What Was Coming Had Finally Arrived

The next day, Pan Long rose early. The sky had barely begun to brighten when he ran to the village square to practice martial arts.

Martial arts demanded hard practice every day. It was like saving money: only by accumulating a little at a time could you build up a fortune.

Unlike usual, though, he spent little time on punches and kicks today. Instead, he focused on swordplay. As he practiced, he activated two pieces of equipment and, under a burden of fifty or sixty pounds, swung the scarlet Slayer Sword until it cut through the air with a fierce whistle.

Among the men of the Northlands, anyone whose family could afford it had to learn to use short weapons like swords and sabers, long weapons like spears and lances, and ranged weapons like bows and crossbows—whatever art he specialized in. Even riding and shooting were essential skills.

These skills were the foundation of a northern man's life. Only when he could ride a fierce horse, draw a heavy bow, and handle both a long spear and a short blade with ease was he considered a grown man of the Northlands. More advanced martial arts were another matter.

Pan Long had learned to wield staffs and spears since childhood. He had started learning swords and sabers at five or six, riding at seven or eight, and archery before he turned ten. He knew no profound weapon techniques, but the use of common weapons had long since sunk into his bones and become instinct.

His swordsmanship was straightforward, without clever variations. It came down to three things: speed, steadiness, and precision. Northern folk never made a point of being "ruthless." They looked down on that sort of posturing and petty viciousness.

Trading a hand for an enemy's life, or one's own life for several enemies'—to them, such things were everyday practice. They hardly counted as "ruthless."

If someone could make even northern folk exclaim, "Holy shit, that guy's ruthless," he probably belonged in a psychiatric ward...

The villagers of Luna Village watched Pan Long practice with curiosity. They knew nothing about martial arts and could not judge his skill, but they could at least see that he was strong and fast, and that every sword stroke bristled with killing intent. Yes, he looked like someone who could fight!

The Village Chief watched from a distance. Seeing Pan Long work up a sweat, he smiled and nodded.

He could not be sure whether this adventurer would sincerely help them, but judging by his attitude, he seemed like a man who kept his word.

Pan Long practiced for nearly two hours before ending his daily session. Back at the Village Chief's house, he drew well water to wash, changed clothes, and handed his sweat-soaked shirt to the Village Chief's wife to clean. Only then did he sit down for breakfast.

"Do you practice like that every day?" the Village Chief's grandson, a chubby little boy of five or six, asked curiously.

"Every day, as long as I have the time and a place to do it."

"Don't you get tired?"

"Of course I do." The innocent question made Pan Long laugh. "But the more you sweat in practice, the less you bleed when you go into battle. Fighting is cruel. Everyone who refuses to sweat in ordinary times ends up dead."

He sighed softly. "I don't want to bleed, much less die. So I have to train hard and sweat more now."

The Village Chief's grandson looked bewildered, only half understanding. Pan Long smiled and patted his head. "You're still young. It's too early for you to learn this. If you're interested, find a former soldier in a couple of years and learn the basics from him."

"I'd rather he never had to learn how to kill," the Village Chief said with a sigh. "Those who live by the sword die by the sword."

"Living in this world, you'll always face times when you either kill or get killed. Killing is better than being killed. Even if you die by the sword one day, at least you'll have lived a few years longer," Pan Long said.

He could tell that the Village Chief had a story of his own and kept many things hidden in his heart.

Luna Village shared its name with the Moon Goddess. That could not be a coincidence. Nor could it be chance that the heir to the Moon Goddess's Sacred Mark had been born and raised here. Ordinary villagers might know nothing about these things, but this respected elder could not possibly be ignorant of them.

Perhaps he was deeply involved in them himself.

The Village Chief fell silent. In the end, he said nothing.

After breakfast, Pan Long returned to his room to rest—he still had to cultivate his Internal Art.

He rose early each day and practiced martial arts for two hours, then ate breakfast. After that came two hours of Internal Art, another two hours of martial arts, a rest, and lunch. He had an hour or two to himself after lunch, then chose between Internal Art and martial arts for roughly another two hours, depending on the circumstances.

That was how he had spent the past several years.

Eight hours a day, without fail unless he was sick or had something else to attend to. He had earned his reputation as the strongest of Dingfeng Town's younger generation through countless hours of sweat.

To Pan Long, that amount of training was not particularly grueling. But martial arts took a heavy toll: he needed both proper nourishment and medicine. Only by healing the hidden injuries each day's practice caused could he make the most of his training. And the Pan Lineage's medicinal supplements could support only this much practice each day.

