The night was deep.
Feng Yuan returned to his small courtyard.
Feng Fang and Hou San followed behind him, not saying a word.
The shock they experienced today was more than in the past ten years combined.
Feng Yuan did not rest; he walked to the center of the courtyard and stood facing the night wind.
He closed his eyes, and the scenes he experienced today replayed in his mind.
Han Anmeng’s proud spirit and struggle in his eyes.
Zhou Wu’s killing aura and scars.
One taught him principles, the other taught him how to fight.
One for seizing power, one for killing.
Starting tomorrow, his life would know no moment of peace.
The hardship of studying, the pain of martial arts, would drown him like a tide.
Yet, in his heart, there was not a trace of fear.
Instead, there was an almost perverse anticipation.
Xue Pan, just you wait.
Every bit of suffering I endure, I will claim back from you a hundredfold, a thousandfold in the future.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the pitch-black night sky.
There were no stars, nor the moon, just like his life at this moment—a long, dark road ahead.
But he knew he would be the one to personally tear open the darkness.
Just as the hour of Mao arrived, the gate of the Feng Residence was knocked upon punctually.
Feng Fang, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, went to open the door. Standing outside was a person who made him momentarily think he was still dreaming.
His short jacket was open, revealing a sturdy chest crisscrossed with scars, and he reeked of last night’s wine mixed with an iron-rust-like killing aura.
“Teacher Zhou, please come in.”
Feng Fang bowed deeply, his heart pounding.
Feng Yuan was already dressed and waiting in the courtyard.
He was still wearing that slightly worn plain blue cloth straight robe, and his face, still bearing injuries, showed no expression.
Hou San stood beside him, still yawning.
Zhou Wu glanced over Feng Yuan’s limbs, as if assessing the weight of a piece of meat.
A wooden bucket sat by Zhou Wu’s feet, half-filled with water.
“Strip,” Zhou Wu uttered a single word.
Feng Yuan hesitated not, taking off the straight robe from his upper body, revealing his lean physique still marked with bruises.
“Horse stance.”
Feng Yuan obeyed, separating his legs and lowering his center of gravity.
He had kept fit in his previous life and knew this posture.
However, Zhou Wu shook his head, walked over, and kicked him sharply on the calf.
“Lower.”
Feng Yuan grunted, sinking his body lower.
“Arms flat, hold it steady.”
Zhou Wu placed the half-full wooden bucket onto his outstretched palms.
The bucket was heavy, the water sloshing inside, a massive downward pull straining his arms.
“One hour. If a single drop spills, add one stick of incense.” Zhou Wu finished speaking, sat down in the corridor, picked up his wine gourd, and began drinking to himself.
Feng Yuan gritted his teeth.
Sweat quickly seeped from his forehead, sliding down his cheeks.
His arms began to ache and go numb, as if countless ants were gnawing at them.
His legs shook like sieves.
That bucket of water felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, pressing him so he could barely keep his back straight.
He could feel Zhou Wu’s gaze scraping over him like a knife.
He remembered the foot of the Xue Pan’s household slave pressing down on his face.
He remembered the sound of his own ribs breaking.
He remembered the sweet, metallic smell of blood in his mouth and nose.
His expression slowly changed.
His trembling body miraculously stabilized.
One hour later.
Feng Yuan felt as if his arms and legs were no longer his own.
He put down the wooden bucket, his entire body soaked as if pulled from water.
“Not bad.” Zhou Wu stood up, tossing him a thick wooden staff. “Hold this.”
Feng Yuan caught the wooden staff.
“Now, I will hit you. You are not allowed to dodge, not allowed to retreat. Your eyes, you are not allowed to blink.”
Before Feng Yuan could react, the other wooden staff in Zhou Wu’s hand whistled through the air and struck his thigh.
“Smack!”
A crisp sound.
Intense pain struck, and Feng Yuan’s body lurched violently, nearly collapsing to his knees.
“Stand straight!” Zhou Wu shouted.
“Smack!”
Another strike landed on his back.
Feng Yuan bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood.
He stared wide-eyed at Zhou Wu.
He saw no anger, no mockery in Zhou Wu’s eyes, only a chilling calmness.
