"Twenty years."
Zhao Guangfeng placed the folded fan on the table, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather.
"The year you first came to the residence, I remember it was winter. Uncle Zhou brought you to the main hall to kowtow, and your tattered cotton jacket had a distinct smell."
Chen Anshun remained silent.
"I looked at your background then, from the Hongyang Martial Hall, practiced martial arts for decades, your qi and blood in decline, nowhere else to go."
Zhao Guangfeng tapped his fingers twice on the table, "A perfectly good martial artist, coming here to feed horses. Anyone would think you were just here for a meal."
"I was here for a meal."
Zhao Guangfeng chuckled.
"If you were really just here for a meal, why practice horse stance at night? In the dead of winter, bare-chested behind the stables, your snot frozen by morning, yet still squatting. I watched from the second-floor study window, thinking this old man was truly stubborn."
Chen Anshun's shoulders twitched slightly.
Zhao Guangfeng knew twenty years ago?
"Back then, I had just taken over the position of Assistant Magistrate, overwhelmed with a pile of messy accounts, busy beyond measure."
Zhao Guangfeng leaned back in his chair, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes, working on documents until midnight, I'd look up and see you still squatting there, and it gave me a sense of reassurance."
He paused.
"An old man with declining qi and blood didn't resign to fate, so how could I, a Peak First-rate Assistant Magistrate, lie down before him?"
Peak First-rate.
Those words came out of Zhao Guangfeng's mouth as plainly as if he were mentioning he had a bowl of noodles today.
Chen Anshun's back tensed slightly.
Peak First-rate. He had only heard his mentor at the Hongyang Martial Hall describe this level — power penetrating three inches of armor, shattering rocks from a hundred paces. An Assistant Magistrate of Qingquan County was actually a Peak First-rate martial artist.
Zhao Guangfeng tapped the edge of the pine nut candy dish.
"Never thought your old bones would hold out until today. Sixty years of mastering Virgin Boy Skill, breaking through to Second-rate at eighty."
He picked up a pine nut candy and tossed it into his mouth.
"To be honest, I had already taken out the Jade Tree Treasure Robe Diagram, planning to give you a send-off when you asked. But you just quietly made it through, without even using the manual."
Chen Anshun stood up from his chair, bowing to pay respects.
Zhao Guangfeng waved his hand.
"Sit down. You're Second-rate now, no need to bow and scrape at every turn."
Chen Anshun half-sat back on the chair.
"Master..."
"Don't call me Master." Zhao Guangfeng interrupted, "In this study, it's just the two of us. You can call me Old Zhao or Guangfeng."
Chen Anshun opened his mouth but couldn't bring himself to say it.
Twenty years of habit couldn't be changed so quickly. The muscle memory of his mouth was more stubborn than his fists.
Zhao Guangfeng didn't press, changing the subject.
"What are your plans for the future?"
"Continue practicing."
"I knew you'd say that." Zhao Guangfeng cracked a pine nut candy, crumbs scattering on the table, "What about other things? You're eighty, childless, without even someone to warm your bed. Want me to find a few for you?"
Chen Anshun's ears inexplicably warmed.
Last night, Little Cui's words, "Master Chen, I'll be counting on you to take care of me," still echoed in his ears.
He quickly suppressed those thoughts.
"No need."
"Really?"
"Really. This old man has only one focus in life." Chen Anshun rubbed his knees, "Just entered Second-rate, still a thin foundation, much to hone upwards." Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
Zhao Guangfeng tapped his fingers on the table again.
"Let me ask you, how much do you know about the path beyond Second-rate?"
Chen Anshun hesitated.
Embarrassment. Genuine embarrassment.
His mentor at Hongyang Martial Hall was a Second-rate martial artist, and the teachings stopped at Second-rate. Everything Chen Anshun knew about martial arts beyond Second-rate was pieced together from hearsay during his younger days in the jianghu. Things like combining practice and combat, integrating internal and external, he heard once and forgot most of it.
