Chapter 4: Fist Power: The Ladder to Real Power!

 

 At dawn the next morning, daylight spilled across the sky.

In the dilapidated courtyard, Zheng Jun splashed cold water on his face to stay sharp and awake.

Though the night before had been spent eating meat and drinking wine, how long could a meal really take? Once dinner was over and there was no other entertainment to be had, Zheng Jun had ended up breaking off a firewood stick and practicing the Armored Blade Technique a few more rounds before falling asleep.

[Current Debt Repayment Progress: 30/5000]

After returning to his room last night, he had practiced the blade technique three more times with only a firewood stick—yet the debt only advanced by 15 points.

So, using a stick instead of a proper blade does affect the result quite a bit, he thought.

Zheng Jun shook his head and returned to the room after washing up.

His muscles were slightly sore from all the practice last night, but he barely noticed it. Instead, he put on his constable uniform, feeling refreshed, and swaggered out the door toward the county office.

His brother-in-law had mentioned over dinner that Zheng Jun was granted five days of medical leave by the registrar due to his head injury.

But Zheng Jun had no intention of lying around at home. The back-of-the-head wound had mostly healed after applying medicine and practicing the blade; he was fine to move around now.

With nothing decent left at home to eat, Zheng Jun stepped outside to grab a bite and think about his next steps in martial training.

“Flatcakes, fresh flatcakes~!”

“Pears! Big, white, juicy pears! Don’t miss out!”

Even though dawn had just broken, the streets were already bustling.

Zheng Jun fished around in his pocket and slapped down two copper coins. The short, dark-skinned hawker looked at him nervously as he handed over a flatcake.

Zheng Jun bit into it as he walked—grainy, flavorless, and with no filling.

It was basically just a coarse grain bun.

Or more accurately—it was a coarse grain bun.

As he chewed, Zheng Jun began pondering his future.

They say: “Scholars when poor, warriors when rich.” But in truth, neither the path of the scholar nor that of the warrior had much to do with the poor at all.

“Poor scholars” still needed rich patrons to buy books and pay for tutors. And martial arts? That was on another level entirely.

If he truly wanted to walk the path of martial cultivation, daily meals couldn’t be meager. Even the rarest martial genius couldn’t grow strong eating nothing but flatcakes and watery porridge.

The brave and fierce eat meat; the clever and nimble eat grains; the divine and long-lived eat qi; the immortal and eternal eat nothing at all.

If he wanted to forge his body, he couldn’t keep living on grains. There would be no strength to gain. Even a thousand-li steed, if underfed, would never show its worth—how could it run a thousand li?

“With a monthly wage of just two silver coins, it’s barely enough to survive—let alone eat meat every meal…” Zheng Jun mused bitterly. “No wonder so many constables squeeze bribes out of people whenever they can.”

He sighed again. At this rate, I can't even afford tuition to train in a martial hall.

Among the constables, most only dabbled in basic techniques.

Constables belonged to the “base class,” it was true—but if one could break into the martial realm and reach the stage of Qi Accumulation and Meridian Opening, the Great Zhou Martial Code allowed them to shed their base status and be promoted to the Zhenfusi (Imperial Patrol), joining the elite riders known as Tiqi, and no longer bound by their status!

There was a Zhenfusi branch in Heishan County, but it had barely over a dozen members.

The Zhenfusi’s office operated independently from the county yamen and answered directly to the imperial court. They were only mobilized during demonic disturbances or royal decrees. Even the county magistrate had no authority over them.

This was why many constables, bailiffs, and even local militia paid silver to train at martial halls. Even if they couldn’t reach “Qi Accumulation,” becoming a Blood Tempering Martialist would allow them to pull some strings and become someone of importance in town. At the very least, it’d stop them from getting punched to death while chasing down criminals.

“If I really want to rise up, I need to temper my body and become a Blood Tempering Martialist as soon as possible. That’s the right path!”

Zheng Jun clenched his fist as he gnawed on the flatcake.

“Only when your fists are hard… can your spine stand straight!”