Personal Disciple

Zhao Family Martial Hall, inner courtyard.

Zhao Yan held a teacup, his face expressionless, but after hearing Chen Wang's report, his hand paused slightly.

The news that Xu Qing had severely wounded Han Bao with one punch had finally reached the martial hall.

Yesterday, when Xu Qing returned and said he had settled the appointment, Zhao Yan had assumed everything had gone smoothly. He had not asked further or given it much thought. He had no idea there had been such a match at the yamen.

Now, as Chen Wang stood before him, panting as he recounted every detail, Zhao Yan finally learned... that the youth whose bones he had judged as "middling to poor" had gone to the yamen's Martial Arts Arena yesterday and knocked down his sworn enemy's prized disciple with a single punch.

"One punch?" he asked.

"One punch!" Chen Wang nodded hard, his voice carrying an excitement even he himself had not noticed. "That Han Bao from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy fought Deng Yue from the Longwind Martial Hall for ages before winning, but before Junior Brother Xu, he could not even take one punch. After hearing the news, I went to ask Constable Qi. He said it himself—the people at the yamen all saw it. After Junior Brother Xu finished, he did not even catch his breath. He looked as though nothing had happened."

Zhao Yan set down his teacup and remained silent for a long time.

He had heard Old Shi from the Shi Family Martial Hall mention Han Bao before.

Old Shi had said that the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy had taken in several promising seedlings this year, and Han Bao was one of them.

Old Shi had also said that their two martial halls in the western district were finding things harder and harder. All the promising seedlings ran to the eastern district, leaving only crooked melons and split dates for them.

Yet now, Xu Qing had knocked that "promising seedling" down with one punch.

Zhao Yan's gaze shifted slightly, and an unfamiliar feeling surged within him. It was not surprise, nor delight, but a kind of... wavering. Like an ancient tree that had grown for decades, its roots buried deep, only for a sudden gust to shake its crown—and even the roots beneath the earth began to tremble.

He suddenly began to doubt himself.

He doubted what he had believed in all these years. Natural aptitude determined everything. That was what his master had taught him, what the books had written, and what he himself had believed all his life.

Only those with exceptional natural aptitude could travel farther. Those with middling to poor aptitude would more or less reach their limit at Bright Force, with little hope of breaking through to Hidden Force.

But what about Xu Qing? Middling to poor aptitude, Bright Force in twenty days, and one punch to knock down a promising seedling from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy.

His foundation was absurdly solid, his strength absurdly great, and his progress absurdly fast. Did this truly look like someone whose road ended at Bright Force?

Were special constitutions really useful only in the early stages? Could what his master had said, what the books had recorded, be wrong? Could Xu Qing's constitution be different? Could he reach Hidden Force? Or even... go further?

Zhao Yan did not dare think any further.

"Master." Ning Yun's voice came from beside him, gentle yet earnest. He had deliberated for a long while before speaking. "When Junior Brother Xu returned yesterday, he mentioned only the appointment. He did not say a single word about defeating someone from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy. It was not that he had no chance to say it. He simply did not want to, did not wish to flaunt it."

He paused, his gaze falling on Zhao Yan's profile. "A person like this does not claim credit or show off. He values loyalty and knows gratitude; his character is excellent. He is also willing to put his life into training his fists. His progress is fast, and his strength is great. By any measure, he is worth cultivating."

Zhao Yan remained silent, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop. Once, twice, then again. The sound was soft, but in the quiet pavilion, every beat rang clear.

Ning Yun continued, "Master, your disciple knows his aptitude is middling to poor. But aptitude is dead; people are alive. It is not as though there have never been those with middling to poor aptitude who broke through to Hidden Force."

His voice grew more resolute. "I believe Junior Brother Xu can break through to Hidden Force. It is not blind faith. After watching him these past days, I truly feel that he can make it."

He lifted his head, rare solemnity in his eyes. "With the strength Junior Brother Xu has displayed now, if he breaks through to Hidden Force, our martial hall will have someone capable of carrying the banner."

He paused again, looked at Zhao Yan, and said word by word, "Master, if you do not cultivate someone like him, then whom will you cultivate?"

Zhao Yan raised his head and glanced at Ning Yun.

His gaze was clouded, filled with hesitation, struggle, and a trace of... fear. That fear was hidden deeply, like a scabbed-over wound. It looked healed on the outside, but press it hard, and it still hurt beneath.

He was not afraid of spending silver. Though the Zhao Family Martial Hall was not exceedingly wealthy, a few pills, a few bowls of medicinal soup, and several pounds of meat were nothing much. He feared misjudging someone again, pouring in his heart and effort again, only to be disappointed again.

What had happened with Chu Sheng was like a thorn lodged in his heart. Ten years had passed, yet it had not been fully pulled out.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then slowly released it. That breath was long, as though he wanted to empty everything from his chest.

