Surviving the Ancient Angst Novel [Transmigration] - Chapter 11

After finishing my meal, I sat in the main hall for a while. Just as I was about to head to the courtyard for a stroll, someone arrived.

It was a young man, around eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a simple martial arts uniform with a red-stringed white jade tied at his waist. He looked clean and efficient.

“Master sent me to take you to practice,” the man said, getting straight to the point as he waited quietly in the courtyard.

“Alright.” I was about to call for Nie Gaoming when his door opened.

Nie Gaoming emerged, looking pale. He covered his mouth and let out a few theatrical coughs. “I’ve come down with a chill; I won’t be going.”

The man nodded. “Rest well.” He then turned his gaze toward me.

I raised an eyebrow and walked out. “Let’s go, then.”

The man turned and led the way. I followed, lost in thought. Nie Gaoming faking an illness was likely because he looked down on the Eastern Wasteland Sect’s introductory martial arts. It is often said that the best time to start training is during childhood. In martial families, children are supervised by their elders from a very young age; some even undergo “Fetal Bone Training,” receiving massages and muscle kneading while still in their swaddling clothes.

I wondered at what age Nie Gaoming had started his training and what level of mastery he had reached. Although this body was only fourteen, it was probably already too late for me.

System: 【It is indeed too late, but you have me.】

I smiled: ‘Are you giving me a “cheat code”?’

System: 【Not exactly. You still have to complete tasks to earn rewards.】

‘What tasks?’

System: 【You’ll find out when the time comes. For now, just treat this as a chance to experience martial arts. Don’t be too anxious; it’s normal that you can’t compare to these locals right now.】

The man in the sturdy gear brought me to the training grounds. Over twenty people were already there practicing. Some were sparring with their fists each punch carried a gust of wind, and every blow hit home with a visceral thud. The sheer ruthlessness of the fighting was comparable to an underground black market arena. Watching them cough up blood while throwing punches, their faces and mouths bruised and swollen, made me feel a phantom ache all over.

Others were practicing palm techniques against wooden posts. The rhythmic bang, bang, bang of the heavy strikes made my eardrums ring. Impressive. Were their palms made of iron?

Some were practicing swordplay. The long swords in their hands were like flashes of lightning, tracing magnificent arcs through the air that left me dazzled. Their movements were more agile than apes and as fierce as leopards. Wherever the blade passed, the air seemed to vibrate.

Excellent!

Forgive my limited vocabulary, but I could only describe it in two words: Incredibly powerful!

I looked at their waists; every single one of them wore a red-stringed white jade. Good, they were all my “classmates.” Their foundations seemed solid, a group of hidden dragons and crouching tigers. Only I was a waste with zero combat ability.

“You may choose one or two things to practice,” the man said, tilting his head toward me. “That is our Master.” He pointed to a white-haired elder standing in the center of the field, hands behind his back as he observed the disciples.

The elder had an Orange Jade hanging from his waist, tied with a white string. He looked solemn and appeared to be a man of few words.

【You ‘Red-String’ newcomers are lucky to have an Orange Jade personally teaching you,】 the system chirped.

I was curious: ‘What about the Medium and Lower ranks?’

【Yellow Jades and Green Jades teach them.】

‘Oh.’ I nodded, walked over to the elder, and gave a deep bow. “Disciple Lu Yinchen reporting for duty.”

The elder didn’t even look at me. “Which discipline do you wish to learn?”

I looked around, feeling that none of them would be easy to master. Finally, my eyes caught a seven or eight-year-old child jumping between wooden stakes. It looked simple enough. I shamelessly pointed at him. “I want to learn movement techniques.”

Without raising his eyelids, the elder said, “Start with the horse stance.”

And so, I stood alone in the scorching sun for two full hours. My legs shook uncontrollably, and I felt like I would collapse at any moment. It’s said that age is critical for learning movement techniques; a common proverb goes: “A child learning qinggong soars to the sky; an adult learning qinggong never succeeds.”

I was clearly the latter, becoming the object of everyone’s muffled snickers.

The seven or eight-year-old child finished his stake training and walked over with light steps. He circled me curiously. “Big brother, why are you only starting basic training at your age?”

I pursed my dry, peeling lips and forced my shaking thighs to hold steady. “Big brother’s family was poor when he was little. I spent all my time on farm work and had no time for martial arts.”

The child blinked and watched me for a moment, then suddenly reached out a small hand and patted my back. “Keep this part straight.”

My lower body was already unstable; that light pat nearly sent me face-first into the dirt. I scowled and shooed him away. “Go, go play somewhere else.”

The child pouted. “Master told me to supervise your horse stance for another two hours.”

“!!!” Stunned, my legs gave out, and I sat directly on the ground. “What did you say?”

“The stance is broken. Add another two hours that makes four.” The child stood with his hands behind his back, looking at me with mock seriousness.

I stood up unhurriedly, rubbing my aching calves. “How long have you been practicing movement techniques?”

The child counted on his fingers. “Three years at home, and three decades (ten-day periods) here.”

