Chapter 31: This Kid Has Training

Back at his uncle Zhao Zhenxing's place, the cold was too much for Zhao Zhenxing to bear, so the midday rest had grown longer than before. This gave Zhao Jin ample time to slip into the shop and record everything that had been said that morning.

He breathed on his hands to warm them, ground the ink, and used the brush to record the words in a crooked, uneven script. Standing before the counter, Zhao Jin looked at the side panel, where he had carved quite a few diagrams — the stance of a spearman from his memories, for instance, along with some breakdowns of the movements. Thanks to that other life, the military texts had all been thorough; the translations might not have been great, but the illustrations were always complete.

When he had carved these diagrams, Zhao Jin had only been afraid of forgetting them. But after his uncle's explanations that morning, these strange-looking movements all took on meaning. Zhao Jin was beginning to understand.

Everything that day had felt perfectly normal to Zhao Jin, and it wasn't until he got home that evening that he noticed something off. Zhao Zhentang and He Cuihua were chatting over dinner, and somehow the conversation turned to him.

"What future is there in practicing martial arts? Look at the Wang family — the father passed the imperial exams and became a Presented Scholar. The son is surely cut from the same scholarly cloth and will pass every exam down the line..."

Hearing this, it suddenly struck Zhao Jin: shouldn't that capital-official Wang family be a house of books and learning? The sons of such a house ought to be studying for the civil exams. In this era, civil pursuits were exalted and martial ones despised; a family like that would hold a mere fighter in utter contempt. Why would they let a son of the house practice martial arts? Even if that Young Master Wang wasn't a direct son but a nephew or something, it still seemed impossible — it would be seen as a disgrace to the family name.

Zhao Jin couldn't be bothered to dwell on it. He'd find out what he needed to know sooner or later. What was on his mind was that he needed to increase the load for his nighttime strength training.

The next day during martial practice, his uncle Zhao Zhenxing was as strict as ever in his supervision, but the stories and examples he told grew broader and broader, clearly woven with many personal memories. As he spoke, his expression would sometimes grow distant and dazed.

In his accounts, Zhao Zhenxing was utterly devoted to the spear. He said that when great armies clashed, swords and axes all became useless — only the spear was effective. Apart from that, there were cannons and bows. A hit from a cannonball meant certain death or injury; an arrow wound, even if not fatal, would put a man out of the fight. Zhao Jin instinctively assumed his uncle had simply forgotten to mention firearms and boldly brought them up. Zhao Zhenxing immediately scoffed. "As long as you cover your eyes, the worst you'll get is a pockmark on your face. That thing is damn useless — it can't even punch through a padded cotton jacket."

This verdict left Zhao Jin utterly dumbfounded. He didn't know the power of a fire lance, but he knew the might of modern firearms. And in his memories, firearms were crucial in the Spanish tercio formations, with no small lethal power. He had no idea why his uncle would give such an assessment.

Yet Zhao Jin didn't think his uncle Zhao Zhenxing was talking nonsense. From every angle, it was clear his uncle had experienced the battlefield — and for many, many years.

At noon the next day on the sparring ground, Zhao Jin saw the Wang family's young master again. Compared to the day before, the youth had changed into a tight-fitting black short robe, with a wide leather belt at his waist, wrist guards and leg bindings all in place, his hair tied back with a silk band. Seeing him dressed like that, everyone understood: he was going to join the matches too.

This Young Master Wang still had a servant following him — a sturdy man in his thirties, watching from a distance at the street corner.

"First place — Chen Sheng!" Zhao Jin shouted, and a cheer rose from below. By now, everyone was used to this routine and no longer got as fired up as before. The young Wang scion, however, had a look in his eyes that was growing a little heated.

"You bunch of brats are pathetic! My little brother's gotten sick of eating prize snacks every day!" Chen Sheng roared, and the crowd burst into laughter. In the past, if Chen Sheng had yelled something like that, everyone would have just quit and gone home. Now, they just laughed it off. The youths joined the matches more for the thrill of competition and glory; claiming that first-place title was more effective than anything else.

"Everyone, draw your lots!" Zhao Jin called out, and the youths surged forward. There were more people than lots, and someone was always left without one. Chen Sheng had wanted to make a few extra, but Zhao Jin said it was unnecessary. Whether you could shove your way to the front was a contest in itself. If you didn't even have the strength to push through a crowd, what business did you have competing in martial arts?

