Chapter 10: Wanxiang Attributes

Li Hao wondered what the result would be if he measured his bones again.

But the opportunity came only once; no one believed the old Taoist of Mount Qingqiu could be wrong.

Since that day the bone measurement ended, he could clearly feel the bustle of Shanhe Academy had diminished—formerly, ladies from various courtyards often brought their children to play here, or invited him over for snacks: small pastries from the frontier or tributary states, fresh local fruits, then let their children play with Li Hao, trying to build early bonds.

But now, two months later, only the First Lady, Fifth Lady, and the young Ninth Lady had come to visit him.

They merely checked that he was unharmed, then stopped coming.

Occasionally, he received pears and cakes from Changchun Courtyard.

Now that winter had arrived, he received two sets of short, fine-furred animal wool-lined cotton pants and cotton jackets, along with a scarf.

Li Hao hung the scarf around the little girl’s neck.

……

The next day.

As dawn faintly broke, Lin Haixia was already practicing swordplay with Bian Ruxue in the courtyard.

Previously, on the weapon rack, Lin Haixia had let the girl choose various weapons and test each one to gauge her talent; Bian Ruxue ultimately chose the sword.

After practicing, Lin Haixia discovered she indeed had a gift for swordplay, so she taught her diligently, sometimes sternly.

Only at noon did Li Hao slowly wake—he was not yet six, so he didn’t have to follow household rules requiring him to visit Changchun Courtyard every morning to pay respects to the First Lady; thus, he could sleep in comfortably.

Seeing the small, diligent figure in the courtyard, Li Hao shook his head slightly, silently murmured “poor child,” then, under the care of his personal maid, washed up, ate breakfast, and as usual summoned the two retainers who knew chess, asking them to set up the board in the pavilion.

Soon after the game ended, Li Hao noticed he hadn’t received a notification for experience gain, and froze in surprise.

Immediately, text appeared before his eyes:

{Chess Skill, Rank 3: Requires one Chess Heart to advance further.} Chess Heart?

Li Hao frowned in confusion.

As if sensing his thought, the text faded, then reappeared: [To cultivate a Chess Heart, one must have nothing but chess in the heart, and be utterly devoted to chess.] Very clear.

Li Hao was surprised—he could actually interact with this text.

Hello?

The text vanished.

Li Hao tried calling it several more times, but got no response; he dropped the matter and instead pondered: utterly devoted to chess?

So I need to first forge a Chess Heart before I get experience?

In the Divine General’s Mansion, Li Hao had heard of Sword Heart, Spear Heart, and even “sharp tongue, soft heart.”

But he’d never heard of Chess Heart.

Of course—chess was a minor art, dismissed as mere entertainment in the Divine General’s Mansion.

Still, Chess Heart should be something like Sword Heart, right? From idle chatter among the ladies when they held him, he’d heard tales: such-and-such boy, since childhood, practiced sword daily, held it while eating, slept clutching it, and after forging Sword Heart, his sword cultivation soared.

So, to forge a Chess Heart, must I do the same?

But did Li Hao even like chess?

In his past life, he’d known a little—but only a little.

Chess… who seriously likes chess? Playing cards is far more fun.

After a tiring day’s work, who has energy for something so mentally draining?

Unless it’s for novelty, just switching up entertainment now and then.

Even with the panel granting chess experience, Li Hao had treated it merely as a tool to grind art points; to truly love it, to be devoted to it—that was hard.

Very hard.

Slightly skeptical, Li Hao had a retainer play another game with him.

And then he believed the curse.

This troubled Li Hao—he scrunched up his small face. He’d just tasted the sweetness of cultivation, and now you tell me I can’t gain experience from chess? How is that fair? Must I really carry a chessboard everywhere? But without experience, why bother? Should I just shift to another art?

But what use is this Chess Heart? Better figure it out first.

In the following days, Li Hao moved the chessboard to his bed, laid a wool blanket over it, and used it as a pillow.

At meals, he placed the board beside him, treating it like a Buddha statue.

But this formality seemed to have no effect.

Li Hao stopped asking the retainers to play with him; instead, he’d watch the little girl practice swordplay, or go to Tingyu Pavilion to browse books.

One day, while flipping through books in Tingyu Pavilion, he came across several pages of chess diagrams—and was startled.

The book recounted anecdotes of a famed figure from centuries past: this great man, as a youth, was humiliated; later, when seeking revenge, his enemy abandoned martial arts to study chess.

The great man had once declared: when he finally took revenge, he would utterly crush his enemy, leaving him with total despair, before killing him.

But the enemy had already studied chess for years.

He immediately challenged him to a game.

The great man lost miserably—and yet, this man was stubborn; he refused to kill his enemy on the spot.

Instead, he slaughtered the enemy’s entire household—women, children, all spared none—except the enemy himself, saying he would return one day.

But he died never having solved that chess diagram.

Li Hao finished reading and couldn’t help smiling.

The enemy clearly knew the great man well; though his martial talent was inferior, he was clever enough to learn this trick to avoid death.

He suddenly found chess a little interesting.

It wasn’t just Li family—even he, in this martial world, had always thought chess was merely entertainment, meaningless.

But now, that view had shifted slightly.

{Chess diagram “Wanxiang” detected. Record it?} Text suddenly appeared before his eyes. Li Hao was startled—he suddenly remembered the panel had a chess diagram catalog.

