Leaving Han Anmeng's residence, it was already nearing dusk.
Feng Yuan did not return to the manor; he looked toward Hou San,
“Let’s go. We’ll go together to see that martial arts practitioner.”
“As per your instructions, I did not seek out the chief escorts of the security agencies, nor did I look for the masters of the martial arts halls. I specifically went to Wazi Alley in the South City where retired military men tend to congregate.”
“I found one named Zhou Wu. He used to be a common soldier in the border army, fighting with blades against the Barbarians to the north, bearing seven or eight scars. He retired because he injured his leg. Now he is nearly forty, spending his days drinking, gambling, and fighting. He possesses brute strength and a palpable killing aura.”
Feng Fang’s face turned pale: “Young Master, absolutely not! Such a coarse and vulgar brute, his temper is like fire. What if he accidentally injures you? Our family cannot withstand any more trouble!”
However, a faint smile appeared on Feng Yuan’s face.
“Has he ever killed anyone?”
Hou San shivered in fright and lowered his voice: “I inquired. When he fights people in Wazi Alley, he never shows mercy. Last year, a ruffian provoked him, and he lifted the man up with one hand and broke his arm. Some say that on the battlefield, the number of Barbarian heads he personally took off was no less than eight or ten.”
“Good,” Feng Yuan said another word.
“You… you want to use him too?” Hou San couldn't believe his ears.
“Let’s go. I want to see him with my own eyes.”
He directed the carriage straight to Wazi Alley in the South City.
This place was completely different from the poverty of the West City.
The air was mixed with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and cheap cosmetics.
Along the roadside were laborers shouting bare-chested, and by the doorways, courtesans leaned against the frames soliciting customers.
Hou San followed closely behind Feng Yuan, his hand constantly resting on the short knife at his waist.
They found Zhou Wu in front of a noisy open-air wine stall.
He occupied a table alone; on the table sat a jar of cheap wine and a plate of aniseed beans.
He was very tall; even while sitting, he towered over others by a head.
A hideous scar slashed from his left eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, making him look like a fierce god.
Feng Yuan walked over and sat down opposite him.
Zhou Wu didn't even lift his eyelids, focusing only on pouring and drinking for himself.
“Master Zhou,” Feng Yuan began.
Zhou Wu seemed not to hear.
Feng Yuan was not annoyed. He said to the stall owner, “Boss, cut two catties of cooked beef, and bring the best Sangluo wine you have.”
The food and wine arrived quickly.
Feng Yuan pushed the jar of Sangluo wine in front of Zhou Wu.
Zhou Wu finally raised his head, and a flicker of light flashed in his murky eyes.
He didn't speak, broke the mud seal, poured himself a bowl, and downed it in one gulp.
“Ha!” He exhaled a breath of wine, “Speak. What do you want with me?”
“I wish to ask Master to teach me martial arts.”
“Learn martial arts?” Zhou Wu laughed, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth, “You, a delicate young master, can you endure the hardship?”
“I can endure it.”
“What I teach is not for show; it is the skill of killing,” Zhou Wu’s gaze turned cold. “If you learn it, you will see blood. Do you dare?”
“I dare.”
Zhou Wu stared at him for a long time, then suddenly extended his fan-like large hand, reaching for Feng Yuan’s shoulder.
Hou San cried out in alarm and tried to step forward, but Feng Yuan stopped him with a look.
That hand clamped down on Feng Yuan’s shoulder blade like an iron pincers.
Sharp pain shot through him, and Feng Yuan clearly heard the groan of his own bones.
Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead, and his face paled slightly.
But he gritted his teeth, remaining silent, not even letting his body sway.
His eyes looked straight back at Zhou Wu.
There was no fear or pleading in that gaze, only a deep, silent ice.
The mockery in Zhou Wu’s eyes slowly vanished, replaced by a hint of surprise.
He increased the pressure on his hand slightly.
Feng Yuan’s body began to tremble slightly, but he still held firm.
“Why learn martial arts?” Zhou Wu asked in a deep voice, as if interrogating a prisoner.
“Someone broke my bones. I must crush theirs myself,” Feng Yuan’s voice was soft, yet it scraped against Zhou Wu’s ears like a knife.
Zhou Wu released his hand.
Feng Yuan’s left shoulder was already a mass of blue and purple.
“Fifty taels for one month,” Zhou Wu stated.
“Agreed,” Feng Yuan rubbed his shoulder. “But I have one condition.”
“Speak.”
“I want you to teach me everything you learned about surviving on the battlefield,” Feng Yuan looked at him. “How to kill with one strike, how to dodge arrows, how to bandage wounds, and how to survive when there is no water or food.”
“What I teach is the skill of survival, and also the skill of killing.”
Zhou Wu grinned, a smile spreading across his face.
That scar twisted with his smile, making him look exceptionally terrifying.
“Interesting.”
He picked up the wine jar and poured a bowl for Feng Yuan as well.
“Drink this bowl of wine, and starting tomorrow, I will be your Master. But I’ll say this first: if you dare utter a single complaint about the hardship, I will break your legs and throw you out of the courtyard.”
Feng Yuan picked up the bowl of wine, glanced at the murky liquid within, and downed it in one gulp.
The coarse liquor burned down his throat like fire.
He set the bowl down and stood up.
“Tomorrow at the hour of Mao, I await my Master.”