The Blind Man

Before Chen Wu could ask, Old Jin continued to explain, "Your Concentrated Spirit is not your own; it is borrowed. Borrowed things come with a price when used. Losing your memory again is merely the smallest of those costs."

"Again? No, how do you know I lost my memory?" Chen Wu asked, startled.

"If you hadn't lost your memory, why would you fail to recognize me?" Old Jin smiled. "All the martial arts you possess were taught to you by me."

"I am the Transmission Elder of the Pavilion. Every disciple's martial arts were taught by me personally. The moment you didn't recognize me until I spoke the secret code that day, I knew you had lost your memory again."

Ah, this... It turned out he had given himself away from the very start. Chen Wu couldn't help but be speechless.

"I've lost my memory before?"

"Two months ago. When I sought you out two months ago, you suddenly didn't recognize me," Old Jin said. "At the time, you said it was because your cultivation had gone awry, and you even gave me a secret manual."

"When I went back and examined it carefully, that manual was pure fantasy. Whoever wrote it must have been a lunatic; it would be a miracle if one didn't run into trouble practicing it..."

A massive wave surged in the Yellow River, causing the raft to pitch violently and cutting off Old Jin's words.

"What kind of manual was it?" Once the raft steadied, Chen Wu asked.

"It seems your memory loss is even more severe this time; you've even forgotten the manual." Old Jin shook his head and sighed, "I never expected you, this little brat, to actually succeed in borrowing Concentrated Spirit. Damn it, that ghostly manual could actually be practiced!"

Recalling the images he saw while injured and unconscious, a flash of inspiration struck Chen Wu: "Does this manual require 'eating' weapons?"

"Haha, you haven't forgotten everything." Old Jin laughed. "The core of this manual is to find a natal weapon nurtured by a Concentrated Spirit expert, devour it whole, digest the Concentrated Spirit nurtured within, and borrow it for oneself."

Good grief, that sounds absurd! But considering this world already contained all sorts of preposterous martial arts, it wasn't entirely unacceptable.

"Setting aside how rare the weapons of Concentrated Spirit experts are, or how to consume a weapon without damaging one's body—let's talk about Concentrated Spirit itself. It is the sublimation of an expert's lifelong spiritual essence, containing intense intent. If you lack Concentrated Spirit and your own intent isn't strong enough, how could you withstand the backlash? Yet, if your intent were strong enough, you would have already achieved Concentrated Spirit yourself; why take the risk of borrowing someone else's?"

So that's it. The scene in his dream where he devoured the Emei Piercers was him practicing this very manual, and the Concentrated Spirit he possessed was borrowed from that pair of piercers.

It was just a pity that after the spirit was borrowed, the original owner was likely reduced to a vegetable on the spot by that surge of energy, allowing him to reap the benefits.

"What should I do from here on?"

"The fact that you successfully practiced such a nonsensical manual shows your talent far exceeds my expectations. You might even step into the realm of Emperor Taizong himself. I can only offer a suggestion for you to consider."

"Many thanks!" Chen Wu said with genuine sincerity.

"I recall you were in the Micro-Perception Realm before. Now that you've borrowed Concentrated Spirit, have you reached the Great Circulation?" Old Jin asked.

Chen Wu felt awkward. "Right now, my internal energy can't even leave my body."

"It seems that is also part of the price. Before a martial artist reaches the Great Circulation, their realm is unstable. If they suffer a great trauma, it is possible to regress." Old Jin raised his eyebrows, which seemed to jump from behind his sunglasses. "Fortunately, you have already borrowed Concentrated Spirit. With its guidance, you can break and then rebuild."

"Take the Jade Bone cultivation, for example. Ordinary people use external techniques combined with physical tempering, medicinal baths, and dietary supplements to slowly refine their bones. Only those with exceptional talent can achieve the Jade Bone before their tendons and bones fully close."

"Since you have Concentrated Spirit, you can go a step further. Using it to nourish your own bones is far more effective than physical tempering or medicinal baths," Old Jin explained at length.

"In that case, couldn't one simply ask a Concentrated Spirit expert to nourish someone else's bones and mass-produce Jade Bones?" Chen Wu, having transmigrated, let his mind wander and immediately spotted the loophole.

"You certainly have a quick mind! Such things do exist," Old Jin said. "Some major factions do have elders use their Concentrated Spirit to nourish the tendons and bones of their juniors."

"However, Concentrated Spirit is formed from intent. Once it enters another person's body, it acts like an external pathogen and is resisted by the person's own will, which greatly diminishes the effect—it's only slightly better than ordinary baths and tempering." Old Jin explained, "Unless you use it to nourish your own body, there is no resistance. But experts who reach the Concentrated Spirit realm are already past the age where they could develop a Jade Bone."

Hearing these esoteric martial arts insights, Chen Wu's nature as a studious researcher flared up, and he became enthralled, nodding repeatedly. He took the opportunity to have Old Jin examine his bones and asked several questions about cultivation, all of which Old Jin answered one by one.

Suddenly, the sheepskin raft jolted, interrupting the lesson.

The raft had reached the opposite bank. In just a quarter of an hour, they had drifted far downstream from Jincheng Prefecture, a great distance from where they had first set out.

Old Jin stood up from the raft and looked around, seemingly observing the banks of the Yellow River, the surging waves, and the layered mountains.

But Chen Wu knew that Old Jin was blind; his Concentrated Spirit sensing range was limited, and he could not see into the distance.

"We've reached the shore, Old Jin, we've reached the shore!"