"When he returns, have him come see me." His voice was soft, so soft it seemed squeezed from his throat.

Ning Yun's eyes brightened, and he smiled.

He knew his master had made a decision.

After leaving his aunt's home, Xu Qing returned to the martial hall.

Before he had even had time to change out of his black uniform, he was summoned to the inner courtyard.

In the pavilion, Zhao Yan sat in a grandmaster's chair, while Ning Yun remained at his side. On the table before them sat a small porcelain bottle, white-glazed and sealed at the mouth with wax.

Xu Qing approached, lowered his head, and respectfully called, "Master."

Zhao Yan said nothing. He merely looked at Xu Qing, his gaze gentler than it had ever been before.

He did not beat around the bush. When he spoke, his voice was low and devoid of any discernible emotion. "I heard about what happened at the yamen yesterday. You defeated a disciple of the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy with one punch. You brought honor to the martial hall."

Xu Qing opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but Zhao Yan waved his hand and did not let him speak.

"You did not mention it because you did not wish to claim credit. I know." Zhao Yan's voice remained steady and unhurried. "I have seen your conduct and your character. I have also seen your progress and strength. So—"

He extended a hand and pointed at the white-glazed porcelain bottle on the table. Its knuckles were thick, and blue veins bulged across its back. One glance was enough to clearly sense the power lurking beneath.

"There are three Blood-Qi Pills in that bottle. From today onward, your meat and Blood-Qi Soup will remain as before. In addition, you will receive three Blood-Qi Pills every month."

Xu Qing froze. He looked at the porcelain bottle on the table, then at Zhao Yan.

He had taken Blood-Qi Pills before, so he naturally knew that each one was worth five taels of silver.

Three pills meant fifteen taels. Add the meat and Blood-Qi Soup, and the martial hall would be spending more than twenty taels of silver on him each month.

He did not think such treatment was simply because he had brought honor to the martial hall. There had to be something else beneath it, something he could not see, something his master had not said aloud.

Zhao Yan did not give him the chance to ask. After a pause, his voice softened a little. "There is one more thing I wish to ask you."

Xu Qing raised his head and met his gaze.

"Would you be willing... to properly kowtow to me and call me Master?"

If Zhao Yan had previously provided Xu Qing with meat and medicinal soup largely as compensation—for his guilt toward Ning Yun, for making up for the past—then now it was not to repay anyone's debt or make up for anyone's regret. It was for Xu Qing himself.

Xu Qing's mind buzzed.

It was not dizziness, but the kind of buzzing sensation as though something had exploded inside his head.

He understood exactly what Zhao Yan's words meant.

His master wanted to take him in as a personal disciple. Not one of the nominal disciples in the outer courtyard, but a true indoor disciple whom his master acknowledged, supported with all his strength, and taught everything he knew. He would no longer need to pay tuition, nor worry over silver. But none of this came for free. He would have to carry the banner and take the blows for the martial hall, and see his master through old age and death.

Chu Sheng had done so. Ning Yun had done so.

Now it was his turn.

He was not an unfeeling, ungrateful person. He remembered every kindness the martial hall had shown him. From that first bowl of braised pork and those two sets of training clothes, to the ever-increasing Blood-Qi Soup later on. Whatever the reasons behind those kindnesses, he had truly received them—worn them on his body and swallowed them into his belly.

He did not hesitate.

With a thud, he dropped to his knees, his knees striking the blue bricks with a dull sound.

"This disciple is willing! This disciple pays respects to Master!" he said solemnly. Then he lowered his head and knocked his forehead against the blue bricks three times—thud, thud, thud—solidly, without the slightest ambiguity.

Zhao Yan looked at Xu Qing kneeling on the ground, his eyes reddening faintly. He rose to his feet, walked over, and reached out. That large hand, covered in bulging veins, gently pressed once against Xu Qing's head before withdrawing.

When his palm touched him, he could feel the warmth at the crown of Xu Qing's head, hot and alive like a brazier full of coals.

"Good. Good." His voice was somewhat hoarse. "Get up."

Xu Qing stood, and a feeling unlike anything he had ever felt welled up inside him. It was not excitement, nor pride, but a heavy, grounding sense of security. Like a ship that had drifted for a long time finally reaching shore, its hull touching the sand, steady and secure, no longer afraid of wind or waves.

Ning Yun stood to the side, watching the scene with light in his eyes and comfort filling his heart.

Zhao Yan's gaze rested on Xu Qing. He looked at this youth who had walked out of Blackwater Bay—at how straight his back had been when kneeling, how loudly his forehead had struck the ground when he kowtowed.

Suddenly, he felt as though the stone that had weighed upon his heart all these years had become a little lighter.

He turned around, slowly returned to his grandmaster's chair, lifted the tea that had long gone cold, and took a sip.

The tea was cold and bitter.

Yet he felt that after swallowing this bitter tea today, a lingering sweetness had risen upon his tongue.