Plop. Plop.
Shallow, murky puddles beneath the bridge splashed as footsteps disturbed their stillness. Li Ang, leaning against a moss-covered stone wall, limped forward with faltering steps.
Reaching a dark corner beyond the reach of streetlights, he slumped against the wall and carefully removed his shirt, gritting his teeth. His skin was inflamed and crimson, dotted with beads of blood seeping from ruptured capillaries. A thin crust of dried blood flaked off with a faint crackle as he wiped at it.
Sighing softly, Li Ang muttered, "I'll have to stay hidden and heal for now."
Replaying the earlier confrontation in his mind, he recalled the figure cloaked in a bat-like cape. In his spiritual perception, the man was like a blazing torch, radiating immense, untapped energy. Li Ang knew that in a direct fight, he wouldn't even have time to form a spell seal before being overwhelmed by the sheer power of a single punch.
"To forge a body through relentless refinement requires extraordinary talent, unshakable resolve, and a will of iron," Li Ang mused. "Even in the old days, such individuals were one in a thousand—maybe one in a million. With such dedication, they could break the void and achieve the pinnacle of martial cultivation."
Shaking his head, he sighed again. "But with the spiritual energy of the world in decline, even the most gifted are bound by the limits of this shallow pond. The best they can hope for is to reach the level of a martial grandmaster."
Li Ang wasn't lamenting Batman's fate so much as observing the rarity of grandmasters in any era. From the man's demeanor, he sensed a chivalrous air, prompting him to offer his commentary.
In his past life, Li Ang had been stuck at the Nascent Soul stage, unable to advance further. Rather than rigidly adhering to tradition, he believed in learning from other paths to perfect his own. Thus, he descended from the mountains, disguised himself as a commoner, and roamed the martial sects of famous rivers and mountains to study their techniques.
Over decades, he mastered a wide array of skills: swords, spears, axes, grappling, wrestling, and even obscure disciplines like exotic weapons and hidden projectiles.
Now, gazing at his trembling hands, Li Ang muttered, "With spiritual energy dissipating, the old methods of breathing exercises to accumulate Qi are no longer viable. Perhaps I should turn to martial arts and see if I can combine them with my past-life techniques to forge a new path."
This was no place to linger. Neither Batman nor the Gotham Police were troubles he could handle right now.
Fortunately, during his warehouse skirmish, Li Ang had discreetly looted several wallets from the gunmen. Counting the cash, he estimated he had around $1,000—enough to last a few days if spent frugally.
Washing off the blood crusts with river water, Li Ang discarded his tattered, blood-soaked rags into a burning oil drum used by homeless people for warmth. The flames consumed the scraps as he moved on.
Like every glamorous metropolis, Gotham had its dark and dirty corners. For someone like Li Ang, an undocumented "ghost," these secluded, chaotic areas offered safety.
He entered the city's lower district and followed the flickering neon signs to a rundown motel.
The motel owner, an obese middle-aged man, reclined in a chair behind the glass counter, his eyes half-closed as he chewed on a half-eaten Big Mac.
Glancing at Li Ang's shabby appearance, the man asked lazily, "ID, please."
Li Ang silently placed two Franklin bills on the counter. "Will this do?"
The owner raised an eyebrow, pocketed the cash, and retrieved a set of keys from the rack behind him. Handing them over, he said, "Your room's on the second floor, third on the left. Keep it quiet—no weird noises. And if you're playing rock music, make sure you can take on the thugs next door."
Yawning, the owner dabbed at the ketchup smeared on his lips with a napkin. "Oh, and if you're looking for... entertainment, there's a phonebook in the bedside drawer. Make sure to take precautions."
Li Ang's eye twitched. While he wasn't particularly focused on romance or indulgence, the thought of Western women—rough-skinned, hairy, and strongly scented—was far from appealing.
Declining the offer with a polite excuse, he turned toward the stairs but stopped and asked, "Do you sell newspapers here?"
The owner, engrossed in a glossy magazine, grumbled without looking up, "Who reads newspapers anymore? That's what rich old folks Uptown do over breakfast."
Despite his words, the owner shuffled through a drawer and pulled out a stack of fresh papers emblazoned with the Gotham Times masthead.
The headlines immediately caught Li Ang's attention:
"Mass Escape at Arkham Asylum""Mutant Riot at Los Angeles Arena""Seattle Police Bust Ritualistic Cult"
Li Ang's eyes lit up. "Do you have more? Even old ones will do."
The owner muttered something about how strange Li Ang was but, swayed by the promise of more cash, unearthed a pile of old newspapers and handed them over.
As Li Ang left, the owner even tossed in an unopened magazine from last month as a "gift." Its content, much like its provocatively posed cover model, exuded the decadence and excess of Western capitalism.
"This Western world is truly in moral decline," Li Ang muttered, tucking the magazine into the pile of newspapers. Memories of the elegant music and dance of Tang Dynasty courtesans filled his mind as he climbed the stairs to his room.
The motel room was as decrepit as its exterior suggested: musty bedding, cigarette-burned carpets, yellowed windowpanes, and a temperamental water supply. It reeked of decay and neglect.
Unbothered, Li Ang sat on the bed and switched on the dim bedside lamp. Under its flickering light, he began poring over the newspapers.
For Li Ang, gathering information about this new era was paramount—not just for survival but for finding opportunities to reignite his path to cultivation.