Entering the Spiritual Void 2. The Iron-Fisted Boxer

“Master, I’m back.” The young man stepped into a dilapidated thatched hut. No sooner had he entered than a pungent odor stung his nose—a scent that seemed to come from various medicinal herbs simmering in the air.

Yet he was clearly accustomed to it. Unfazed, he handed a bundle of freshly gathered herbs to the old man tending the medicine stove, then poured himself a cup of water from the kettle.

“Cough, cough… Mo Dao, your Scorched Vein is beyond your master’s power to heal, I fear… cough.” The old man’s wrinkled face, lined like a craggy mountain, twisted with the effort of speech.

“It’s alright, Master. I’m already content having learned the Mo Family Fist from you,” Mo Dao replied with a warm smile, though deep down, he still longed for the path of cultivation.

“Let’s not dwell on that now. How did the assignment go?” The old man fanned himself, glancing at Mo Dao with unreadable eyes.

“Master, I was unable to harden my heart and kill Feng Renshou,” Mo Dao admitted, shame coloring his tone.

“So be it. Perhaps fate has spared Feng Renshou’s life… cough, cough!” The old man’s coughing fit returned.

Mo Dao hurried over, gently patting his master’s back until the fit subsided.

The old man then drew from his robe a half-moon-shaped token, its material unknown but resembling black iron.

“I found this token beside you when I took you in. Perhaps it holds the key to your identity. Now I return it to you—take it, go, and seek out your family.” The old man’s voice was gentle but resolute.

“But Master, how can I leave you alone in your condition?” Mo Dao protested, frowning. His master had raised him, taught him the family’s martial art—how could he abandon him now?

The old man glared at him, his tone tinged with anger. “All these years I’ve toiled to raise you, hoping you’d make something of yourself, not waste your life here with an old man like me!”

And so, Mo Dao, clutching the half-moon token, was driven out of the hut. The old man tossed his belongings out one by one, and with a bang, bolted the door from within.

Mo Dao knelt before the tightly closed door and bowed deeply. “Master, your unfilial disciple Mo Dao cannot remain to care for you in your old age. If fortune favors me and I make a name for myself, I will surely return—”

Before he could finish, a gruff “Go!” thundered from within. With a helpless sigh, Mo Dao gathered his scattered belongings, brushed the dust from his clothes, and set off into the distance.

After he left, the cupboard in the hut creaked open. “Cough, cough, you old fool! You locked me in the cupboard again.” A woman, appearing four or five years old, crawled out, her face flushed with indignation.

“I just didn’t want Dao’er to see you. He’s gone now,” the old man replied, the hint of a mischievous smile flickering across his face. He pulled the woman into his arms and sighed. “Do you think Dao’er will blame me when he learns the truth?”

Mo Dao had been taken in by his master as a child. The old man claimed he was born with the Scorched Vein—a condition that barred him from cultivating inner strength. All he could do was learn external martial arts, never the lightness skills that allowed others to leap rooftops and walk walls.

Yet Mo Dao had always yearned to become a cultivator, to punish evil and defend the innocent. Sadly, that path seemed forever closed to him. Still, thanks to his master, he had the fist technique to survive.

Mo Dao made his way to a boxing hall where he worked as an instructor. “Instructor Mo, you’re back. How did the Feng Renshou job go?” a burly man with a brutish face asked.

“I didn’t kill him,” Mo Dao replied with a shake of his head.

“Good thing you didn’t. The employer came today—said he’s withdrawing the commission,” the big man mopped his brow.

“Withdrawing it? Why?” Mo Dao was perplexed—after all, Feng Renshou had murdered the employer’s brother.

“Why else? He’s afraid of retaliation from Sanwei Academy. If you’d killed one of their people, even if you were in the right, Han Xiangzi’s notorious for avenging his own. He’d come after anyone involved,” the man explained with a sigh.

“I still don’t get why you took the job in the first place,” the big man grumbled.

“I needed the money,” Mo Dao replied after a pause, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

The man snorted. “The hall master said if you take on another job that could get this place smashed up, don’t bother coming back.”

Mo Dao shrugged. “Alright, Old Sun, I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Just then, a young maiden entered. She wore a striking jade hairpin that Mo Dao instantly recognized as belonging to Jade Void Palace. He frowned—everyone knew Jade Void Palace backed Sanwei Academy. Were they here to champion Feng Renshou?

Suppressing his unease, Mo Dao approached with feigned calm. “May I ask what brings you to our Zhaohe Boxing Hall today, miss?”

