Chapter Twenty-Four: Dry Thunder in a Clear Sky

Diligence refines skill, but idleness brings decay.

At dawn the next morning, Chen Yu rose and went before the stone platform to breathe and clear his mind. Once invigorated, he began to practice the Crane and Cloud Technique once again. With inner force aroused, his movements were bold and sweeping, carrying great momentum and striking an impressive figure. His robe fluttered with the wind, lending him the air of a true master.

A resounding thud echoed. Half an hour passed as he alternated between seated and dynamic exercises, running through all the stances, fist forms, and whip kicks. He then circulated his breath and moved his blood, tempering skin, muscles, and bones with his strength—progress that was visible to the eye.

He flagged midway, but with the support of spiritual liquid, he revived his spirit and banished fatigue, persevering through the entire regimen. Throughout, he remained alert for the hidden strange power within his body, but found nothing; it seemed the breakthrough he experienced the other night had been a mere accident. Still, he did not give up. The strange power was linked to the spiritual liquid and was within him—surely, with time, he would uncover a clue.

Morning practice concluded, Chen Yu prepared breakfast. In this era, ordinary folk still kept to two meals a day; those with means might indulge in a late-night snack. Yet martial training consumed much energy, and the burning of fat during the circulation of qi and blood left a martial artist hungrier than most, requiring frequent replenishment.

Though Chen Yu’s cultivation was not advanced, his appetite was by no means small. He finished a bowl of thin porridge, tidied up, and went to the rear courtyard to check on his medicinal field. The recent days had been sunny, and the plants were thriving.

The broadleaf roots had drawn their leaves closer to the earth, while the fruits of the Lanting berry had grown plumper, their skins a tender red, hinting at the juicy pulp within.

But the greatest change was in the patch of greens tucked in the farthest corner. Their hue was as lustrous as jade, the tips of their leaves slender and gently curled, dew clinging to the edges. From the meeting point of the veins, a green bud, shaped like a grain spike, had sprouted, reaching for the sun.

Chen Yu drew near and couldn’t resist touching the tip of the bud. The outer layer was soft, but something seemed to be forming inside, reminiscent of an unripe corn kernel. The hard matter beneath the skin was tiny, smaller than a grain of rice.

“Can greens even bear fruit?” he wondered, his expression peculiar. He had no idea what the spiritual catalyst had wrought, but if it truly produced fruit, what would it taste like and what effects might it hold?

Curiosity piqued, he withdrew his hand, deciding not to peel back the skin just yet. By his reckoning, it would be ripe in two or three days—no need to rush.

Beside it, the Jade Insectweed, its stem grown longer, was as fresh and green as ever, no different from before transplantation. However, the tender white shoots that sprouted from it were even whiter, as if dusted with jade powder, making it look more and more like a crafted ornament.

Clapping his hands, he thought perhaps he should start a notebook to record all these developments. With his spiritual catalyst, he would not stop at just a few kinds of plants; there would be plenty more to experiment with.

A logbook for his experiments would help him avoid omissions and allow him to regularly review his gains and losses. The temple had brushes and ink, and blank paper too, so there was no need to go down the mountain and spend money.

In truth, Chen Yu’s memory was quite good—better than most—and with his recent progress in martial arts and mental clarity, his recall had improved even further. Still, a dull pen is better than a good memory, and it would give him something to occupy his time.

Leaving the rear courtyard, Chen Yu began to tidy up. The Duckweed Rain was near. If he wanted to buy some chicks from a farming family, he’d have to do it now, before the heavy rains set in and the mountain roads were cut off.

Since he wasn’t planning to enter town, he only brought the light blue single-layered robe he’d bought from the clothing shop last time. It fit well enough. He also brought his Taoist robe. His face was far less known than the old priest’s in the villages below, so he’d likely need the robe to establish his identity.

As mentioned before, the Liang Dynasty held the Taoist tradition in high esteem, and in the countryside, most people, even if they didn’t know he was the abbot of the Cloud Crane Temple on neighboring Qingtai Mountain, would at least recognize the robe and the fact that he was a Taoist, and thus wouldn’t be too suspicious.