The Pan Lineage was already well off in that regard. With the Classic of Mountains and Seas Fragment behind them, they could use medicinal ingredients that were precious but not exceptionally rare almost at will. In many martial families and small schools, disciples could practice only five or six hours a day to keep hidden injuries from accumulating.

Famous sects and powerful families of the Central Plains often had better resources and could support more than ten hours of hard training a day. Their disciples were not necessarily more talented than anyone else, yet they could still grind the disciples of ordinary small schools into the dirt.

Put plainly, they had sweated a third more than you, if not more. What gave you any hope of beating them?

Pan Long's father, Pan Lei, had fought six opponents at once and left five of the six Immortals of Purple Cloud Palace dead and the last one fleeing. How had he done it, if not through the countless years he had spent training in the world of the Classic of Mountains and Seas Fragment?

Back in the guest room, Pan Long did not immediately sit down to meditate and refine his qi. Instead, he opened his character panel again.

Under attributes, his Experience Points were no longer zero. He now had ten points.

He swiped to the "Log" page and saw an entry.

[Practiced martial arts for one hour. Gained 10 (5 × 2) experience.]

Apparently, an hour of martial arts practice earned five experience points. The Little Luna Statue doubled that to ten.

Ten Experience Points was no small amount. In Heroes Chronicle, the Experience Points required to level up did not increase: every level cost one hundred points. That meant he could gain a level after ten hours of practice. Going from level zero to level one hundred would take only a thousand hours in total.

The question was, why had only one hour counted when he had practiced for two?

Does practicing martial arts only grant experience for one hour each day?

Pan Long frowned, then let it go.

If there was no daily limit, he could practice four hours a day and reach level one hundred in less than a year.

Even if only one hour counted each day, he would still reach level one hundred in under three years.

Could it really be that easy?

He did not think three years of hard training would be difficult; that was how he had lived for years already. But reaching, in less than three years, a level comparable to the major players at the end of the game... However he looked at it, that seemed a little too easy.

Or is some other difficulty waiting for me?

After thinking it over without finding an answer, he set the question aside and began his daily Internal Art cultivation.

Internal Art differed from external martial arts. The time one could spend on it each day was limited, usually to an hour or two. Any more, and the meridians could not bear it. Supposedly, certain people with unusual constitutions, or certain special forms of Internal Art, could break that limit and even cultivate for several times as long each day. But Pan Long had never seen it happen.

That afternoon, while he was practicing in the little square again, the village chief's son hurried over with important news.

One look at his face, and Pan Long had already guessed what it was. He followed him back to the village chief's house, where several village elders had gathered. Their faces were grim, and a young man among them looked thoroughly panicked.

When Pan Long arrived, the village chief explained, "Gine is a hunter from the village. He went out early this morning and, shortly before lunch, spotted an army resting beside the road. He didn't dare go near, so he climbed a tall tree for a look. He confirmed their banner was a green crescent—the banner of the Holy Legion, one of the empire's four great legions."

At those words, the villagers' faces grew grimmer still.

Of the Frees Empire's four legions, the Holy Legion had the worst reputation and the most vicious methods. Had it been another army, they might at least have discussed surrender. But with the Holy Legion coming, they could cross "surrender" off the list.

Built around fanatics of the One God Religion, the Holy Legion never showed mercy to heretics. Its commander, Seles, known as the "Most Holy," had publicly declared more than once that "the only good heretic is a dead heretic."

If the legion was headed for Luna Village, disaster was bearing down on them!

"How many were there?" Pan Long asked.

"I didn't... didn't dare count carefully," Gine the hunter stammered. "Maybe... maybe two or three hundred."

One elder sighed. "Two or three hundred. That's about the population of Luna Village. One person against each soldier? We can't possibly win!"

No one disagreed.

A civilian beating a soldier one-on-one? That would take a miracle.

The elders' faces turned ashen. Only Pan Long looked as calm as ever.

He had expected this all along. In fact, the situation was slightly better than he had anticipated.

When he had seen the villagers beat up that group from the One God Religion yesterday, he had known the Empire's army would come. He had considered secretly following the group and killing them to keep them from bringing the army down on the village. But then he had thought better of it. This world was not truly real; it was a manifestation of the game as he remembered it. Since it followed the game in his memory, the Empire's army would come sooner or later, whatever he did. Why go to the trouble?

If he was going to do anything, he could wait until the Empire's army arrived.

Now the Empire's army had finally come, but its numbers were far smaller than he had expected. He had imagined thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, surging toward the village. Two or three hundred could hardly compare.

He would have had no answer for an army of thousands. But a mere two or three hundred? That was different...

The northern way of doing things could probably be summed up in one word: charge. Perhaps they could be called humans of the reckless-overlord variety...