"To be honest with Guang..." He stumbled, "To be honest with Master, what I learned at Hongyang Martial Hall was superficial. Most of what I know beyond Second-rate is hearsay."
Zhao Guangfeng didn't mock him.
He stood up, hands behind his back, walked a few steps, and stopped beside the study desk.
"Third-rate is about building strength. You've spent sixty years on this, no need for me to elaborate."
Chen Anshun nodded.
"Second-rate is different. Strength seeps into the bones, creating a cycle, but that's just the first step. The real training in Second-rate is learning how to wield that strength."
Zhao Guangfeng raised his right hand, fingers together, and casually made a slicing motion.
The folded fan on the desk flew up. Without wind or sound, the fan leapt from the table, flipped in the air, and landed steadily back in his palm.
Chen Anshun's pupils contracted.
This move looked effortless, but having just entered Second-rate, he knew how difficult it was. Transmitting strength from within the body to the outside, precisely acting on a lightweight fan — too much force and the fan would fly away, too little and it wouldn't move.
A Peak First-rate's control over power had reached such a fine level.
"You have twelve hundred pounds of force now, right?" Zhao Guangfeng tucked the fan into his waistband.
Chen Anshun didn't deny it.
"But how much of that can you actually use when you punch? Eighty percent? Seventy percent?"
Chen Anshun recalled the punch that killed that gambler. A thousand pounds of force poured into his fist, smashing into the opponent's chest, indeed satisfying. But thinking carefully, there was a moment of stiffness when twisting his waist and back, and a slight leak when transferring from shoulder to fist.
"Just over seventy percent."
"So your twelve hundred pounds of force translates to only over eight hundred pounds in a punch." Zhao Guangfeng raised a finger, "The first thing a Second-rate needs to train is minimizing this loss, even amplifying the power. How to amplify? Just practicing stances isn't enough. You need to learn a fighting technique."
A fighting technique.
"Do you have a technique?" Zhao Guangfeng asked directly.
Chen Anshun's heart skipped a beat. The "White Tiger Frenzy Saber" manual tucked against his ribs, separated by a layer of cloth. He didn't mention its origin, just gave a one-word answer.
"I do."
"What technique?"
"Saber."
Zhao Guangfeng's fingers paused at the edge of the table. After a moment's silence, he turned and walked to the innermost purple sandalwood cabinet in the study.
Opening the cabinet, several weapons hung inside. Two swords, a spear, a long saber.
Zhao Guangfeng took out the long saber.
The blade was three feet two inches, thick spine, thin edge, entirely black, non-reflective. The hilt was wrapped in two layers of sharkskin, with a copper ring hanging from the end. The scabbard was plain black lacquered wood, as unadorned as a firewood stick.
But Chen Anshun squinted his eyes.
This saber had weight. Just by Zhao Guangfeng's grip, he could tell it was at least forty pounds. A regular machete at most weighed a dozen pounds; a forty-pound long saber was certainly not made of ordinary iron.
Zhao Guangfeng placed the saber horizontally in his palm, offering it.
"My father, in his early years, ran a merchant caravan outside Shanbei Prefecture. He found this in an abandoned blacksmith's shop, dug out from the ashes. The material is unknown, but its hardness far exceeds ordinary iron. It's been gathering dust at home for twenty years, unused."
Chen Anshun received it with both hands, feeling the weight in his palms.
Forty-two pounds.
His right thumb pressed against the guard, pushing it out half an inch. The blade revealed a line, dark and non-reflective, but the edge was sharp enough to cut the eye.
A fine saber.
"Take it and use it." Zhao Guangfeng's tone was like giving away an old pair of shoes. "A Second-rate practicing saber needs a handy tool, or it's twice the effort for half the result." Read the latest chapters at novelping.com.
