Chapter Nine: The Way of Martial Arts

The next day, Qingwei Daoist Palace officially announced the sale of Daoist registration certificates—a flat price of two hundred taels, with registration closing in one month.

From then on, Qin Yi’s life became a repetitive cycle of three places. The only difference was that, instead of catching mice or fishing in his spare time, he now carried paper and pen everywhere, seizing every free moment to compose stories.

In the blink of an eye, a month slipped by.

Through relentless manuscript submissions, Qin Yi finally scraped together just over sixty taels, barely making up the two hundred taels needed. He paid the fee and secured his spot.

Another seven days passed in a flash.

Tomorrow would be the day the certificates were distributed.

At morning classes, Qin Yi noticed that where once two or three hundred attended, now only forty or fifty remained.

His acquaintances, Song Jie and Wei He, had already left—they’d gone down the mountain a few days ago.

After all, most people simply couldn’t produce two hundred taels of silver!

Yet Zhang Dadao was still present; it seemed his butcher father at home was quite the capable earner.

The following morning, Qin Yi rose early and made his way to the square to wait.

The distribution of certificates would take place there.

To Qin Yi’s surprise, a steady stream of unfamiliar faces began arriving at Qingwei Daoist Palace.

By midday, two or three hundred people had gathered.

“They must also be here to claim their registration certificates,” Zhang Dadao commented at Qin Yi’s side.

“It seems these people all had their own channels to learn about the sale,” Qin Yi sighed quietly, noticing that among them were many dressed as servants, clearly sent by others to collect certificates on their behalf.

Soon, the ceremony began.

Qin Yi observed that most of the unfamiliar faces, after receiving their certificates, promptly descended the mountain, only a handful choosing to stay.

Before long, both Qin Yi and Zhang Dadao successfully received their certificates, the relief evident in their expressions.

Even more delightful was the news that these purchased certificates granted them official disciple status in Qingwei Daoist Palace, with the right to formally study martial arts—an unexpected boon.

The two of them, along with a dozen or so others, were assigned to the dormitory group under the supervision of the Elder Wang Qingxuan.

At the top of Qingwei Daoist Palace’s hierarchy sat the Abbot, who directly managed the various supervisory offices.

Beneath the Abbot were the Three Directors and Five Masters, followed by the Eight Chief Stewards.

The Three Directors oversaw Administration, Instruction, and the Kitchen.

The Five Masters were the Hall Master, Temple Master, Scripture Master, Ritual Master, and Meditation Master.

The Eight Chief Stewards handled Guests, Dormitories, Stores, Accounts, Scriptures, Archives, Halls, and Signals.

Qin Yi and his fellows were assigned to the Dormitory group—in essence, the patrol department.

Put plainly, it was akin to the security division of a company.

Within the dormitory courtyard, a plump old Daoist with a youthful face and white hair—who looked to be in his sixties—gazed at the group of newcomers, stroking his beard. “Now that you have taken me as your master, you must dedicate yourselves to martial practice and fulfilling your duties.”

“Yes, Master!” the group responded in unison.

“Very well. Shaojie, I leave them in your care.” With that, Wang Qingxuan ambled off toward the rear courtyard.

“Yes, Master.”

Once Wang Qingxuan had departed—

“My name is Zhao Shaojie, your third senior brother.”

“Greetings, Third Senior Brother!” everyone saluted.

“I’ll be passing on our master’s teachings to you, and I’ll also organize your duty shifts. Is that clear?” Zhao Shaojie said calmly.

“Understood!”

Qin Yi took stock of his third senior brother, who stood nearly two meters tall, powerfully built, with a stern countenance.

“Now, introduce yourselves to one another…”

Soon, through their introductions, everyone became somewhat acquainted.

Zhao Shaojie also gave an overview of the dormitory group: besides these dozen or so newcomers, there were more than twenty other senior brothers.

In addition, there were five personal disciples—Zhao Shaojie ranked third among them.

Qingwei Daoist Palace distinguished between personal disciples and ordinary disciples.

“Our palace has seven major martial arts: the Pivot Palm, the Xuan Step, the Ji Finger, the Quan Claw, the Jade Balance Fist, the Kaiyang Hand, and the Yaoguang Body Technique!”

“Our master has mastered all but the last two. Among them, the Pivot Palm is his signature skill, honed over decades. So, the first technique I’ll teach you is the Pivot Palm,” Zhao Shaojie announced.

“Senior Brother Zhao, can we learn the other six techniques as well?” Zhang Dadao raised his hand.

“You may, but remember—trying to master too much will only dilute your efforts. If in your lifetime you can truly master one technique, that is already a remarkable achievement.”

“Senior Brother Zhao, how powerful does one become upon mastering the Pivot Palm?” Qin Yi asked.

Immediately, everyone perked up their ears, eager for this answer.

Zhao Shaojie looked at his hopeful junior brothers and smiled. “We are, after all, mere mortals with flesh and blood. There’s a limit to human strength. Any one technique, no matter how refined, will only make you stronger and faster—but there’s always a ceiling.”

“So, even someone like our master, a fifth-rank expert, could handle a dozen or so ordinary men without trouble. But if faced with three or five soldiers in heavy armor, that would be his limit. After all, those soldiers wear armor and wield standardized long blades; no matter how swift your fists, if you can’t fell three men in a few blows, and you take a single cut, your life is in danger.”

“What if Master wore heavy armor too?” Qin Yi pressed.

“In that case, perhaps he could withstand a dozen armored soldiers—but heavy armor is restricted by the court. Where would you get any? Besides, Qingwei Daoist Palace is not an army; our martial training is for guarding the mountain and upholding the Dao,” Zhao Shaojie replied with a laugh.

His words left many feeling disappointed, Qin Yi included.

It seemed that the experts here were far less formidable than the heroes of the martial arts novels from his previous life.

“Senior Brother Zhao, what is a fifth-rank expert?” someone else asked.

“That’s the court’s classification for martial prowess, from rank one at the weakest to rank nine at the peak. Anyone can be assessed. For example, to become a constable, you need at least a rank one rating. In the army, commanding a hundred men requires at least a rank three.”

“All right, back to business. I’ll now demonstrate the Pivot Palm for you.”

“The Pivot Palm consists of twenty-eight forms.” As Zhao Shaojie performed, he explained each movement.

His body moved with the shadows of his palms, vigorous and imposing.

After completing the set, Zhao Shaojie came to a slow halt.

“Now, line up and each pick up a sandbag. Whoever can run five laps with it will be given priority to learn the Pivot Palm from me. If you can’t manage five laps, don’t worry—keep training. When you can, come find me,” Zhao Shaojie said, pointing to the seven or eight sandbags in the corner of the courtyard.