The name alone sent a chill coursing through Ashen's veins: The Crimson Impact Reformation. It was a technique born from necessity, not innovation—a method forged in pain and tempered by resilience.
Its principles were deceptively straightforward but brutal in execution. By enduring high-impact blows, the body's meridians would absorb the shockwaves, realigning themselves under extreme duress.
This forced reformation would strengthen the meridians, paving the way for a more efficient energy flow. But the price was steep: agony beyond comprehension.
Standing in the center of the sparsely furnished room, Ashen cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing ominously in the stillness. Shadows danced along the cracked walls, cast by the faint glow of a single bulb swaying slightly above him. His expression was one of grim determination.
"This is the only way," he muttered, his voice low and resolute.
Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing. Deep, measured inhales drew in the Heavenly Yang energy circulating within him, and each exhale sent it flowing through his dantians like a blazing river. His consciousness mapped out his meridians, identifying the twisted pathways that obstructed the energy's flow.
"Twisted, broken... inefficient," he thought, frustration creeping into his voice. "This body has potential, but potential means nothing if it isn't tempered."
He steadied himself and clenched his fist, the sound of cracking knuckles breaking the heavy silence. The first strike landed just below his ribs, a calculated blow aimed at his liver. Pain erupted through his torso like a wildfire, and his knees buckled slightly from the intensity.
Teeth gritted, Ashen pushed through the searing agony, guiding his consciousness toward the damaged meridians. The shockwave from the impact reverberated within him, colliding with the blockage and forcing the meridian to shift.
"Again," he hissed, his voice sharp with determination.
The second strike was harder, and the pain more pronounced. Sweat trickled down his brow, pooling at his collarbone. Each successive blow sent waves of pain crashing through his body, but he didn't stop. Hours passed as he continued this grueling process, his breaths ragged, his muscles trembling with exhaustion.
Time became meaningless as Ashen repeated the process, each strike calculated and deliberate. Sweat poured from his body, pooling on the floor beneath him. His breaths grew ragged, his vision blurred, and his muscles screamed for mercy.
Ashen's body was drenched in sweat, his skin glistening in the dim light. Every muscle screamed in protest, and his vision blurred from the unrelenting pain. Yet, with each strike, progress was made.
Slowly but surely, a single stream of well-forged meridians began to form within the tri-dantian system. The chaotic energy flows smoothed out, their once-turbulent currents now steady and controlled.
As the meridians realigned, a peculiar sensation coursed through him—a purging of impurities from deep within his body. The room grew heavier, suffused with the acrid stench of impurities being purged from his body.
A dark, viscous substance oozed from his pores, its foul stench filling the room. This was the residual poison and filth that had plagued Eren's body for years, expelled by the Heavenly Yang energy's cleansing force.
Ashen exhaled deeply, his breath shaky but triumphant. He staggered toward the bathroom, each step a reminder of his battered state.
The hot water from the shower cascaded over him, washing away the grime and leaving his skin feeling raw but rejuvenated. He turned on the shower, the hot water cascading over his battered frame.
The sensation was almost overwhelming, the heat soaking into his sore muscles and washing away the grime and impurities clinging to his skin. Dark rivulets swirled down the drain, leaving him feeling raw but renewed.
"This world…" Ashen murmured, his voice echoing softly in the tiled room.
The world he found himself in was both familiar and alien. Humanity here had achieved remarkable scientific advancements—machines that traversed the skies, medicines that healed without qi, and devices that connected people across vast distances. Yet, for all its progress, it lacked the qi that had defined his existence in Murim.
"Strange," he thought, running a hand through his damp hair. "They've achieved so much without the energy that makes warriors of men. Perhaps... there's something to learn here."
After drying off, Ashen spent the evening engrossed in the world's history, devouring books and articles with insatiable curiosity. He marveled at humanity's resilience—the wars they'd endured, the empires they'd built, and the knowledge they'd amassed. Yet, beneath the surface, he sensed a void, a spiritual emptiness that reminded him of Eren's own struggles.
"This world has its own strengths," he mused. "But it's also vulnerable. The mana leaks and gates… they're only the beginning."
Later that day, as he rested on the edge of his bed, a memory surfaced—one that brought a bitter taste to his mouth. The face of Maxton loomed large in his mind.
The sneer, the cruel laughter, the voice dripping with malice. He had once plotted to sell him to an underground fight club.
"He's a weakling," Maxton sneered. "But he'll make a great punching bag. Those bastards pay good money for someone who can take a beating."
The thought of it sent a surge of anger through Ashen. Maxton would pay for his cruelty, but revenge would have to wait. For now, Ashen needed to focus on his own survival.
The Crimson Impact Reformation was working, but it was far from efficient. He needed a faster, more effective way to realign his meridians—and the underground fight club presented a unique opportunity.
"If pain is the price, then I'll embrace it," he thought. "Let them beat me. Let them shatter their fists against this body. Each blow will make me stronger."
"Maxton…" Ashen whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "You'll regret ever underestimating me. But not yet. There are more pressing matters."
---
As the last rays of sunset slowly disappered in the rising dark night, Ashen rose from his bed, his body aching but his resolve unshaken. He dressed simply, his newly forged muscles straining against the fabric.
Standing before the mirror, he studied his reflection one last time. This was Eren's face, Eren's body—but the soul within burned with a fire that was uniquely Ashen's.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered. "I'll master this body, this world, and everything in between. And I'll start with the underground fight."
With that, he stepped into the night, ready to face whatever lay ahead.