Chapter 97: Comprehending Techniques

Dawn light faint, mist cold and thin.

By the courtyard steps, banana leaves held dewdrops, on the verge of falling.

Under the eaves, stone tiles were clean, freshly wiped by servants, not a trace of water left, laid with a tiger-skin cushion.

A man sat cross-legged upon it, clutching prayer beads, eyes fixed on the banana leaves, as if lost in distant thought, serene and at ease.

“Uncle, just as you predicted, Zheng Hui is treacherous and cunning—he brought all those people back to his mansion yesterday.”

Duan Rusu stood beside him, speaking bitterly, “These people ruined our plans. Once the imperial edict and notices go up today, all the noise we stirred up will be muddied at once.”

The Yuwen family had only operated beyond Wang Cheng so far, never truly striking targets inside the city.

According to their earlier estimates, they should have waited until someone inside the city fell victim, to draw the monarch into the affair.

By then, rumors would have taken root; even if the monarch changed his stance and rushed in, he might not easily quell them.

But the Yuwen family suffered setbacks even outside the city, exposed far too early.

Zheng Hui was sharp enough to persuade the monarch to intervene at once, halting the momentum of the rumors.

“When people act, they inevitably encounter variables—some large, some small.”

The man said, “You’ve just faced a setback, yet you’re this furious. After one night, you still can’t calm down—wasting your spirit, draining your energy, accomplishing nothing. Let me recite a calming sutra first.”

“Namo ratnatrayāya, bodhisattvāya, mahāsattvāya…”

The man was Duan Zhong; he looked no more than forty, his skin plump and lustrous, even younger than Duan Rusu.

His black hair was like ink, his eyebrows sharp as swords, his eyes fierce, cheekbones slightly high, chin adorned with short, thick, neat whiskers.

With his build and appearance, his gaze carried a commanding presence, yet his loose robes and unhurried voice revealed a gentle, refined elegance.

Duan Rusu watched as he truly intended to recite the entire sutra; his lips twitched, but he dared not interrupt.

“Sigh, if you can’t calm your mind, how can you think clearly?”

Duan Zhong said, “Yi Muxun has long suppressed our military faction—I’ve lately focused my thoughts on military matters.”

“I entrusted you with dealings with the Yuwen family to control them, not to adopt the habits of assassins and spies.”

“They operate with death as the cost of failure; you’ve suffered a minor setback, your foundation remains intact, your reserves still strong—why rush?”

Duan Zhong moved the beads between his fingers.

“The Yuwen family is powerful, but the men they sent weren’t their best. Losing this batch may not be bad for our Duan family.”

“Besides, we still have Tubo as an ally—they’ve already dispatched a Grand Ritual Master and thirty-six senior monks to aid us.”

Duan Rusu was stunned and delighted: “Tubo actually sent such figures?!”

Across all of Tubo, Grand Ritual Masters were few—each responsible for royal blessings and ceremonies, protecting the royal family during major events.

Each of those senior monks was a rare talent, selected from ten thousand.

They should all reside permanently in the royal capital.

Only during the fiercest battles against the Tang Army had anyone heard of a Grand Ritual Master accompanying troops; otherwise, none had ever been known to leave the country.

“Do you think I spent years meeting Tubo envoys for nothing?”

Duan Zhong said calmly, “I wanted them to see for themselves how the people of Nanzhao now stand with us—to warn them what happens if Nanzhao turns toward Great Tang!”

“Even so, after years of effort, I couldn’t persuade them to send such masters to help me seize the throne.”

“But Great Tang is sharpening weapons, reorganizing its army—this year, they will surely launch war to reclaim lost lands.”

“With circumstances like these, Tubo has no choice but to decide.”

Duan Rusu was invigorated: “Good! When will they arrive? With these masters’ speed, they won’t take long to reach us—once they’re here, we can act.”

“No, they’ll help us with another task on the way.”

Duan Zhong said, “We must force Yi Muxun and his men to strike first against our Duan family.”

Duan Rusu frowned: “You taught me tactics and martial arts to seize the initiative—why give it away now?”

