PBSE 18

Chapter 18 

 The Limit

 Author: Wei Yi Yong Heng                                                                                                                                                                   

Qin Mo left, naturally, to receive his punishment according to military law. But before he could even step out the door, the centurion’s voice came again.

“Wait.”

“What orders does the Centurion have?” Qin Mo turned his head, puzzled.

“Considering that yesterday you only injured a clansman and held back your strength, not bullying the weak with your power, your punishment will be reduced by half,” the centurion said calmly.

He already knew what had happened yesterday. Normally, regardless of whether Qin Mo was the son of the clan leader, not a single lash would have been spared. However, the clan’s laws were fair. Under those circumstances, Qin Mo could have chosen to fight openly on the martial stage, injuring or even killing Qin Li without violating military law.

But Qin Mo had not done so. That was why the centurion was granting leniency beyond the law.

“Thank you, Centurion.” Qin Mo clasped his fists in salute.

“Don’t thank me too soon. Though fifty lashes are remitted, fifty still remain,” the centurion said.

“I’ll accept them now,” Qin Mo nodded.

“Not so fast.” The centurion shook his head and asked, “Would you be willing to repay those fifty lashes in another way?”

“I don’t understand. Please enlighten me, Centurion,” Qin Mo said doubtfully. Of course he would prefer to avoid being flogged if possible.

He knew well how harsh military punishment was. In his memories, the body’s former owner had been flogged many times—often under the personal supervision of the clan leader himself. Those lashes were merciless.

Back then, the punishment was carried out by ordinary clansmen, but now it would be by awakened warriors—people who had opened their meridians. A single lash from them could equal a hundred from before. Even with his current physique, fifty lashes would flay his back and keep him bedridden for three months.

“One lash for every hundred jin of prey,” the centurion said indifferently.

“One lash for a hundred jin of prey?!” Qin Mo felt a crushing weight descend upon him. He already had a ten-thousand-jin hunting quota—now fifty lashes meant another five thousand jin, totaling fifteen thousand jin.

Even a centurion couldn’t possibly gather fifteen thousand jin of prey in a year, let alone someone of his current strength.

“If you’re unwilling, you may receive the punishment now,” the centurion smiled—a rare sight, since he usually wore a face like a man mourning his father.

But that smile wasn’t good news for Qin Mo. The one who carried out punishments was known in the Hammerstone Tribe as the “Ghost of Execution.”

Aside from the clan leader, he respected no one—not even the elders or the thousand-man commanders could stop his lash once it was raised.

“I accept!” Qin Mo gritted his teeth.

“Good. Three months from now, I want to see five thousand jin of prey. Miss even one jin, and you’ll face military law,” the centurion said, his expression returning to its usual grimness.

Clenching his jaw, Qin Mo left the punishment hall. He had no choice but to bet everything on completing what even a centurion couldn’t—five thousand jin in three months.

He couldn’t afford to be whipped—literally. If he were bedridden for three months, that would be three months wasted.

And time was exactly what he lacked most.

“That boy… why do I feel like he’s changed?” The centurion watched Qin Mo’s departing figure and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Qin Mo had been to the punishment hall more than anyone in the tribe, so the centurion remembered him vividly.

“Still, after all he’s been through, if he hasn’t grown a bit, he wouldn’t be worthy of being one of our Hammerstone tribesmen—nor of the clan leader’s efforts.”

After collecting a bundle of arrows from the armory, Qin Mo hurried toward the Blackstone Mountains, ignoring the chubby boy who called after him. He slipped quickly into the mountain pass.

“Running off that fast—don’t tell me he’s trying to dodge his punishment?” the chubby boy muttered suspiciously, though he knew there was nothing he could do.

Even Qin Mo’s father, the clan leader, couldn’t change the centurion’s mind. So the boy decided it wasn’t worth getting beaten by his own father for pleading on Qin Mo’s behalf.

Once again, Qin Mo entered the Blackstone Mountains—this time with renewed determination. Though the burden of fifteen thousand jin weighed on him, he still had hope.

Whoosh!

An arrow shot through the brush like lightning. Far ahead, a savage rabbit sensed danger and tried to leap aside.

But it hadn’t expected that the arrow was aimed not at where it was—but at where it would be.

Thwack! The arrow pierced its abdomen, blood splashing as it pinned the rabbit’s body to a distant tree trunk, embedding several inches deep before quivering to a stop.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Though the beast didn’t die immediately, it stumbled a few paces before collapsing, twitching twice, and going still.

A lean figure stepped out from the undergrowth—bow on his back, machete at his waist. His cold eyes glimmered faintly with killing intent.

He picked up the rabbit and slung it over his shoulder, where many other small beasts already hung—a dazzling collection, making him look like a walking wild game stall.

Yet despite the heavy load, his movements remained swift and silent. He pulled the arrow from the tree, returned it to his quiver, and vanished into the woods toward his next hunting spot.

This man was Qin Mo—fifteen days into his time in the mountains.

For fifteen days straight, he had gone out early and returned late. Before the tribe’s hunting teams even entered the forest, he was already there. When they left, he remained, hunting until nightfall before returning.

His relentless efforts had paid off—fifteen days had yielded nearly a thousand jin of prey.

Within any hunting party, that would have made him a standout. But he knew it wasn’t enough, and his body was nearing its limit.

If not for the bear’s blood he’d used to temper himself—opening one meridian and gaining the strength of a thousand jin—he couldn’t have hunted even five hundred jin, let alone a thousand.

“My body… can’t take it anymore.” Qin Mo stopped abruptly as dusk crept over the forest.

He felt utterly exhausted. Humans had limits, and he had reached his. Though his mad effort had earned him a thousand jin, his strength was spent.

Every time fatigue overwhelmed him, he thought of the quota he must meet in three months—and of the prodigious girl from the Skyhawk Tribe he would face a year from now.

Sometimes, Qin Mo felt it was all unfair. Why were others born with gifted bloodlines, while he had only a useless, white “waste blood” far beneath the nine-star lineage? Why must he struggle so hard just to open a single meridian, unable to progress further?

But he knew complaint changed nothing—it only made one weaker.

So each time exhaustion hit, he slowed but never stopped.

This time, though, his body finally gave out. Trembling hands, drooping eyelids—he wanted nothing more than to sleep. But he couldn’t. Not when every moment lost mattered.

In the end, his body betrayed him, and he collapsed. This was his limit.

A tall figure appeared beside him, looking down at the unconscious Qin Mo, eyes filled with faint pity.

“I don’t wish it either,” the man murmured, “but this… this is your fate.”