The mountain roads were rough, so he changed clothes in advance.

“I have five taels and three qian left—enough to buy some chicks.”

Over two hundred catties of rice and the herbs for the White Cloud Powder had cost him a fair amount. What remained of his savings, together with what he’d earned selling Orange Silver Grass and Long-Eared White Mushrooms, was not much.

There were things in the temple he could sell to raise money, like the old square altar table left by the temple’s first abbot. Made of aged huatan wood and edged with gold filigree, it was worth a good sum. But it held too much significance for the old priest and his predecessor, so Chen Yu was unwilling. He was far from destitute—at least for now, his daily life was unaffected, so he had no such thoughts.

On the mountain road, the young man in his long robe walked steadily over jagged stones, mentally tallying what he needed.

Chicks, certainly. Ducks would be fine too, though the journey was rough—otherwise, he’d have liked to bring back a couple of goats for the mountain.

Cattle were out of the question; the authorities forbade their sale, and all cattle owners had to register with the yamen. Unless you were wealthy or had connections, there was no way around it. Few farmers kept cattle; most rented them from local landlords or gentry, paying not just in silver but also bearing responsibility for the animal. Any mishap meant paying a hefty sum. Can’t afford it? Sell your fields, your land—or worst case, yourself.

The Liang Dynasty did not ban slavery, only placing trivial limits on how many one could own.

Boom!

A clap of thunder rolled through the blue mid-day sky, making the forest shiver.

He walked on, but the sky remained clear, the clouds not yet gathering.

Chen Yu quickened his pace, unconsciously using the Crane and Cloud footwork, his steps light, leaping several meters in a bound.

...

Clang!

“Bandits are coming!!”

In broad daylight, a cracked gong rang out over the Ma Family Hamlet.

The sound pierced to the core of every villager.

Hearts quaked; whether laboring in the fields or busy at home, old and young, men and women poured out of their houses. The elders took up spears and short knives; several hunters carried wooden bows and quivers slung at their waists.

“To the big willow at the east end of the village!”

“Hurry! Those damned Baiguo Bandits are here!”

“Dazhuang, take some men to the village gate. Shanhua, keep the children indoors—don’t let anyone out!”

“Ma Fourth? Ma Fourth, you bastard, go fetch help from Liu Village across the river!”

An elder planted his spear in the ground, his gaunt frame standing firm in the middle of the village road. Fists clenched, he issued orders to the anxious, bewildered villagers gathering around him.

“Don’t worry! Someone’s already gone to the county seat! Magistrate Li will send help soon! Don’t panic!”

He shouted, and although everyone knew full well how far the county was, those words still eased many faces, calming frayed nerves.

Soon, a group of adults—men and women—headed for the entrance to the hamlet. Several half-grown boys, barely taller than a cartwheel, nervously hefted sticks and makeshift weapons handed down from their fathers, joining the crowd at the village gate.

Thunder rumbled, but the people of Ma Family Hamlet had no time for it. Eyes wide, they stared into the distance.

A ragged, skinny man burst from a clump of grass. His face was hidden by tangled hair, but the iron-studded cudgel in his hand glinted coldly.

He stepped into the field, looked up, and gestured behind him.

The next moment, a scene that chilled every villager to the bone unfolded:

Seven or eight more bandits, armed and clearly better dressed, emerged from the forest path—tall, short, fat, and thin.

And behind them—ten, twenty, thirty more...

At the gate, the elder with the spear felt his heart gripped in a vice. Blood surged; his eyes bulged and his breath came in gasps, all composure lost.

Thunk!

A gaunt, scruffy horse stepped into view from beneath the trees. Atop it sat a man, his face ruddy and glowing, his build burly, clad in leather armor.

The man squinted into the distance, then parted his lips.

The villagers were too far to hear, but the bandits at his side shifted—gone was their blankness, replaced by a bloodthirsty cruelty.

Because the man had said:

“Slaughter them.”