Duan Zhong paused his beads, his tone darkening: “Though Yi Muxun suffered defeat, he’s governed well since expelling Tubo’s garrisons—some generals in the army are wavering.”

“If we strike first, we can suppress and purge those dissatisfied afterward, but we’ll inevitably lose our own capable officers. But if Yi Muxun strikes first against our most meritorious, most renowned military clans—”

“We’ll be forced by circumstance to petition the king to abdicate, preserving more of our generals for Nanzhao.”

Duan Rusu understood, deeply convinced: “Uncle, your insight is profound!”

Duan Zhong glanced at him, as if smiling, yet sighed inwardly.

This wasn’t profound insight at all—if his nephew had even half a brain, he wouldn’t need such explicit words; he should have figured it out himself.

Unfortunately, after Tubo granted Duan Zhong the title “Righteous King,” he felt his own brilliance too glaring, so he deliberately trained his nephews and sons to be brave but foolish.

The former king of Nanzhao, indeed, grew more trusting of the Duan family because of it.

Duan Rusu, as a youth, had been sharp-witted—once the most promising among his peers—yet ordered to feign stupidity for years, he’d grown into it.

Is it possible that a mind unused for so long finds ignorance more comfortable?

For years, Duan Zhong, feeling his family lacked worthy successors, had come to resent the Nanzhao royal house more and more.

Had he not feared the royal house back then, how could his family have been shaped this way?

Sometimes, when Duan Zhong recited the calming mantra, it was merely to remind himself, through Buddhist teaching, not to demand too much of these foolish nephews.

As for the matter of Tubo deliberately bestowing the title to sow discord between Nanzhao’s monarch and ministers—

Duan Zhong bore no lasting grudge; he saw it instead as the necessary cunning and grandeur of a true hegemon.

Though Tang people had been relocated or captured, they had greatly contributed to Nanzhao’s prosperity.

But Duan Zhong always believed the Tang mindset—proud of their dominance yet seeking to govern with sage virtue, benevolence, and rest for the people—was a vacillating, vulgar weakness.

To seek hegemony, pure dominance was best.

If dominance failed to nourish the people, then seize them from elsewhere—Tang people were especially useful, inexhaustible and endless.

Wasn’t Nanzhao’s peak under the former king achieved by allying with Tubo, borrowing their methods, and seizing people?

Yet Tubo, after the An Lushan Rebellion, to strengthen its own power, gradually banned Han script in occupied lands and promoted Tubo script—a step far better than Nanzhao’s.

Great Tang’s urgency to reclaim lost territory likely stemmed from this very reason.

Once the Duan family secures the throne, there’s still much to learn from Tubo.

Tap.

The dewdrop on the banana leaf fell, drying in the sunlight.

By noon, the emerald banana leaves gleamed with reflected light; by dusk, they grew cold and still.

The sun and moon were like boats adrift in clouds.

Rising, falling, rising again.

On another morning, the bare locust tree was again coated in dew.

Chu Tianshu sat cross-legged beneath it, back against the trunk, sword resting across his knees.

His fingertip’s blood painted patterns upon the blade.

Blood as offering, yin energy as guide—spiritual energy, faintly akin to the spirit realm, rose gently from the soil and cracks in the stones.

Light as mist, pale as silkworm silk.

The purity of this spiritual energy differed vastly from what he’d sensed at the mass grave.

Fine threads wound around the blade, soon seeming to sink into it.

It was a subtle sensation.

The Three-Seven Divine Sword could store vast amounts of mental energy, but that energy was like stored within some hollow cavity inside the blade.

These spiritual energies, however, soaked directly into the blade’s material, slowly nurturing it.

Though no spirit of the weapon had yet formed in these days,

Chu Tianshu, looking at the sword, increasingly perceived a vividness in its appearance.

“Once your sword spirit awakens, it may surpass even my current knife spirit.”

Cheng the Blind said, walking to the courtyard gate, his sword scabbard tapping the ground, the other hand holding a food box.

