Chapter 6: Wenshan Takes In His Son (Revised)

The Seven Stars Martial Hall stood in the southern part of the city, some three or four miles from Ginkgo Lane—a distance that could be covered in the time it took two sticks of incense to burn. The hall’s design was unadorned, its massive signboard bearing the words “Seven Stars” in bold, silver strokes—simple and direct, leaving no room for ambiguity.

As one stepped through the main gate, there sat an elderly man with hair as white as snow, dozing off in the gatehouse. Whatever he was dreaming about, a long trail of drool hung from his lips.

“Sir, sir—please wake up.”

The old man cracked open his sleepy eyes, rubbing at the corners as he muttered, “Whose brat is this, disturbing an old man’s nap?”

“Sir, my name is Ling Chi. I’ve fled here from another region, hoping to apprentice myself at your martial hall. May I ask, what are the requirements for admission?” Ling Chi slipped a few copper coins into the man’s hand.

The old man weighed the coins, gradually rousing himself. “Even to be listed as an outer disciple, you’ll need the master’s personal approval. He chooses disciples based on two things: natural talent and personal favor. I’ll take you to see him, but whether you’re accepted depends on your luck.”

“Many thanks, sir! How long have you worked here? I’m truly eager to learn martial arts—could you offer me a few words of guidance?” Ling Chi pressed on, eager and polite.

“Don’t call me sir—just Uncle Hai, like the others do. The master never allows outsiders to interfere with his selection, not even his wife can intervene.”

“Forgive my rudeness, Uncle Hai. Please, lead the way.”

The martial hall sprawled over a generous plot of land. The spacious training ground was lined with various apparatuses, but at this hour, all the disciples should have been napping; the grounds were deserted.

Ling Chi followed Uncle Hai into a large hall, where a burly middle-aged man was seated in meditation, regulating his breath. Sensing their presence, the man’s tiger-like eyes shot open, a gaze sharp as lightning piercing Ling Chi’s heart—simultaneously chilling and exhilarating. This master exuded strength.

“Master, my name is Ling Chi. I am twelve years old, a refugee from afar, and I wish to become your student,” Ling Chi announced, bowing respectfully.

“Everyone wishes to learn, but let me first see if you have the aptitude,” the man replied.

He rose to his full height—at least seven feet—broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with thick brows and large eyes, the very picture of a man whose body had been honed through hard external training.

The master examined Ling Chi thoroughly, from head to toe.

“Your foundation is good, but you’re too thin. The best age for training is before twelve, when the body is like a treasure vessel, innate energy intact. After twelve, you must work to recover what’s been lost. You’ve just caught the final moment.”

“If you wish to join Seven Stars Martial Hall, you’ll need to pay five silver coins per year. For now, you’ll be an outer disciple, and we’ll provide you with medicinal herbs to strengthen your body. Do you accept?”

Ling Chi did not hesitate. “I accept, Master.”

The master continued, “The hall has its own rules. Seven Stars has been in my hands for four generations now. We specialize in saber, spear, and fist techniques. After you pay respects to the founder, you may choose one body-tempering technique to practice.”

“My name is Zhao Qing. I expect you to be diligent. If in three years you cannot reach the fifth level of body-tempering, then we are not meant to be master and disciple. At that time, you’ll have to seek another teacher,” Zhao Qing said gravely.

After handing five silver coins to Uncle Hai, Ling Chi received a set of black training clothes, the words “Seven Stars” embroidered across the back.

The ceremonies—bowing to the founder, kowtowing, offering tea—were soon completed, and by then, the training ground had come alive with shouts and calls.

In a small county martial hall, there were few external body arts to choose from. Zhao Qing selected three manuals and handed them to Ling Chi.

“These are all body-tempering techniques. You may only choose one; greed leads to failure,” Zhao Qing instructed.

Ling Chi thanked him and leafed through the manuals.

Bronze Bull’s Body Technique: Once proficient, blades and axes of the same level cannot penetrate your skin; you’ll possess tremendous strength. This method is about overwhelming force, but sacrifices agility—hardly Ling Chi’s first choice for a pure tank role.

Thousand Mountains Blood-Refining Method: At basic mastery, the body becomes resilient as rock, and vitality far surpasses others at the same level. This technique focuses on endurance and stamina.

A pity they couldn’t be cultivated together; otherwise, combining them would provide an extra trump card in combat.