It was clear he had no interest in chess—he’d treated it as nothing but an experience-grinding tool, and in five years, he’d never recorded a single diagram.

Now, he felt a twinge of shame.

Li Hao immediately selected “Yes.”

Soon, the panel’s chess diagram catalog gained a new entry: “Wanxiang.”

Below it, a prompt appeared: “Can be embedded.”

Li Hao frowned, and tried selecting “Embed.”

A line of text popped up: {Select target: Body Path, Sword Path.} Li Hao was startled—what did that mean? He thought a moment, then chose “Body Path.”

Having just begun cultivation and experienced the surge of raw power, he now had some hope for the Body Path.

[Embed successful.] Suddenly, Li Hao felt a torrent of complex information crash into him.

He recognized this sensation well; after a moment, he absorbed it all, then checked his panel:

【Body Path: Rank 1 (Wanxiang)】

The fragmented information in his mind told him exactly what had happened.

Wanxiang: Places the target within the myriad phenomena of heaven and earth, rendering them undetectable, concealing all qi signatures.

Li Hao subtly activated it—his entire aura instantly condensed, the surging power and qi within him shrinking into countless pores and cells, invisible to observation.

“Special attribute?”

Li Hao was stunned—he never expected a chess diagram could have such an effect; it was unbelievable.

With his Rank 2 chess skill, he could barely comprehend this diagram—layered mazes within mazes, traps at every step; no wonder the great man had never solved it.

But now, embedding this diagram into the Body Path had granted him a similar effect.

If he’d chosen Sword Path instead, would his sword techniques now carry illusions, hiding the true killing strike? Paired with the dazzlingly beautiful Tide Sword Art, it would be even more disorienting.

Li Hao glanced at his panel—the “embed” option beneath Wanxiang had vanished, meaning only one choice was allowed.

But this opened a whole new world for him—so chess diagrams were the real key!

If he could collect other diagrams, couldn’t he attach various special buffs to his attacks?

Thinking of this, Li Hao’s interest surged—he began searching frantically through the pavilion.

But Tingyu Pavilion was the holy ground of martial artists, not chess masters; over several days, Li Hao scoured the place and found only three diagrams—one of which was being used as a bookshelf pad.

“Feiduan,” “Canggong,” “Hu Ya.”

With the three diagrams in hand, Li Hao studied them, deduced their properties, and embedded “Feiduan” and “Canggong” into Sword Path.

He embedded “Hu Ya” into Body Path.

Feiduan: Doubles attack range, enables long-distance striking.

Canggong: Conceals the killing strike; one move, one kill.

Hu Ya: Slight increase in strength, grants intimidation.

The three diagrams gave Li Hao a massive boost.

Unfortunately, although the Divine General’s Mansion had everything, as a martial family, it had no habit of collecting chess diagrams.

Back in his courtyard, Li Hao asked his retainers to search outside for diagrams—but they all made excuses, none dared help the Young Master stray further down the path of “unproductive” pursuits.

No choice—Li Hao had to offer heavy rewards.

In the days that followed, besides waiting for diagrams, Li Hao began slowly studying chess itself.

He removed the wool blanket from his bed, returned the board to its place, and took the board off his dining table; now, besides strolling in the courtyard, he mostly watched the little girl practice swordplay.

Perhaps because she’d lost her parents young and endured hardship, the little girl was extremely diligent; under Lin Haixia’s instruction, her sword skill improved steadily.

“Wrong. That move is incorrect.”

One day, while teaching swordplay, Lin Haixia revealed her military sternness—though she was deeply satisfied with Bian Ruxue’s sword talent, any mistake in practice drew sharp criticism.

The little girl held back tears, stubbornly repeating the move over and over.

Li Hao watched, helplessly shaking his head—though Uncle Lin was a good man, he clearly didn’t tailor his teaching to the student’s nature.

The girl’s sword techniques were almost distorted from frustration.

At night, Li Hao watched the little girl still practicing alone in the courtyard and called her over.

“That posture is wrong—bend your arm a little more, yes, like this, don’t stiffen your waist…”

With no one around, Li Hao gave the girl private lessons, guiding her hand by hand.

Bian Ruxue was not slow-witted and indeed had a natural talent for swordsmanship; under Li Hao’s instruction, she quickly corrected her posture and began to show real sword rhythm.

“Big Brother Hao, do you know swordplay too?” the girl asked eagerly after finishing her practice. “Can we practice together tomorrow?”

“Don’t talk nonsense—I’m not getting up early.”

Li Hao jumped in surprise and hurriedly said.

“If Uncle Lin knew you knew swordplay, he’d be so happy,” Bian Ruxue said hopefully. Though she didn’t understand many things yet, she could tell that the elders around her seemed disappointed in Li Hao.

The little girl trained hard and diligently, secretly holding onto a stubborn belief: everyone said Big Brother Hao was useless, but she felt he was clearly very smart.

“I don’t know swordplay at all—don’t go saying that,” Li Hao hurriedly replied. Little girl, don’t repay kindness with betrayal and ruin my chance to sleep in—I’d really cry.

Bian Ruxue frowned: “But you clearly…”

“Go, go, sleep, sleep,” Li Hao rolled his eyes and shooed the girl away, warning her not to say anything out of turn.

The next day.

In the courtyard, Lin Haixia watched Bian Ruxue swinging her sword, her eyes slowly widening.

(End of Chapter)