Chen Ping, a handyman of the Qingyan Sect, is one hundred and two years old. He has the third level of Qi refining, his spiritual roots are mottled, and his life span is about to expire.
He ate leftovers in the kitchen, swept the floor in the Sutra Pavilion, and had his head held down and crawled under his crotch outside the martial arts arena. Everyone said that this old thing would be like this for the rest of his life.
He admits. He has known it for ninety-seven years. But he gets up early and goes to bed late every day, sweeping the floor, chopping firewood, and doing a set of "Basic Boxing for Handymen" that no one likes. Hit it once, twice, ten times. The fingers were beaten until the skin was worn out, and the soles of the shoes were nailed seven times. One night, a gray stone in the sea of consciousness suddenly lit up——
"The handyman's basic boxing proficiency +1, currently 1002341."
One hundred and twenty-three thousand three hundred and forty-one times. There are no spiritual roots, no adventures, and no inheritance from heaven. He only has a pot, a broom, a pair of old fists, and a heart that has been rounded and hardened by life.
When the sect was in civil strife, the enemy broke the formation, and the golden elixir was suppressed, everyone fled. Only this old handyman who was left behind took out old swill, mousetraps and half a millstone from the back kitchen, and used his clumsy skills that he had practiced for a hundred years to push the "geniuses" one after another into the cesspit.
"I've been sweeping the land for a hundred years, do you really think I've accomplished nothing?"
This is the story of a little guy at the lowest level, relying on the most inferior basic handyman boxing, punching through the difference between mortals and immortals, and using mortal ways to defy heaven and change his destiny.
Slutty, thick-faced, afraid of death, and capable of kneeling. But he never stopped.
A million punches can penetrate mortal bones.