The girl giggled. “I’ve long heard of the Iron-Blooded Fistmaster of New Capital. Seeing you today, the rumors are indeed true.”

Mo Dao couldn’t decipher her intentions, but she then produced a letter.

“Instructor Mo, this is our Jade Void Palace’s Hero Invitation. Three days from now, we’re hosting a Heroes’ Gathering on Hero Island. We hope you will grace us with your presence.”

“A Heroes’ Gathering? Why invite a mere instructor like me?” Mo Dao asked, baffled. Such gatherings were for the elite, never those like him—unable to cultivate, a so-called failure.

The maiden gave no answer, simply turned and left, trailing a delicate scent of jasmine in her wake. Mo Dao sniffed the lingering fragrance, shook his head, and tossed the invitation into the trash.

He had no interest in such gatherings. The boxing hall’s income came from two sources: commission-based assignments, and tuition from students learning martial arts. There were two types of instructors here; Mo Dao belonged to the first, taking only commissions and never teaching—his master’s rule, that the Mo Family Fist was not to be shared with outsiders.

Mo Dao seated himself by the door with a pot of tea, sipping with the air of an old man twice his age. Suddenly, someone snatched his teapot from behind.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working, not lazing around?” came a refined, gentle voice.

“Meisha, give my teapot back!” Mo Dao grumbled, reaching for it.

Meisha, an instructor who taught students the art, returned the teapot. “You seem troubled today—otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking alone.”

Mo Dao took a long sip and sighed, glancing at Meisha. “Do you think there’s still a place for me in this world?”

Meisha smiled. “The world is vast, but it has its limits. There’s a place for everyone.”

“But I’m not like you. I can’t cultivate. At best, I can make my body strong,” Mo Dao replied, his tone full of dejection.

In martial cultivation, there were several stages: Postnatal, Precelestial, Golden Core, Nascent Soul, Spirit Division, Unity, and finally, the Tribulation Stage. Those who survived tribulation entered the Grand Ascension, each stage divided into early, mid, and late phases.

Most warriors peaked at the late Postnatal stage, many forever stuck at the threshold of perfection. Only a gifted few reached late Precelestial, able to project true qi—known as Precelestial Gang Qi.

The Precelestial Perfection was a critical transition for mortals, a barrier many could never cross. Without breaking through to the Golden Core, the path of the martial artist ended there.

Those in the Golden Core stage could live over two centuries, and with each advance, lifespans extended further. Passing the Grand Ascension, one could shatter the void and embark on the immortal path. Any method of cultivation could lead to immortality, but with his condition, Mo Dao could only remain a mortal, no matter how strong his body became.

And mortals, no matter how powerful, were bound by the limits of life. Only those who achieved immortality could escape death—this truth had never changed.

“Don’t lose hope. Didn’t your master say he’d find a way for you—” Meisha began, but Mo Dao cut him off.

“My master has already driven me out. He told me to seek my family.”

Meisha looked stunned. “He sent you to find your family? What’s that about?”

Mo Dao shot him a look. “How should I know? He said my Scorched Vein was beyond him.”

“What? Even your master can’t cure it?” Meisha was shocked. Mo Dao’s master was enigmatic, rumored to have once belonged to Jade Void Palace.

But whenever Mo Dao asked, his master would deny it, warning him never to approach Jade Void Palace, and refusing to explain why.

“That’s right. Even he can do nothing. So I’ll just muddle through this life,” Mo Dao responded.

“Muddle through?” A cold voice cut in from outside. “I’d say you’re bold beyond measure!”

“Daoist Oxnose, you’re here to stir up trouble, aren’t you?” Meisha frowned at the approaching elder. The old Daoist, dressed in white with a sword at his waist, looked every inch the immortal sage—save for the anger on his face.

“You must be Mo Dao.” The Daoist pointed at him.

“Yes, I am. And you are—?” Mo Dao rose, but before he could finish, the Daoist flicked his right hand. A blade of Gang Qi shot toward Mo Dao.

Mo Dao’s body shifted, meeting the attack with a punch. The blade did not pierce his fist, but forced him back several steps.

“So you do have some skill. No wonder you dared injure my disciple,” the Daoist stroked his beard.

“So you’re the master of Sanwei Academy. To think you’d bully a talentless man like me for the sake of a dishonorable pupil.” Mo Dao’s eyes were cold as he drew a line in the earth with his foot, ready to strike at any moment.