Chapter 2: Cultivating Martial Arts

“Old Li, you wanna learn from Old Man Zhang of East City, who at eighty took eighteen young girls as wives?”

A pockmarked guard shouted loudly.

Hearing this, those around him burst into laughter again.

“The village boys of Nan Cun bully me for my old age and weakness.”

Li Rui was nearly seventy now, with almost no potential left; to these young guards, he was an easy target—everyone knew “don’t mock the poor youth,” but no one ever said “don’t mock the poor old man.”

At fifty, one understands Heaven’s decree.

It means if you’ve achieved nothing by fifty, you must bow your neck and submit.

These burly guards had not an ounce of respect for an old man like him.

Li Rui was long accustomed: “Old Yang, will you give it or not? Just say it straight.”

Seeing Li Rui was serious, Yang Yong was even more startled, then pulled a yellowed book from his chest and handed it to Li Rui: “Old Li, this Eight Pieces of Brocade is easy, but be careful—not to strain your waist.”

He meant it as a kind warning; after all, he had few true friends in the Zhu household.

In his view, Li Rui was seventy—any minor fall could kill him.

But to the young guards, this was even funnier; several in the training yard clutched their stomachs, nearly laughing themselves to tears.

Li Rui took the manual from Yang Yong’s hand and walked away calmly.

In the past, he might have felt bitter.

But since gaining the Martial Bone, these taunts were mere wind in his ears, stirring not the slightest ripple.

“Master.”

“Master.”

In the stable, two boys—one tall, one short—saw Li Rui and reacted differently.

These two boys were Li Rui’s disciples.

The tall one was Ma Yang; the short one was Wang Zhao.

A servant in a wealthy household was a coveted position; back then, Li Rui endured great hardship to learn horse care from the previous head groom—ancient saying held that teaching a disciple starves the master; mastering any craft demanded suffering.

Li Rui pried open the dry feed with his fingers, then patted the horse’s belly.

“Add three eggs, two jin of soybeans.”

Wang Zhao quickly bowed respectfully: “Yes, Master, I’ll get it right away.”

By contrast, Ma Yang’s attitude was far more dismissive.

Ma Yang had arrived seven years earlier than Wang Zhao and had learned most of Li Rui’s skills, but Li Rui noticed Ma Yang’s corrupt heart—he constantly schemed to bypass Li Rui and curry favor with Master Zhu.

This clearly violated the taboo between master and disciple.

Li Rui naturally could not let the old saying come true—he held back key secrets of horse care and never taught them fully to Ma Yang.

Ma Yang thus harbored resentment toward his master.

Human hearts change.

At first, Ma Yang and Li Rui had gotten along well—even Ma Yang had kowtowed and sworn to care for Li Rui in his old age and see him to his grave.

But Li Rui lived too long; Ma Yang’s patience wore thin with time.

Li Rui saw all of this clearly.

Training a disciple is like managing a household—every family has its own hard-to-recite scripture.

Once, Li Rui would vent to Yang Yong after drinking, lamenting his poor choice in disciples and fearing he’d lose his dignity in old age, but now he had let go.

Better to rely on yourself than others.

After supervising his two disciples mix the fodder, Li Rui finally relaxed and returned to his room.

He opened the scroll, its cover bearing neatly written characters: “Eight Pieces of Brocade.”

This Eight Pieces of Brocade was no profound martial art—it was common street-level practice.

Yet even so, not everyone could obtain it; most servants in the Zhu household had no such opportunity.

At this moment, the advantage of longevity became clear.

Li Rui had lived too long, with endless time to waste—like drinking with Yang Yong: partly because their temperaments matched, partly because his heart had never stopped longing to cultivate.

“Practice at Zi and Wu, harmonize with Heaven and Earth, cycle in sequence, Eight Trigrams are the true cause.”

Eight Pieces of Brocade was a widely circulated health cultivation method in Yu State, strengthening body and vitality—anyone from eighty to child could practice it, which was why Yang Yong handed it to him so casually.

A profound technique would not be so freely given.

But for Li Rui now, it was more than enough.

Since gaining the Martial Bone, he felt boundless strength coursing through his body.

After half an hour of practicing the Eight Pieces of Brocade, not a single drop of sweat appeared.

“Truly excellent bone!”

Li Rui felt he could now run a kilometer in snow and outpace half the Zhu household guards; already so formidable after just gaining the Martial Bone—what would it be like if he fully mastered the Eight Pieces of Brocade?

He couldn’t help but feel anticipation.

Think of punching elders in a nursing home?

Old men aren’t so easy to provoke.

Deep night, Chou hour.

Li Rui slowly opened his eyes from sleep, gazing at the moonlight outside the window, frowning slightly.

He woke up fifteen minutes late.

His biological clock, maintained for decades, had failed today.

He quickly found the reason—cultivation.

Practicing Eight Pieces of Brocade all night drained his strength; exhaustion caused the delay.

Li Rui felt a surge of caution.

In Qinghe’s martial circles, the saying “poor in literature, rich in martial arts” always held: producing one martial artist meant losing a strong laborer, but more importantly, cultivation consumed enormous resources—one man ate as much as three, and required medicinal herbs to purge hidden injuries, or else over time, depletion would outpace replenishment, turning him into a useless wreck.

Fortunately, as a groom, his food supply remained assured.

If the cook doesn’t steal, the five grains won’t grow.

The same applied to grooms: horses ate better than people—beyond dry fodder, they received fine rice, soybeans, even eggs.

Taking a little secretly was harmless, as long as the masters didn’t catch him red-handed.

With his seniority, such deeds came naturally.

The advantage of age showed itself now.

Li Rui slipped on his cotton robe in the dark, exhaled white mist, and stepped out.

When he reached the stable, Wang Zhao was diligently mixing fodder—Ma Yang was nowhere to be seen.

Li Rui frowned: “Where’s Ma Yang?”

Wang Zhao, still working, replied: “Brother Ma says he’s unwell—he asked me to cover his shift tonight; he’ll return in a few days.”

Li Rui’s experience was sharp.

He immediately recognized Ma Yang was bullying Wang Zhao for his inexperience—already daring to abandon duty, he’d only grow harder to control later.

“I understand.”

Li Rui did not act immediately; anger now would only make Wang Zhao overthink and damage his authority.

He inspected the entire stable, then went to the fodder storage shed.

He dug up five or six eggs from the hay pile.

These were the ones he’d hidden since autumn, meant for frying with wine—unexpectedly, they came in handy now.

With these eggs, he could manage for a while.

Once cultivation bore fruit, he’d find medicinal herbs to replenish his body.

Slowly. He’d waited seventy years—another few months didn’t matter.

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(End of Chapter)