Chen Anshun pushed the blade back into the scabbard. His fingers brushed the rough black lacquer wood, feeling the texture against his fingertips.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." Zhao Guangfeng returned to his chair. "You're part of the Zhao Residence. When someone from the Zhao Residence succeeds, it reflects well on me."
The words were well-crafted, perfectly measured.
Chen Anshun, holding the saber, rose, bowed, and exited the study.
Walking on the bluestone slabs of the corridor, the black-sheathed long saber across his arms, he silently praised Zhao Guangfeng's methods.
Gentle and subtle.
First, the blue-tiled house. The monthly salary increased from three taels to five. Then this saber.
Each favor stacked up, neither heavy nor light, each one scratching an itch.
For a newly advanced Second-rate martial artist, with an unstable foundation and uncertain future, these things combined formed an invisible thread. It didn't choke, but it led you.
Even if a thought of leaving arose, wanting to say, "I'm leaving," these favors stuck in the throat, unable to be voiced.
Zhao Guangfeng, after twenty years as an Assistant Magistrate, had methods far surpassing Third Madam.
But Chen Anshun had no plans to leave.
The current Shanbei Prefecture was unstable. Zhao Youdao's recent mountain raid on a First-rate Outlander wouldn't be the last. Bandits entrenched, jianghu forces intertwined, an old man just entering Second-rate, outside the Zhao Residence's walls, might not survive intact.
A Second-rate martial artist was impressive in Qingquan County, but in the whole of Shanbei Prefecture, just a slightly bigger fish.
Better to stay at the Zhao Residence. A place to live, food to eat, time to practice. Zhao Guangfeng had already arranged for Uncle Zhou to assign help with the stable work, freeing him from doing everything himself.
Most of the day could be spent practicing stances and saber techniques.
Except for one thing.
Back at the blue-tiled house, he placed the saber on the table and pulled out the clay jar from behind the wardrobe.
He poured it out.
The scattered silver pieces rolled across the table, and he counted each one. Including the remaining small gold nugget, he had a total of two hundred sixty-one taels and seven qian left.
Beef and Qi Replenishing Powder cost over twelve taels a day.
Two hundred sixty-one taels and seven qian would last twenty-one days.
After twenty-one days, could the Hongyang Stance Art still increase his strength by twenty pounds daily? Yes. But that would be empty practice. Without beef to replenish qi and blood, without Qi Replenishing Powder to catalyze meridian circulation, just practicing stances would slow the gains, and his body would have to endure the deficit.
The foundation of Second-rate was just laid, needing nourishment. Stopping now was like halting construction after laying a building's foundation.
Money.
He still needed to find money.
Chen Anshun put the silver back into the jar, stowing it at the bottom of the wardrobe.
His mind turned, settling on one person.
Xu Liang.
Chief Well Boss of Thirteen Wells, overseeing over a hundred people, earning twelve thousand taels a year just from water delivery. Last time, he lent three hundred taels without batting an eye.
Such a person wouldn't lack work.
Not to borrow money again. Borrowing once was a favor, twice a debt. Chen Anshun hated owing personal debts.
He needed to find work. Work with the Water Gang, exchanging strength for silver.
Now a Second-rate martial artist, with twelve hundred pounds of force, he had a respectable standing in Qingquan County. The Water Gang lived off the river, escorting goods, guarding ships, clearing bandits — all needing capable fighters.
Tomorrow, to the docks.
Chen Anshun picked up the black-sheathed long saber from the table, laying it across his knees, his right hand resting on the hilt. The sharkskin's texture pressed against his palm, rough and solid.
He pulled out the "White Tiger Frenzy Saber" manual from his inner pocket, opening to the first page.
The title page bore only one line, the ink dry, the strokes fierce.
"A saber is relentless. Once drawn, it does not return."
His thumb pressed against the guard, pushing the blade out an inch.
The blade slid out silently, its dark sheen reflecting his wrinkled face.