Chapter Six: First Taste of Understanding

Yu Lang was just troubled by his lack of guidance—he wished to learn, but could not find a way to begin. Seeing Qingqing, he was secretly delighted, though none of it showed on his face. Instead, he purposely provoked her, saying, “You speak as if you actually know how to practice.”

Qingqing proudly lifted her chin. “Of course I know how to practice…” But this clever girl caught on to Yu Lang’s intention before she finished. “You sly little thing, trying to trick me into telling you? It’s not that easy. Consulting a skilled master requires payment—do you have anything to offer, looking as shabby as you do?”

Yu Lang grinned. “How about I buy you a steamed bun?”

Qingqing scoffed. “I’m not about to eat pig slop like that.”

“Indeed, we eat pig slop, speak pig words, wear pig faces, content in our lowliness lest we offend your noble senses,” Yu Lang assumed a look of wounded sorrow.

Qingqing, kind at heart, regretted her words as soon as she’d said them. “That’s not what I meant. You and your grandfather have suffered misfortune yet bear no grudge against fate, living off your own efforts—it’s the bearing of true gentlemen.”

Yu Lang immediately brightened. “No harm done, I forgive you! Just teach me how to guide my breath and that will suffice.”

Flustered by Yu Lang’s cheeky manner, Qingqing’s face turned red. “You’re shameless! Unless you pay up, I won’t teach you, and that’s final! And ordinary gold and silver hold no appeal for me.”

This little lady clearly came from a wealthy family, perhaps even nobility. To be learning at the side of the Poet Immortal—her background was nothing to scoff at. What could possibly interest such a girl? Yu Lang’s thoughts wandered for a moment, then he made up his mind. “How about I tell you a story?”

Qingqing’s eyes lit up. She’d hoped this rascal would compose a poem for her, but a story was even better.

Yu Lang composed himself and began, “Ning Caichen, a native of Zhejiang, was upright and generous, holding himself to the highest moral standards. He often said he had never loved two women in his life. Once, while traveling to Jinhua, he arrived at the northern outskirts and stopped at an abandoned temple…”

He recounted the tale of Nie Xiaoqian, adapted from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, with his own embellishments. His narration was gentle and captivating.

Long after the story ended, Qingqing was still spellbound.

Backed by over a thousand years of civilization since the Tang Dynasty, if he couldn’t even win over a young lady, he’d surely disgrace modern literary youth.

Qingqing looked at Yu Lang with pitiful hope. “Could you tell me a story every day from now on?” She chuckled at her own request and shook her head.

Though a young lady, Qingqing was true to her word. She then patiently explained why Yu Lang could not guide spiritual energy into his body.

The principle was simple: the human body is like a finely crafted vessel that can contain external spiritual energy. Ordinary people can store a small amount through breathing—enough for daily needs. Cultivators, however, can improve their bodies to store more energy, making them stronger. Yu Lang’s body had not undergone transformation, and his dantian was blocked. Other than the energy needed for daily consumption, his meridians could hold no more. Forcing spiritual energy in would cause pain and even endanger his life.

Qingqing continued, “To determine whether someone is suited for cultivation, you look at two things. First, how much spiritual energy they can hold after opening their dantian—that determines their upper limit. Second, how much energy they can draw in at once—that’s their lower limit.”

“With such a crude method, you were able to guide in a large amount of energy, showing you have a high lower limit…” Qingqing paused and sighed. “But Brother Bai already examined your dantian—it’s extremely difficult to open, and its capacity is tiny. That means you’re not suited for cultivation. Perhaps that’s why Brother Bai was unwilling to accept you as a disciple. The Tang Dynasty has its rules: cultivators must not attack ordinary people. In your case, not cultivating is actually safest.”

A high lower limit, with an upper limit of zero—an empty set.

Yu Lang nodded. “I understand. I’d like to ask you one more thing: just how difficult is it for me to open my dantian?”

Qingqing thought for a moment. “Brother Bai once used a line of poetry that suits your case: ‘Harder than ascending to the blue heavens.’ If you found a method, countless aristocratic youths unable to cultivate would flood your doorstep with riches.”

Yu Lang tucked the “Profound Origin Breathing Technique” back into his inner pocket and focused on selling steamed buns.

“Aren’t you going to destroy that book? Still not giving up? Many in your situation have obsessed over cultivation their whole lives, losing themselves in hopeless study and wasting their precious years. Don’t end up like them…”

Hearing Qingqing’s admonition, Yu Lang finally understood. This girl’s chance appearance in Yangzhou today was no accident—she must have been sent by Yu Chaoran and Li Bai to persuade him to turn back from a fruitless path.

Yu Lang laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, I just think it’s a waste to destroy a book worth five taels of silver. I plan to sell it to someone else.” Though his words were light, a fire burned in his eyes. He had no intention of giving up so easily. If fate had closed all doors, he would make his own! Time was long, and opportunity would come.

Life settled back into its quiet routine—simple but fulfilling. Each day was spent between earning a living, reading, and practicing martial arts. Yet Yu Lang found himself sinking into a vast emptiness. How was this any different from modern times? Day after day, year after year. Perhaps that’s all life ever was—a cog in the machine, no matter where you were placed.

Change began on a certain morning.

That day, Yu Lang set up his stall as usual, reading by the dim early light, the quietest time in Yangzhou’s bustling streets.

A modest carriage rolled slowly down the long street, the horses spirited yet the driver an old man with a weary face. Four armed guards followed before and behind.

These eight guards wore plain clothes, but beneath their linen shirts were soft armor, and at their waists hung fine sabers. On their backs they carried dry rations and bows with arrows. Even in the army, such equipment was beyond the reach of low-ranking officers. Their bearing was disciplined; they moved and breathed as one—clearly elite among elites.

Yu Lang glanced their way but dared not stare, afraid of arousing suspicion. He could only speculate about the occupant of the carriage.

Suddenly, several splashes echoed from the calm canal. More than ten men burst from the water, clambering onto the bridge.

At the same time, several massive logs crashed down on the far end of the street, blocking the carriage’s retreat.

The lead guard showed no sign of panic. He stepped forward, drew his blade across his chest, and called out in a hoarse but steady voice, “Ambush!”

The other seven swiftly unstrung their bows, notching arrows and aiming at the masked, water-soaked assailants.

Yu Lang quietly drew the hand crossbow from the side of his cart. His body trembled slightly, and he dared not make any move that would draw attention. He had improved this crossbow himself, using military schematics provided by Yu Chaoran; its proudest feat had been piercing a three-foot-thick plank.

The air was thick with tension—battle was about to erupt.