Chapter One: The Butcher's Self-Cultivation

March had only just begun, and the chill of winter was already fading; even the branches bore specks of green, heralding the season when all things awaken. Yet the northern wind still carried a biting edge, at least here in Hangdu. The sky was just beginning to lighten, but already the streets bustled with those setting out to earn their daily bread, wrapped tightly in thick cotton coats—after all, for the poor, a brush with cold could mean unaffordable medicine.

A few constables strolled lazily along the street, their presence prompting passersby to step aside. As a famed city since the Tang and Song dynasties, Hangdu’s prosperity was beyond question: everywhere stood grand residences with blue tiles and white walls, and wealthy merchants were hardly a rare sight. Commerce here relied mainly on water transport; a clear river ran through the city, linking with the great river that reached distant lands.

Willows lined the riverbanks, though in winter their bare branches hardly made for a pleasing view. Even in the desolate northwest district, street vendors lined the roadside—survival in this capital, where every inch of land was precious, was never easy.

Down the main road, a solitary figure walked towards the rising sun—a man in his early sixties, carrying a shoulder pole, his loose hemp robe draped over a lean frame. His steps were brisk, and he greeted everyone who called out to him along the way.

After passing through what could be considered a bustling district, the old man arrived before a narrow alley, from which wafted the scent of damp and mold. He glanced around, then slipped into the alley, soon reaching its end—a dilapidated shop.

The shop was clearly aged, and rightly so: four generations had toiled here, and even after a century, the family had only barely established a foothold in Hangdu. After a brief wait, the wooden door creaked open from within, and a youth of seventeen or eighteen emerged, yawning.

The young man paused upon seeing the old man, then spoke with some resignation, “Old Liu, what brings you so early? The sun’s only just up.”

Old Liu set down his pole and smiled, “It’s no trouble at all. The master here pays the best, and the work isn’t hard. I’d come early every day if I could.”

“You’re too polite, sir. I’m just a butcher, nothing more,” the youth replied.

The young man’s name was Zhou Bai. He stood about one seventy, his skin fair and his features ordinary and youthful, yet he bore a scholarly air.

“Master, many of us poor folk depend on you for a meal,” Old Liu said.

Zhou Bai waved his hand, uncomfortable with such deference. “It’s nothing, really. My father told me before he died it was the least we could do.”

Old Liu sighed, deep furrows etching sorrow into his face. “The old master was a good man… It’s a pity, a real pity…”

Seeing this, Zhou Bai’s expression grew a touch awkward, and he turned back into the house.

In truth, he had been in this world for just over a year. In his previous life, Zhou Bai had been an ordinary university graduate; only a few months after graduation, a car accident had brought him here. The original Zhou Bai’s father had died from overwork, and after failing his civil exams and losing his only relative, grief had claimed the young man—making way for him.

In his father’s lifetime, Zhou Bai had never been allowed near the butchery trade, but now, with no one left, if he didn’t take up this work—considered lowly by the people of this era—he would have soon starved.

After a short while, Zhou Bai reemerged, carrying two large baskets covered with black cloth, a few persistent flies trailing behind.

“This is foreleg pork for the Green Bridge Inn in the west of the city. The neck cuts are for Wangzhuang Restaurant,” he instructed. Then he handed Old Liu an extra bag. “These are the offal—take them for your supper.”

“I hardly know how to thank you. Oh, and the books you asked me to find, I managed to get a few,” Old Liu said, wiping his hands on his clothes before producing several tightly wrapped books from his coat.

“I’ll take them. Did the money I gave you cover it?” Zhou Bai’s eyes brightened as he took the books.

“More than enough, more than enough. These aren’t worth much. As long as it helps you, Master. I’ll be off now.”

“All right, Old Liu, take care. Don’t forget to come by in a few days.”

“I won’t forget, Master. Goodbye.” Old Liu hoisted his pole and walked off toward the alley. Years ago, his son had drowned in the river, his daughter-in-law had returned to her family, leaving only a grandson of six or seven in his care.

For Zhou Bai, it made little difference whether he earned more or less. For those as unfortunate as Old Liu, he didn’t mind lending a hand.

Zhou Bai busied himself setting up the shop. It was just a small butcher’s stall, cramped from having to double as his living quarters. Inside, there was only a narrow partition to keep the smell of pork at bay; at first, Zhou Bai had found it hard to adjust, but now he didn’t even frown.

Every four or five days, a farmer from the outskirts would deliver a pig. Zhou Bai would slaughter it, reserving the best cuts for restaurants and selling the rest to local residents. Only the leftover scraps and offal remained for his own meals. Even so, back when his father was alive, they’d never wanted for food—being a butcher, it seemed, had its benefits.

He worked through the morning, other laborers coming and going with their deliveries. By midday, with business quieter, Zhou Bai finally had a moment to himself.

He spread the newly acquired books on the table—three in total, none with titles. Flipping through them, he found barely ten words inside; the contents were just illustrations of various movements, their authenticity uncertain.

Judging by their worn condition, though, they must have been decades old.

This world resembled ancient China, where martial prowess was highly prized but knowledge was never lightly passed on. However keen Zhou Bai’s interest, it was difficult even to get started.

In the past few months, he’d been trying to collect martial arts manuals, but all he’d found were these tattered volumes—discarded by families fallen on hard times and pawned off for a pittance. Whether they were genuine or not, no one could say. The pawnshops certainly didn’t treasure them; books there were left to mildew and rot.

A pawnshop wasn’t a bookstore—they had no time to air out books in the sun. Consequently, some were burned every month to clear space, and Zhou Bai had Old Liu purchase them in advance from the staff.

And so it went.