Chapter Five: Drawing Qi Into the Body

Li Bai laughed heartily, “Everyone knows that the sword at my waist is merely for show; the wine gourd is my true companion. To be honest, this Light Ripple Sword hasn’t left its sheath for nearly ten years—what could I possibly pass on to you?”

This Light Ripple Sword was once the blade of the legendary Sword Sage.

Yu Lang was somewhat disappointed, unable to press further about the cultivation of Sword Qi. Yu Chaoran eased the mood, saying, “Lang’er, don’t make things difficult for your Third Uncle. Your father’s last wish was for you to live in peace, free from worldly disputes and entanglements.”

“My father, always my father, but he never gave me anything—so why should he dictate my life?” Yu Lang complained bitterly.

Li Bai’s brows drew together, his expression tinged with the shadow of offense; this remark seemed to touch a sensitive nerve. Slightly angered, he replied, “Foolish child, do you realize what price your father paid so that you might live?”

Yu Lang refused to back down. “I don’t know, nor do I care. I have the freedom to choose my own path. I don’t even know his name—he must have been a stubborn, headstrong man, charging recklessly through life and suffering for it. In the end, he veered to another extreme, wishing his son would live in obscurity, avoiding all conflict. Isn’t such thinking naive? If you cut off your own hands and feet, do you expect your enemies to be moved to mercy?”

In truth, Yu Lang could somewhat understand his father’s mindset; he had read Su Shi’s playful poem about raising sons—“Everyone hopes their child will be clever, but cleverness brought me only misery. I wish my son to be dull and slow, safe from disaster, reaching high office.” Yet as a Tang man with a distinctly modern core, Yu Lang could not accept having his fate arranged by another.

Li Bai, however, saw in Yu Lang traces of an old friend’s youthful spirit, and felt a pang of compassion. “You are not entirely wrong; he was indeed a single-minded fool, but also an unparalleled genius. Though he died young, he left you a grand game to play. Sooner or later, you must enter the board—why rush? There are other reasons why I cannot teach you.”

The name Yu Jia’ao stirred up waves in Yu Lang’s heart. He recalled passages from novels, father and son sharing the same name after a thousand years, and himself finding a book that brought him back to the Tang Dynasty. This was no coincidence.

Perhaps, Yu Lang thought, my journey back was meant to finish the game he left unfinished. But who sits at the other end of the board? He pondered in silence.

In the end, Yu Lang failed to persuade Li Bai to pass on his skills. As he was leaving, Qingqing leaned close to Yu Lang’s ear and whispered softly, “I can take you as my disciple, you know.” Yu Lang merely smiled.

After Li Bai departed, Yu Lang became somewhat despondent. With no guide, seeking justice for the late Yu Lang and that young woman seemed a distant, unattainable fantasy. The Li family wielded considerable influence in Yangzhou, and there were officials shielding them—rumored to be connected with the treacherous minister Li Linfu, their defenses impenetrable.

Yu Lang often dreamed of the bride in her crimson wedding dress, drifting mournfully in the night sky, blotting out the moon and all the light in his dreams, spinning endlessly in circles.

Seeing his grandson’s persistent gloom, Yu Chaoran felt deeply pained. To lift his spirits, Yu Chaoran personally began teaching him martial arts. He knew nothing of sword qi or esoteric cultivation, but his early years may have included military service. What he taught were mostly close-quarter combat techniques and killing arts from the army, favoring staves and spears.

What impressed Yu Lang most was Yu Chaoran’s archery—he had witnessed the old man shoot a fly at a hundred paces.

According to Yu Chaoran, though these army techniques were considered lowly and not recognized as true martial arts by the era’s masters, if practiced to the utmost, one could still become a rare expert.

Yu Lang threw himself into training, rising early every day to run two laps around the river, then repeatedly practicing the monotonous long-form military boxing. Afternoons he spent reviewing his studies—not for the imperial exams, but to build up contemporary knowledge. He was delighted to discover this body’s innate talent for calligraphy; whenever he picked up a brush, his hand moved naturally, producing characters both gentle and free-spirited, reminiscent of Wang Xizhi’s style. In this era, a fine hand was undoubtedly an advantage.

A month passed swiftly. Yu Lang made remarkable progress, always quick to grasp the underlying principles and adapt them, which greatly impressed Yu Chaoran. Unfortunately, Yu Lang was naturally slight and young; despite all efforts, he could barely draw a bow weighing one stone (about 100 pounds in Tang measurement). Though the old man said little, Yu Lang understood: those who mastered military martial arts to the highest level were all born with extraordinary strength and iron sinews, able to offset the gap between themselves and martial arts masters. With his own condition, even if he perfected the killing arts, he would still be unable to withstand a cavalry charge on the battlefield.

The problem was clear: Yu Lang needed an internal cultivation method like “Nourishing Sword Qi” as a foundation. In the Tang Dynasty, such methods were monopolized by noble families—expensive, requiring a renowned teacher, and consuming vast amounts of medicinal resources during the qi-nurturing phase. Though the Tang appeared to offer many avenues for social mobility, most were illusory; both study and martial arts demanded heavy investment, beyond the means of ordinary families. Even joining the army required a spear costing around ten taels of silver—a steep barrier.

Yu Lang gritted his teeth and spent five taels of silver on the most common “Mysterious Origin Qi-Nurturing Technique,” following its instructions to channel qi into his body. He trained until his vision darkened, falling ill in the process. Instead of gaining strength, he became even weaker.

This time, Yu Chaoran was truly angry. He confiscated the “Mysterious Origin Qi-Nurturing Technique,” along with Yu Lang’s last five taels of silver. In fact, Yu Lang’s illness cost them dearly; now, the two were truly scraping by. Yu Chaoran, used to a life of wealth, had no skills for earning a living and could hardly bring himself to perform in the streets, given his once respectable status.

After recovering, Yu Lang took on the task of supporting the family. He bought some lumber, commissioned a pushcart, and started a small street business to make ends meet.

It wasn’t that Yu Chaoran didn’t care for his grandson; he simply knew his time was limited, and Yu Lang would have to face life’s long road alone. Thus, he deliberately fostered Yu Lang’s ability to make a living.

Every day, at the third quarter of the hour of the ox, Yu Chaoran would light the oil lamp, put on his coat, and steam buns in the kitchen. They were all stuffed buns, with thoughtfully prepared fillings—unable to afford meat, he used vegetables and sauces, crafting them with care. Once steamed, they were placed in a special food box, covered with a layer of warm, moistened linen for insulation.

When dawn broke, Yu Lang would push his cart to the bridgehead to secure a good spot, then quietly pull a copy of the “Mysterious Origin Qi-Nurturing Technique” from the inner pocket he had sewn into his clothes, continuing to study it. The book was transcribed during idle moments practicing calligraphy; unexpectedly, both skills proved useful.

Though Yu Lang’s heart wasn’t in the business, he had chosen an excellent location, and Yu Chaoran’s buns were superb. Business was good, and he managed to earn seven or eight Kaiyuan coins a day.

That morning, after setting up his stall and bathing in the breeze, Yu Lang felt a surge of ambition. He resolved to try channeling qi again, but was suddenly tapped hard on the shoulder.

“If you keep practicing like this, you’re bound to shorten your life!” It was Qingqing, her eyes clear and flowing like water, tinged with a hint of reproach.