Me: “…”

Truly, it was measured in years. Giving us only three months meant we couldn’t actually learn anything; at most, we’d be a bit lighter on our feet and run slightly faster. Even modern sprinters train year after year, let alone the cutthroat world of ancient martial arts.

I’m done!

I straightened up and patted the kid’s head. “Tell the Master later that I’ve suffered heatstroke and won’t be able to come for a few days.”

The child looked up at me. “But big brother looks perfectly fine.”

I wiped the sweat from my face, looked left and right to make sure no one was watching, then covered my forehead. “Sigh, I can’t do it. My head is spinning.” As I spoke, I turned to walk away.

The child followed me for a few steps, reaching out a small hand as if to support me.

“No need.” I stumbled slightly, rejecting his kindness, and wobbled away like I’d been drinking bootleg liquor. The child watched me go, his mouth slightly open, completely fooled by my act.

Over the following weeks, Nie Gaoming and I used various excuses to skip practice. Either he had a headache or my stomach ached; either he had diarrhea or I wouldn’t stop vomiting blood; or his eyes hurt so much he couldn’t see the path, while my legs were too sore to get out of bed.

The training grounds didn’t bother us. At first, they sent someone daily to call us, but as the excuses piled up, they stopped coming.

Nie Gaoming and I enjoyed the leisure, sitting on stools in the courtyard and soaking up the sun. He played the guqin; I ate melon seeds. Life couldn’t have been easier.

Sometimes, when I ran out of seeds, I would stop and watch Nie Gaoming with an inquisitive gaze. He would sense it and look up. “Do I play well?”

I stood up, walked to him, and scattered a handful of seed shells under the osmanthus tree. Nie Gaoming smiled with pure innocence. “Why the long face? Are you unhappy?”

Act. Keep acting.

I squatted beside him and stared into his eyes for a long time before suddenly speaking: “You were right.”

Perhaps in a harsh environment, the connections between people truly are fragily and cheaply made. Those who appear to live together in harmony might not be close friends; they might be enemies.

Nie Gaoming looked at me, puzzled. “What?”

I smiled and said nothing. I reached down and began picking up the seed shells one by one. “Protecting the environment is everyone’s responsibility.”

Nie Gaoming blinked, appearing not to understand. I dug a hole in the dirt under the osmanthus tree, stuffed the shells inside, and filled it back up.

“What are you doing?”

“Turning waste into treasure,” I said, patting the dirt off my hands they were still very dirty. “Maybe by next year, they’ll be fertilizer.” I put a hand on Nie Gaoming’s shoulder to push myself up, and as I withdrew my hand, I “accidentally” wiped it on his robe.

Nie Gaoming: “…” The corner of his mouth twitched violently. I thought he was about to drop the act. But a second later, he flashed a bright smile and continued playing the guqin as if nothing had happened.

Feeling a bit disappointed, I squatted by the well to wash my hands in the bucket.

Time flew by like a white pony passing a crack in a wall; in the blink of an eye, three months had passed. We had finally reached the “Hunting Season” mentioned by the delivery boy.

Nie Gaoming and I were taken to the foot of a mountain early in the morning. Arriving at roughly the same time were three other “Blue-String” and five “Green-String” newcomers. Ten of us in total.

The Man in Green who led us there warned us before leaving: “See that white line? Don’t try to run past it and leave this mountain, you little brats!”

I looked at the foot of the mountain; there was indeed a long line made of white powder circling the base, stretching off into the distance.

“What happens if we accidentally run out?” someone asked weakly.

The Man in Green was fierce; he glared at the boy. “Don’t you value your life, you donkey-born brat?”

The other guide beside him was more even-tempered. He explained, “There are hunting grounds everywhere. This mountain is considered the safest one.”

“And even if you manage to escape the hunting zone, if you’re caught, you’ll be executed as a sacrifice,” he added. “In all these years, not a single fish has escaped the net. Don’t harbor any delusions.”

Those few words turned the boys’ faces deathly pale.

“Can we choose not to participate?” someone asked with a trembling voice.

“The quarterly Hunt has existed for twenty years. No one in the Eastern Wasteland is exempt, including the Sect Leader. Do you little animals think you’re above the law?” The Man in Green sneered and walked away with the other two guides.

After the three left, the newcomers looked at one another, none daring to take a step toward the mountain.

“What’s actually in the Hunting Ground?” someone muttered.

Nie Gaoming tucked his hands into his sleeves and smiled. “A hunting ground, a hunting ground… naturally, there are hunters~”

“Do they want us to go hunting?”

“Wrong.” Nie Gaoming took the first step across the white line. “We are the prey.”

The moment he spoke, a chilly wind blew past, making several people shudder. In the distant forest, a strange horn sounded, and a flock of birds suddenly erupted into the sky. Their cries echoed across the horizon.

I saw Nie Gaoming’s silhouette flicker among the leaves and quickly vanish.

“Let’s get into the mountains. Being exposed here isn’t wise,” a steady-looking boy suggested.

The others, who had been debating what to do, immediately followed him as if he were their leader. Just as I was about to move, a ding sounded in my head.

【Casual Retirement Mission Mode: Officially Activated.】