Chu Tianshu’s nose twitched, opened his eyes, and smiled: “Another new pastry from Wen Jingniang?”

“Yes.”

Cheng the Blind came closer. “She can’t sit still—says she’s using this time to invent new dishes and pastries, even thinking of brewing wine from sugarcane.”

“After so long closed up, business must suffer. When the tavern reopens, new specialties will draw customers back.”

Chu Tianshu took the box, set it aside, and lifted the lid.

Yellow pastries shaped like carp looked cheerful; their sweet fragrance carried a hint of wine.

“Dao Baishu chats daily with the guards, trying to invent new stories; Lord Zheng is running himself ragged, seeking more allies to counter the Duan family.”

Cheng the Blind plopped down beside him. “Everyone’s busy. Good—busyness is good.”

Chu Tianshu smiled: “What are you pretending? I saw you helping brew wine just two days ago—you act like you’ve got nothing to do.”

Cheng the Blind leaned back, hands propped on the mud, sunlight on his brow, utterly lazy.

“It just feels very different from when I was a soldier, or chasing wanted posters, hunting down criminals.”

“Don’t you train?”

Chu Tianshu asked, surprised. “Helping brew wine, hauling food, plus your own training—surely you’re busy enough.”

Here, he suddenly recalled: back when he lived at Wen’s tavern, he’d never seen Cheng the Blind train.

But back then, Cheng rose early and returned late, chasing wanted posters, running errands, fighting people—it was a kind of indirect training.

So Chu Tianshu had never asked.

“I focus on the method of comprehending techniques.”

Cheng the Blind said, “No need to explain—your sect never taught you the uniqueness of the method of comprehending techniques.”

The method of enduring hardship, the method of comprehending techniques, the method of blood refinement.

The Strength Cultivation Method is the most essential foundation; fist techniques, archery, and horsemanship primarily refine the body and enhance Qi strength.

The Blood Refinement Method is the most mysterious art, capable of cultivating a Soldier Soul with divine abilities.

The Insight Technique is the one with the highest threshold among the three.

One must first attain sufficient mastery in the other two, then achieve an indescribable insight into a particular technique.

At that moment, one’s will, body, and Soldier Soul must become utterly unified, reaching absolute perfection.

Only such a technique is called Insight Technique.

No words are written; man and blade become one.

Some achieve insight in life-or-death desperation; others in a dream after dusk and wine.

Some achieve insight at the moment a stone is placed on the go board; others when resigning from office and hanging up their seal.

Once insight is achieved, the bond between man and Soldier Soul reaches a level of perfect attunement.

At this stage, what matters most is no longer daily practice of physical movements, but constant resonance between will and Soldier Soul.

One need not draw blood—Qi flows naturally, nourishing the Soldier Soul through the ripples of one’s will.

The Soldier Soul likewise adjusts the body’s Qi and blood automatically, keeping one in the state achieved only through daily strength cultivation.

In fact, improper strength cultivation may harm the body, while the resonance of the Soldier Soul benefits one exclusively.

Chu Tianshu listened with a touch of envy.

This Insight Technique sounded somewhat like comprehending the essence of fist intent.

But in other worlds, merely comprehending fist intent carries none of these effects—no perfect attunement with one’s own Soldier Soul.

“For those who walk the path of Insight, gaining more techniques holds meaning. Fixating on rigid postures designed solely for physical refinement is of little use.”

Blind Cheng pulled a small bottle of wine from the food box and took a sip.

“Like me—I recall the past whenever I drink, which benefits the Soldier Soul; the more wine I consume, the more it stirs my Qi and blood.”

As he spoke, he seemed to find justification, shifting from sipping to gulping, tilting his head to drain half the bottle, “Still, it’s not absolute.”

“There’s a saying: read a text a hundred times, its meaning reveals itself.”

“Some people reach Insight precisely because they’ve practiced a single technique so many times; for such individuals, rehearsing old techniques may help them uncover even more.”

“After achieving Insight, such people might train even more diligently than before.”

Chu Tianshu couldn’t help asking: “What technique did you achieve insight into?”

(End of Chapter)