“On the battlefield, if the enemy swings at you, if you flinch, if you blink, you die.”
“You must get used to the pain.”
“Only when you are used to it can you clearly see where the enemy’s blade is coming from when the pain is greatest.”
“Smack! Smack! Smack!”
The wooden staffs fell like rain.
New marks were added to Feng Yuan’s old wounds.
He remained silent.
In his world, only the whistling wooden staff and Zhou Wu’s wolf-like eyes remained.
From the initial unbearable agony, to numbness, and finally, he could actually judge the landing spot of the staff the moment it was swung.
After an unknown amount of time, Zhou Wu stopped.
Feng Yuan was covered in sweat, blood, and dirt.
He leaned on the wooden staff, barely standing, his body swaying precariously.
“That’s enough for today,” Zhou Wu dropped the staff. “We continue tomorrow.”
He turned to leave, stopping at the doorway.
“You monkey brat,” he said to Hou San without turning back, “go to the apothecary and buy the best medicine for promoting blood circulation and dispelling stasis. Mix it with strong liquor and give him a bath, or he’ll be crippled by tomorrow.”
After dinner, a scholar, disheveled in his blue gown, carrying an indelible ink fragrance and the aged scent of paper, knocked on the Feng Residence door.
Feng Yuan knew it was Mr. Han and went out to meet him.
Han Anmeng entered and surveyed the courtyard.
It was much larger than his small home and kept quite clean.
Feng Yuan cupped his hands toward Han Anmeng. “Teacher, have you eaten?”
Han Anmeng nodded.
Zhou Wu snorted, acknowledging the answer.
“Then let’s begin,” Feng Yuan said.
He first looked at Han Anmeng. “Teacher, please.”
He led Han Anmeng to the Study Room.
The Study Room was not large; Feng Yuan had already prepared the brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.
Han Anmeng sat down but did not touch those items.
He took out a stack of things from his cloth satchel and threw them onto the table.
It was not the Four Books and Five Classics, nor the annotations of the Sages.
It was a stack of yellowed papers printed with ink.
It was the daily gazettes published in Jinling City, along with a few flyers from local merchant houses.
Han Anmeng picked up the top gazette. “The Vice Minister of Revenue submitted a memorial yesterday, requesting the opening of the Southern Grain Transport Route to alleviate the grain shortage in the northern lands. What is your opinion?”
Feng Yuan was stunned.
He thought the first lesson would be, “To learn and then practice what you have learned.”
“Matters of the Imperial Court, this student… does not know.”
“Don’t you want power?” Han Anmeng’s gaze sharpened. “Power is not in the Emperor’s seal, nor in the words of the Sages. Power is hidden right here.”
He tapped the thin paper with his finger.
“Once the Southern Grain Transport Route opens, whose ships can travel? Whose grain can be transported? Who manages the docks, official post stations, and Military Garrison Posts along the way? Behind this are the livelihoods of tens of thousands of people and the flow of millions of silver taels.”
“The Vice Minister of Revenue is a man of the Wang Family; this memorial is both to show loyalty to the New Emperor and to secure benefits for the Wang Family.”
“But the grain in Jiangnan is mostly held by the Zhen Family and a few old Nobility and Gentry. Are they willing to release the grain? At what price? This requires a struggle.”
“Look at this one.” He pulled out another sheet of paper. “The rice shops south of the city have drastically lowered prices; one *shi* of rice is thirty *wen* cheaper. Why?”
Feng Yuan looked at him, his mind racing.
“Because the news that the Southern Grain Transport Route is about to open has already leaked. Some people are hoarding rice, and some are dumping it, trying to profit before the Imperial Court sets the official price.”
A hint of approval flashed in Han Anmeng’s eyes.
“This is what lies beyond the books. What I want you to learn is this.”
“From today onward, every day from the hour of Mao until noon, you will study with me. Not the classics; you can study those yourself at night. You will only read history, read the gazettes, and read the ledgers of these merchant houses.”
“I want you to see an official’s greed in a single number. I want you to see the rise and fall of a family in a single Imperial Edict.”
“I want you to treat this world as a chessboard, and everyone in it as a chess piece.”
Han Anmeng’s voice was not loud, but it made Feng Yuan’s blood run hot.
This was what he wanted.