By now, everyone had learned the tricks: arriving early to get as close to the earthen platform as possible was one method; using sheer brawn to muscle in was another. But one point was crucial — when the first-place winner was announced from the platform, you absolutely had to grab a spot near the front. Otherwise, once the lot-drawing started, you'd never squeeze in from the back.

The newly arrived young Wang scion clearly didn't know this rule. He hadn't been willing to crowd together with everyone at first, and only realized his mistake when it was time to draw lots.

What surprised Zhao Jin was that this rich young master from the Wang family actually managed to shove his way in. In that crush, no one cared about status or background. No one gave a thought to how wealthy his family was; some even threw sneaky elbows and started scuffles. But this young master simply slipped in with ease. The few who tried to block him were pushed aside instead. His strength and agility were truly impressive.

When the youth drew his lot, Zhao Jin noticed a short rod strapped to his back. Thinking this was similar to Chen Sheng, he decided to offer a word of caution: "We fight bare-handed here. Weapons aren't allowed."

The youth paused for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

In truth, there was more than one newcomer that day, but everyone's attention was fixed on this rich young master. The seventh match was the Wang scion's fight.

The two entered the circle according to the rules. The young master had asked very detailed questions the day before, so he performed all the formalities almost perfectly without needing to be taught.

Before they could start, Zhao Jin said with a smile, "This one's new here. May I ask your esteemed name, and where you hail from?"

"Your humble brother is Wang Zhaojing. My father's given name, the upper character being 'You' and the lower 'Shan.' I am new here and beg everyone's kind care." Wang Zhaojing introduced himself with poise, cupping his fists and turning in a circle to salute.

The phrase "my father's given name, the upper character being 'You' and the lower 'Shan'" was terribly awkward to Zhao Jin's ears, but he quickly worked it out: the father's name was Wang Youshan — that capital official who had returned to the countryside only days ago.

A pure-stream civil official of that standing, and yet his son actually loved martial arts and fighting. And judging by the looks of it, he hadn't snuck out — the family likely knew.

Wang Zhaojing's opponent was quite burly, a fighter who had made it to the quarterfinals a few times. Seeing Wang Zhaojing, he let out a smug, vicious grin. Everyone knew what he was thinking: a pampered rich kid like this surely couldn't fight at all.

The short rod had already been set aside. Wang Zhaojing's rod was different from Chen Sheng's. Chen Sheng's had a curve to it, modeled after the shape of a Japanese sword, while Wang Zhaojing's was just a perfectly straight short rod.

Chen Hong bellowed, "Begin!" Wang Zhaojing's opponent charged straight at him. Wang Zhaojing neither dodged nor retreated. He waited until the boy was right on him, then slipped to the right and slammed his right fist hard into the opponent's ribs. The youth immediately crumpled sideways to the ground.

The entire field fell silent for a moment. The best-off among the spectating youths was someone like Chen Sheng; Shi Manqiang's family was already considered well-to-do. But Wang Zhaojing's family background was on a level they couldn't even fathom, to say nothing of his utterly composed and poised speech and bearing. He stood out as extraordinary in every way, making the other youths seem rustic by comparison.

With such a glaring gap in status, combined with the instinct to haze the newcomer, many had looked at this rich young master with displeasure. They had subconsciously assumed that such a cosseted little lord's martial prowess would be weak — that he'd come to spar on a whim, and they absolutely had to teach him a lesson and send him home crying.

No one had expected this outcome. Wang Zhaojing had actually won in a single move. After fighting for so long, everyone had gained experience and a discerning eye. They instantly recognized this rich young master's true strength. They hadn't imagined he could fight so well.

Today was different from usual. The victories of Zhao Jin, Chen Sheng, and the other tough fighters drew little attention. Many people chased after Wang Zhaojing's matches to watch.

In the second round, a youth tried to grapple with Wang Zhaojing. This was a tactic the freight-yard boys had summed up: when fighting someone with martial training, you absolutely had to close in, clinch, throw them, and rely on brute strength. That way, the opponent's martial skill had no room to be used.

No one expected that after taking two punches to get in close and lock up with Wang Zhaojing, the rich young master would sink his stance, explode with power, and twist his body. The boy clinging to him was lifted completely off his feet. With a soft shout, Wang Zhaojing gave a sudden shake and flung the boy straight to the ground.

"... This kid has training," Chen Sheng said, standing behind Zhao Jin.