Contrary to his previous weak tone, Old Jin's voice was now resonant and full of vigor. Chen Wu's eyes grew moist; he knew this was the final flare of life before death.

"Chen Gawa, your cultivation technique is unique. After I die, my sword and the manuals in my room will be left to you." Old Jin knew this as well, turning to Chen Wu to settle his affairs.

Chen Wu couldn't say a word, only nodding silently.

"Don't look so mournful. Smile a bit; Old Jin will play a tune for you," Old Jin said heroically. "I have integrated sound waves into my martial path; even without a sanxian, I can still play for you."

With that, Old Jin sat cross-legged back on the sheepskin raft, laid his conical sword flat across his lap, and positioned his hands as if gripping an invisible sanxian, beginning to pluck.

A resonant, metallic sound rang out instantly, even louder than a real sanxian.

"A clear spring atop the high mountain, flowing for thousands of years.

Everyone drinks the water from the spring; the foolish remain foolish, the wise remain wise."

Old Jin sang at the top of his lungs, the music becoming more intense, his singing voice shifting from melodic to impassioned, as if he were pouring his entire life force into a final accusation.

"Clouds fill the sky, yet the day is not clear; streets are full of carts, yet there is no way through.

The river is full of fish, yet the water is not clear; the world is full of people, yet hearts are not just."

"Hey—my people, half a sentence true, half a sentence false—"

Amidst the singing and playing, Old Jin seemed to return to that afternoon when he first went out to perform with his master—that was already sixty years ago.

"Hold the sanxian steady!"

His master, also a blind man, heard his disciple playing distractedly and called out a reminder.

"I've got it!" the disciple replied.

Hearing his apprentice's perfunctory response, the old blind man flew into a rage: "Your three-stringed lute playing is far from enough! Do you know that only by diligently snapping one thousand strings..."

"Snap one thousand strings and I can retrieve the secret recipe left by Grandmaster, then take the medicine according to the prescription and I'll be able to see." The apprentice finished the sentence without a shred of emotion.

"You don't believe me?"

"Why must it be exactly one thousand strings?"

"That is the medicinal primer. If you don't snap one thousand, taking the medicine is useless."

"Heh." The apprentice laughed, and the scene shifted once more.

"Child, remember, you must snap one thousand two hundred strings. Your master remembered the count wrong, which is why the medicine didn't work for me." The apprentice could not see his master; he could only touch his master's eye sockets and listen to the voice before his master's passing.

Yet, in the end, the apprentice did not listen to his master. He did not play the lute; instead, he became an assassin and began to practice martial arts.

Unexpectedly, he took to it like a fish to water. After all, who would guard against a blind man?

The apprentice's martial arts grew increasingly formidable, and the number of important figures who died by his hand grew ever larger.

There were wealthy tyrants, treacherous merchants, corrupt officials, and even Westerners and members of the imperial clan.

Until one day, the apprentice reached the Concentrated Spirit Realm.

He finally saw, though his range of vision was small, and he was not using his eyes.

The apprentice immediately found the three-stringed lute his master had left behind and retrieved the prescription left by Grandmaster.

It was a blank sheet of paper.

Just as he had expected.

The apprentice still wept, tears streaming down his face. Now in middle age, he had long since understood his master's intentions.

A person living in this world must always have some hope, even if that hope is false.

He picked up the three-stringed lute his master had left behind and began to sing the first song his master had taught him once more.

"A clear spring atop the high mountain, flowing for thousands of years. Everyone drinks from the spring's water; the foolish remain foolish, the wise remain wise."

Every time he played these lines, he would wonder: why is it that in this world, some are foolish and some are wise, some are broken and some are whole, some suffer a life of hardship while others enjoy ease—why can it not be a little more fair?

In a fit of indignation, the apprentice added a few lines to the end, completely devoid of melody, merely roared out.

"Heaven is unfair, offering no gentle breeze or rain. Earth is unfair, yielding no harvest of grain. The imperial house is unfair, bringing blades, floods, and fire. The officials are unfair, tormenting the good people."

Just like the voice of Old Jin, the sound of the three-stringed lute grew lower and lower, until the line "tormenting the good people" faded away, and Old Jin's hand dropped completely limp.

A half-smile appeared on Old Jin's face, and under the glow of the setting sun, he seemed immersed in memories of the past.

The waves of the Yellow River surged on, and the peaks on both banks remained as they had always been.

But Chen Wu knew that the spirit within Old Jin had already dissipated.

"Hurry and leave! News has come from the Constabulary Office. The men from the yamen are coming; if you don't leave now, it will be too late!" The blind man outside the door rushed in, grabbing Old Ma and saying.

Old Ma knew something was wrong—had he been exposed here?

"If you want money, take it, let go!" Old Ma feigned an impatient look, shook off the blind man, and tossed him a copper coin.

The blind man took the coin and left. Old Ma's expression changed instantly; he gave a few instructions to the waiter and then hurried away.

Not long after, a group of constables suddenly burst in and locked down the entire West Wind Inn.

The constables searched until the place was in chaos, but they could not find Old Ma.

The lead constable's expression darkened. With a wave of his hand, he ordered his men to interrogate everyone.

Upon hearing that Old Ma had left only a short while ago, the constable could not help but show his frustration, beating his chest and stamping his feet.

Old Ma, oh Old Ma! What a fine merit! If you had left just a little later, I would have kowtowed to you on the spot!

At the foot of the rear slope of White Pagoda Mountain, there was indeed a thatched hut, standing beside a solitary tree.

Chen Wu set down the body of Old Jin and pushed open the door of the hut.