and heading for the door.

"It’s getting dark. Be careful," Mrs. Xue of the Fang Family called out, poking her head out from the kitchen.

"I will."

...

The Chus’ home wasn’t far. It was just a few steps away after turning the corner from his own house.

Unlike other homes, which had at least a single, bean-sized flame flickering, the Chus’ house was completely dark. Fang Rui knew they were likely unwilling to light a lamp, hoping to save on oil.

"Uncle Chu!"

Fang Rui knocked. There was no answer, but his knock pushed the unlatched door open.

He stepped inside, guided by the moonlight.

He hadn’t gone far when he heard a series of low, pained groans. "Oww... oww..."

’The sound seems to be coming from the back room.’

Fang Rui took a few steps forward and saw Old Chu lying on the bed, groaning in pain. His eyes were cloudy and his face was ancient. Though he was only in his forties, supposedly his prime, he looked as withered as a man of seventy or eighty.

—This was the result of years of heavy physical labor combined with poor nutrition, a bodily deficit that caused premature aging.

"Uncle Chu!" Fang Rui called out again, a little louder this time.

This time, Old Chu finally heard him. His cloudy eyes turned towards the voice. "Brother Rui? Is that you?"

He tried to sit up to greet him, but the movement pulled at his injuries, contorting his face in pain. He let out a series of sharp groans, "Oww... oww..."

"Don’t get up, Uncle Chu. Just rest," Fang Rui said.

Just then, as if drawn by the sound, Xiaochu emerged from the kitchen in the back. His face was bruised and swollen, and he limped heavily. Despite his childish face, he was actually a few months older than Fang Rui.

He was holding a bowl of wheat bran paste—a food that was even harder to swallow than Sorghum Flour, one that scraped your throat on the way down and had almost no nutritional value.

There wasn’t even much of the paste—just a small amount covering the bottom of the bowl.

’The Chus are in a bad way. By next month, I’m afraid...’ As this thought crossed Fang Rui’s mind, he said aloud, "I came to check on you and brought some Sorghum Flour."

"Thank you, Brother Rui. You’re too kind."

Old Chu chided his son, who stood there as silent as a stone. "What are you waiting for? Go on! Empty the flour out and give the sack back to Brother Rui."

In these times, even a small burlap sack was considered property.

"Right!"

Xiaochu finally put down his bowl. Head bowed, he took the sack of Sorghum Flour from Fang Rui. As their hands met, his lips twitched, and he mumbled a barely audible thank you.

—If it weren’t for Fang Rui’s enhanced hearing, he might have missed it entirely.

’This is just...’

Seeing Xiaochu like this, Fang Rui felt a pang of sadness.

He remembered Xiaochu as a boy, always trailing after Old Chu as they roamed the streets and alleys. He had been so cheerful and optimistic, constantly sharing interesting stories from his travels. He’d tell Fang Rui about a pretty girl he’d seen on the road, and once even boasted that he would "marry a beautiful wife someday"...