Golden Thunder Body-Tempering Art: Harnesses the lightning of the nine heavens to temper the body. Only those with immense willpower should attempt it. Of those who’ve tried, all have died or been crippled; this technique is unfinished—approach with extreme caution.

Ling Chi’s heart leapt. He possessed a secret from his past life: the Extreme Yang Spring Thunder Breathing Technique, which tempered the internal organs. If he combined it with the Golden Thunder Body-Tempering Art, it would be perfect—a method seemingly crafted for him. Painful? As long as he survived, it was worth it.

He had learned that the spiritual energy here came mainly in five basic forms: metal, wood, water, fire, and earth, with rarer types like thunder and ice. Techniques in this world were graded: initiation, minor mastery, and major mastery.

“Master, I choose the Golden Thunder Body-Tempering Art. Please grant me your permission.”

“Young people are often ambitious, but know that a steady path is the surest. The origin of this art is unknown—it was left by the hall’s founder. Many have attempted it, none have survived,” Zhao Qing admonished.

“Thank you for your guidance, Master, but I am a nameless nobody. Since I’ve taken the path of cultivation, I must gamble with my life for the future. Success or failure, I will have no regrets.”

Ling Chi’s gaze was resolute. From past experience, he knew that to surpass others, one must pay a greater price.

“I can see you have your own mind. Since you’ve decided, I won’t try to dissuade you. Take care—and I do hope to see you succeed. This world is far more dangerous than you imagine,” Zhao Qing said, his words sincere rather than alarmist.

“Master, I’ve heard tales of monsters and demons, yet in all these years, I’ve seen none. Why?” Ling Chi asked, voicing the question that had long troubled him.

“Our province lies on the northwest frontier of the empire—poor, but stable, with good weather these past years.”

“But to the north, drought has left the land barren for a thousand miles. To the south, barbarian invasions have raged for over a decade, only recently quieting into stalemate.”

“When too many people die, strange things become more frequent. For now, you don’t need to know more—focus on your training. In time, you’ll see for yourself.”

With a trace of melancholy, Zhao Qing turned and withdrew into the house.

To Ling Chi, whether monsters, ghosts, or demons, none were as treacherous as the human heart. Human nature was the greatest enigma of all.

Ginkgo Lane, Ling Family Courtyard

At dawn’s first light, low shouts echoed through the yard.

Ling Chi had already begun his training, as he did every day since being accepted into the martial hall a month ago. Through careful adjustment and nourishing, the deficits in his body had been replenished, and he now stood at the peak of his learning capacity.

Ling Chi was harsher with himself than with any foe. Bare-chested, clad only in linen trousers, he planted his feet wide, arms curved as if cradling a child—this was the Two Forms Stance of Eight Extremities Fist.

Beads of sweat, fat as soybeans, dripped from his hair, pooling on the ground beneath him.

Clang! The millstone crashed to the ground.

Ling Chi lay there, panting. “Forty breaths longer than yesterday,” he noted.

After resting a quarter hour, he resumed with the Extreme Yang Spring Thunder Breathing Technique: legs apart, hands joined, tongue pressed against his teeth. He inhaled sharply through the gaps in his teeth; instantly, thunder rumbled in his abdomen. He guided the breath in a complete circuit, then expelled it in a hot blast through his nose.

Cycling the breathing technique, he drew in spiritual energy, the ions in the air, and the essence of sunlight. After one full circuit, his morning practice was complete.

A month of rigorous training had brought Ling Chi to the first level of body-tempering—the Skin-Refining Stage. His breathing technique had just reached the threshold of refining essence into energy.

By then, the sky was bright blue, washed clean as if by water, uplifting the spirit. He bathed at the well, let his hair down, and walked to the edge of the courtyard.

“I’m heading out. You two behave yourselves at home!”

“Got it, brother. Auntie next door found me a job at the herbal shop. I can take little brother with me,” Huanhuan said softly.

“Wait a while longer. Have you forgotten about Old Dog? If he still has accomplices and they recognize you, you’ll be in trouble. Don’t worry about being a burden—how much can you two eat? Stay home and keep your guard up. If Auntie next door asks questions, send her to me; you know nothing,” Ling Chi replied helplessly. The widow next door was notorious for gossiping all over town.

The fact that Old Dog and his thieving wife had been killed, yet the county was so quiet, felt strangely unsettling.