Typhoon No. 67 is approaching.

“Typhoon?”

“That happens every year, doesn’t it?”

“It’ll pass in a few days. I’m sure we’ll keep staying here.” Chen Jue looked up to respond, then went right back to slurping the noodles in his bowl.

For those living along the coastal regions of Zhejiang, Fujian, and Guangdong, typhoons were as commonplace as daily meals—something so regular it barely warranted attention. They arrived year after year, mostly during the summer and autumn.

Back when Chen Jue was in school, the beginning of every new semester in the latter half of the year inevitably meant a few days off due to typhoons.

Yet their destructive power was not to be underestimated. If the winds reached force twelve or higher and made direct landfall, they could easily tear apart the less sturdy old houses.

He still vividly remembered how, during his childhood, the old family house in Chen Village had its roof tiles ripped off by more than half during an exceptionally fierce typhoon—over force sixteen, compounded by a tornado. Half the house was flooded, and the whole family ended up drenched to the bone. That memory was seared into him.

Whenever a typhoon hit, water and electricity would often be cut off in many places. The food in supermarkets and markets would be snatched up in a frenzy—even the shelves of instant noodles would be swept bare! All to stock up on enough food at home to ride out the storm in peace.

Of course, there were always a few odd flavors of instant noodles left untouched on supermarket shelves—like the ever-unpopular mushroom and stewed chicken flavor.

Old fishermen like Uncle Yu were extremely sensitive to typhoon weather, since it meant life-or-death risk for their fishing expeditions.

As soon as a typhoon approached, fishing boats would rush back to harbor to shelter, or else head for more distant waters to avoid the storm’s path and escape its reach.

Chen Jue went back to the pot for another helping of noodles—twice—while checking the typhoon’s trajectory on his phone. It was expected to make landfall somewhere nearby, but since it had only just formed, the forecasted path was still just a projection. It would take another three or four days before the storm came close enough to reveal its true course.

“Looks like a small typhoon. No big deal, just keep training.”

“At worst, I’ll stay out of the water for a few days when it hits, and keep practicing indoors,” Chen Jue thought. But first, he’d have to ask the owner of the guesthouse to stock up on extra food for him.

His appetite now was enormous—enough for three or four adults in a single meal. Eating so much meant he burned through food at an alarming rate.

If the typhoon made a direct hit, the market would likely be closed for days on end. If the fridge ran out of supplies, he’d be left hungry.

After finishing his noodles, Chen Jue scanned the payment code for the guesthouse auntie, sending over a thousand yuan for food expenses. He listed some of his favorite dishes and asked Uncle Yu to stock up when he had time, then headed back to his room to continue training.

Rising early and keeping a regular schedule, Chen Jue now found himself with far more active hours each day than when he’d worked in Hangzhou.

Back then, he’d sleep until after eight, rush through his morning routine, and dash off to clock in at work—his life was chaotic and irregular.

Sometimes, he’d bring breakfast to the office, barely finish eating, and after less than two hours’ work, it’d already be almost eleven. The taste of breakfast still lingered as he and his colleagues started debating what kind of takeout to order—rice bowls, spicy hotpot, or just a random burger and soda.

Since lunchtime was peak hour for working folks, if you didn’t order early, the delivery could be delayed until after one in the afternoon.

But now, he woke up every day at five, with nearly six hours of activity before lunch at noon!

What’s more, every meal was a balanced, healthy home-cooked seafood dish. Compared to before, Chen Jue now felt more energetic and vigorous than ever.

Back at the villa, he spent half an hour browsing his phone—catching up on news and friends’ posts. After breakfast had settled, he began practicing the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Classic to promote blood flow and dispel fatigue from his morning underwater training.

Until noon, he alternated between watching nature documentaries and working on his proficiency with the Iron Body Technique.

This hard-style martial art was exceptional for building muscle, strengthening bones, and toughening the skin. It boosted all three of his stats—strength, agility, and constitution—so he trained with extra dedication.

Only when the guesthouse auntie called him for lunch did Chen Jue reluctantly pause his practice, wipe his sweat, and head over for a meal.

At the dining table, Uncle Yu brought up the typhoon again, saying that because of the storm, his eldest son—who fished in distant waters—was already on his way home and should arrive by evening.

His son was only a few years older than Chen Jue, so Uncle Yu thought it would be good to introduce them, as peers might have things in common.

In Uncle Yu’s eyes, Chen Jue was wealthy, carefree, refined, and lucky—having caught a wild golden croaker and sold it for over a hundred thousand yuan. He clearly had a blessed fate, and Uncle Yu felt compelled to introduce him to his own son.

Among old fishermen, superstition ran strong. Like the thick gold chains they all wore—not as a show of wealth, but as a talisman against evil at sea.

Building ties with someone as fortunate as Chen Jue was believed to bring a share of good luck.

Otherwise, Uncle Yu wouldn’t have invited an outsider like Chen Jue to eat at his home day after day—he already treated him as one of the family.

Of course, Chen Jue had no idea about the little calculations in Uncle Yu’s mind. He simply enjoyed lunch with the couple, replenishing the energy spent on his morning training, and then retired to his room for a nap.

In the afternoon he resumed practicing the Iron Body Technique, supplementing it with dumbbell workouts. Thanks to his increased strength, he added another weight plate, now able to handle 125 kilograms.

By his estimation, reaching the full 200-kilogram dumbbell would require pushing his strength stat above three.

After an afternoon of productive training, he decided to skip dinner at Uncle Yu’s and instead headed into town for a feast before the typhoon hit.

He planned to alternate between home-cooked and restaurant seafood to keep his palate interested, lest he get tired of island fare.

After dinner, he bought two large bottles of yellow wine and a bag of old ginger—preparations for stewing fish maw later.

By the time he returned to the guesthouse by taxi, his dinner had mostly digested and darkness had fallen. Chen Jue changed into swimming trunks and goggles, and as the wind howled outside, he made his way to the rocky shore behind the cliff for his nightly underwater training with the stone ball.

But he had only been submerged for about ten minutes when a white fishing speedboat came roaring over the waves. Onboard were several young men, laughing and talking excitedly—after half a month at sea, they couldn’t wait to dock at the village port and reunite with their families.

As the speedboat passed near the cliff where Chen Jue was diving, the young man at the helm suddenly exclaimed in surprise. He’d seen an unusually bright red dot appear on the sonar display used for locating schools of fish.

“Who could be out diving here, this late at night?”