Chapter 357: Rebirth?

"How is it, my lord? Is it level yet?"

"A little more to the left."

Fan Fan Xingli climbed onto the chair and stood on tiptoe, adjusting the horizontal rod of the scroll to balance it leftward.

Liang Qu stepped back two paces and stood at the threshold, measuring the spacing on either side, confirming the portrait had shifted perfectly to center.

"Stop!"

"Is it straight now?"

"Good, get down."

Fan Fan Xingli exhaled in relief, leapt off the chair, and casually wiped away shoe prints with his sleeve.

A single-panel painting of a mountain stream and waterfall hung centered on the main wall; the cascading torrent in the artwork lent the spacious hall a grand, majestic aura.

Zhao Shan, no doubt a master of calligraphy and painting, had created a piece whose brushwork and inscriptions even Liang Qu, an outsider with no taste for art, found dazzling.

Unconsciously, he himself had begun to look a little like a master.

A common fisherman's son would never collect famous paintings and calligraphy.

"Master Liang! We've arrived—where do we put the goods?"

A shout came from the doorway.

Liang Qu knew who it was: "Fan Xingli, go greet them, lead them to my bedroom, move out the big square bed, bring in a frame bed, and have Li Li Dama lay new bedding."

Fan Fan Xingli poked his head out: "A frame bed? My lord, you bought a bed?"

"Yes, I bought some furniture—a frame bed, five Luo Han beds, two bo gu shelves, two Yang Qiao tou tables… plenty of things overall. Your old square bed can go to your room from now on."

The Liang residence had three courtyards—huge. Even Wu Long would pant after sprinting around it once.

When the house was first built, it relied entirely on villagers contributing labor and a few wealthy families pooling money and materials.

But Liang Qu himself had an empty purse.

After construction finished, the furniture inside was minimal, crammed together—no one came anyway.

The many porcelain pieces and trinkets granted by the imperial court had nowhere to be displayed, still lying in boxes, piled up in the eastern wing.

Later, as Liang Qu grew wealthier, he prioritized spending on his cultivation.

Now, for the first time, he had some spare silver; on the way back, feeling his purse bulging, he bought a batch of new furniture—including, but not limited to, frame beds, Luo Han beds, bookshelves, desks…

Whatever felt comfortable.

Otherwise, wasn't his martial cultivation wasted? Wasn't his official promotion meaningless?

First, replace the low square bed in the bedroom with a frame bed for gathering qi.

Place several Luo Han beds in the study and main hall, for when guests come.

Second, install the bo gu shelves and display all the imperial gifts—porcelain, trinkets—put them to use.

"Got it!"

Fan Fan Xingli, thrilled at the prospect of a new bed, rushed to open the gate, confirmed the items, and led the workers into the courtyard to set them up.

Men in the courtyard moved large furniture back and forth.

The shopkeeper first greeted Liang Qu, confirmed the placement of each item, then stood in the center of the courtyard, eyes sharp, ensuring none of his men stole or mishandled anything and damaged his shop's reputation.

Zhang Li Dama, watching the commotion, walked through the covered corridor: "Master, are we slaughtering a chicken today?"

"Slaughter a chicken? What chicken?"

Liang Qu, directing workers to position the Luo Han beds, looked puzzled.

"You forgot? Before you left, you left behind a flying dragon—I've been feeding it every day with our leftovers. Not only hasn't it lost weight, it's gotten fat!"

Zhang Li Dama pulled out a speckled wild chicken from behind her.

The chicken's chest feathers were fully fluffed, packed with new downy plumage grown for winter, swollen and plump.

The chicken seemed to sense its end was near, flapping wildly, struggling—but its wing roots were pinched tight, useless.

"Oh, I remember."

Liang Qu suddenly recalled: shortly after taking office, several River Gods came to offer gifts.

Among them, Fan Fan Zixuan, covered in mud, braved the rain to bring a flower-tailed hazel chicken—commonly called "flying dragon."

That very day, he received news of flooding in Huazhu County; he never got around to eating it.

Then, upon returning yesterday and learning the old monk was leaving, he spent the evening sharing a vegetarian meal with him—and let the chicken live one more day!

"Let's skip lunch," Liang Qu glanced at the sky—it was nearly noon. "We're too busy to make it for lunch. Eat it tonight—boil it into soup, buy some dried shiitakes."

"Alright, I'll boil water and scald it this afternoon!"

Zhang Li Dama carried the flying dragon back to the kitchen, tied its feet again with a thin rope to stop it from flapping and scrambling, then turned to add firewood and prepare lunch.

Liang Qu was busy directing workers to settle the large items; Fan Fan Xingli helped carry and lift.

For a time, no one paid attention to the flying dragon, flapping its wings and struggling desperately.

The flower-tailed hazel chicken lay still on the ground, silent for a while, then lowered its head to peck at the rope around its feet.

Afternoon.

The Liang residence was transformed, the fragrance of rosewood lingering in the air.

Liang Qu opened the door to the eastern wing, carried out several large boxes, and with Fan Fan Xingli, arranged the items on the bo gu shelves—placing porcelain, chatting idly.

"Fan Xingli, how old are you this year?"

"I'll be fourteen after this spring."

"Fourteen… planning to study martial arts?"

"My father says when I turn fifteen, I'll go to Master Yang's martial school for a year or so."

Master Yang promised my father: if my brothers go to train, he won't charge tuition, and medicinal herbs will be priced at Changchun Hall's wholesale rate."

If after half a year I show promise, I'll keep training; if not, I'll drop it. My lord, don't worry—it won't interfere with horse care."

Fan Fan Xingli's father worked for Yang Yang Dongxiong raising horses—he had deep experience, broad knowledge, excellent skill, and earned several taels of silver monthly, far more than ordinary farmers or fishermen.

He could endure hardship, save up, and afford even the highest-tier martial training—let alone Yang Yang Dongxiong's offer of free tuition.

"I'm not worried about horse care—I'm just curious."

In this world, martial arts rarely emphasized childhood training.

Bone assessment requires waiting until bones have fully developed.

Too young, bones not fully grown—forcing qi cultivation prematurely won't strengthen the body; instead, it risks damaging blood and qi, leaving chronic illness.

The ideal age to begin martial training is at least the end of second growth spurt—around fifteen. That's why when Liang Qu began, he trained alongside the third young master of the Zhao household.

Teenagers recover quickly, their blood and qi are vigorous; as long as they consume ordinary meat, no major problems arise.

If they can bathe daily in medicinal herbs, occasionally consume a few precious fish, or other qi-replenishing elixirs, their cultivation progresses immeasurably smoother than others'.

Fan Fan Xingli placed a flowerpot down: "Every time I eat at home, my father tells me to learn well from you—he says if I can master even two-tenths of Master Liang's skill, my life will be worth it."

Liang Qu laughed: "You can't learn from me."

"I told my father the same thing—how many Master Liangs are there in Pingyang County? Even across the entire Huaiyin Prefecture, in Southern Zhili? My lord, should I put this vase up?"

As Fan Fan Xingli spoke, a subtle, indescribable aura spread from the courtyard, stirring several waves of heat into the bleak autumn wind.

"Strange—what's this? It's warm."

Fan Fan Xingli touched his cheek, glanced around.

Liang Qu's expression hardened.

"Red Fire Bird!"

…

Liang Qu set down the round vase, strode quickly through the covered corridor, and saw the flying dragon half-collapsed, half-reclining beneath his bedroom window.

A faint scent of charred flesh hung in the air.

Liang Qu suddenly understood, rushed into the room.

On the rack, Fu Bo stood upright, unchanged.

But… was it glowing?