Chapter Two: The Four Seas Martial Arts School

"Baili Feihong?"

"Master Wu, greetings."

Baili Feihong replied somewhat nervously. Wu Sihai nodded, took the silver coins from Zheng Ada, and carefully sized up Baili Feihong. "You are a bit older, your bones have already set, but your body has been tempered to be robust. That's fine. From now on, you will train at Sihai Martial Hall. Ada, go and fetch your sixth senior brother."

"Yes, Master."

"Do you have any family? Why do you wish to practice martial arts?" Wu Sihai asked casually.

Baili Feihong respectfully clasped his fists. "Master, I am an orphan. I work at the docks, and I wish to learn martial arts for self-defense."

"Feihong, since you have joined Sihai Martial Hall, whether you remain here after a month or not, you are still a disciple of this hall. Since you call me Master, I will speak honestly to you." Wu Sihai paused, then continued, "To be a scholar one must be wealthy; to be a warrior, even wealthier. Besides natural talent, the most crucial thing in martial arts is resources, and to acquire them costs a great deal of money. A martial artist at the first level of vital energy must eat five meat-rich meals a day to maintain their strength. With your current circumstances, saving money is not easy; better to keep what you have, marry a wife, and live a decent life."

Baili Feihong was stunned, unable to imagine Wu Sihai would say such things.

Was this his way of turning him away?

"Master, are you telling me to leave?"

"No. Since we have accepted your tuition, Sihai Martial Hall will treat you equally. This is merely advice." Wu Sihai considered a moment and said nothing further. Since he had come to learn, so long as the fee was paid, that was enough.

"Master, last night I encountered the Demon Suppression Division." Baili Feihong bit his lip and lowered his head, not wanting Wu Sihai to see the turmoil in his eyes.

"So that's it. No wonder. Then you must train well. Once you truly become a martial artist, even if you can't defeat demons, at least you'll run faster than ordinary folk." Wu Sihai patted Baili Feihong on the shoulder, encouraging him.

"Qianshan, this is the new apprentice at the hall, Baili Feihong. I have a task for you: within this month, ensure that Feihong masters the Sihai Fist Technique." Wu Sihai saw the young man behind Zheng Ada and smiled, gesturing toward Baili Feihong.

Zhang Qianshan, the sixth senior brother of Sihai Martial Hall, felt helpless, but a glance at Baili Feihong's appearance revealed his master's charitable intent. This apprentice's circumstances were harsh, and the master sought only to impart the basics of the Sihai Fist so he could ponder it himself at home. There would be no further tuition; no need to waste money.

No wonder the secret medicinal meals had been rising in price lately. A martial hall like this, still open for business, survived by relying on their inner disciples. Though Zhang Qianshan thought this, he nevertheless respected his master greatly. Wu Sihai never held back in his instruction, teaching with all his heart. The medicinal meals cost more, but they were effective in strengthening one's vital energy—a worthwhile investment.

"Rest assured, Master. I will see that this junior masters the routines of the Sihai Fist within a month," Zhang Qianshan promised. A month was scarcely enough to truly learn the skill; time was too short.

Wu Sihai nodded and left with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Your name is Baili Feihong, is it?"

"Greetings, senior brother. May I have your name?"

"Zhang Qianshan. You may call me Sixth Brother. Come with me." With that, Zhang Qianshan led the way into the rear courtyard.

Wu Sihai was certainly an interesting man, Baili Feihong thought as he followed.

For now, he would focus on learning the Sihai Fist, and consider other ways for the Blood River Blade technique. On one point, Wu Sihai was right: to be a martial artist required wealth, and with his finances, it would be difficult to support long-term training. He would have to think hard about making a living and finding a way out.

A chorus of "Hey~ Hah~" rang out as a group of youths in the rear courtyard practiced their routines with vigor, the robust energy of youth filling the air. Baili Feihong felt as if he were in a furnace, momentarily dazed by the sight.

The half-acre rear courtyard was divided into three training grounds. Baili Feihong surveyed the number of students—about fifty. Clearly, Sihai Martial Hall was no small establishment, though the training grounds were crowded.

"Sihai Martial Hall's rules: morning practice begins at seven and ends at eight, with evening lessons at six, lasting an hour as well," Zhang Qianshan explained, then added, "I mean by Western clock time. If you're worried about missing it, you can buy a clock at the shop on Prosperity Street." He pointed to the large wall clock in the center, but noticed Baili Feihong seemed unfazed.

On second thought, working at the docks, Baili Feihong often met foreigners and had seen clocks before. Zhang Qianshan said no more and led Baili Feihong to an open area.

"The Sihai Fist has both internal and external methods. Internally, you practice stances; externally, you train your fists. You haven't learned martial arts before, so I'll teach you the routines first. Once you have mastered the moves, I'll instruct you in stance training."

Without further preamble, Zhang Qianshan began teaching Baili Feihong the fist routines. The Sihai Fist was split into sixteen moves. When mastered deeply, power would flow forth like crashing waves, an unstoppable force. But to reach that level required blending the stances with the movements until stillness and motion became one.

Stillness in the stances cultivated inner energy; movement merged the stances into the routines, each move carrying great force.

As an inner disciple, Zhang Qianshan made no perfunctory effort due to Baili Feihong's status. He earnestly taught every move, sharing his own insights, giving Baili Feihong a systematic understanding of the technique.

By evening, leaving the martial hall, Baili Feihong's mind was dizzy, his limbs weak, his stomach empty. He had forgotten to eat lunch and spent the whole afternoon training.

Learning the Sihai Fist was not difficult—the sixteen-move routine was no harder than radio calisthenics or military boxing. But without internal technique, any move was just an empty shell.

He glanced at his skill book:

Sihai Fist (Routine): Beginner (13/100)

Thirteen repetitions, thirteen experience points.

"Practice a hundred times and the meaning will reveal itself?"

Baili Feihong's eyes shone. The skill book was truly a treasure.

"With my house collapsed, I have nowhere to stay—must I return to the dock workers' shelter tonight?" Inns in Eastern Shore City catered to foreigners, charging exorbitant rates. With the silver in hand, he wouldn't last more than a few nights.

He could have someone rebuild his house; building materials were cheap here, labor cheaper still—but that would take time.

"I'll find a way to get through tonight and rent a cheap place tomorrow."

Lodging and food were his biggest problems. Ultimately, it was a matter of money.

How to earn it? The old transmigrator's tricks? Salt-making? Soap? Perfume? Liquor? Glass? But soon Baili Feihong dismissed these ideas. The foreign nations had already entered the mid-steam age of the First Industrial Revolution. Whether salt, soap, perfume, liquor, or glass, they had their own processes. Crude perhaps, but with mechanical advantages. This was not the age of boutique luxury goods—machine-made products were far more fashionable and sought after than handmade ones.

"Perhaps I could copy books to get rich?" As a child, this body had attended school and was literate, but the knowledge was insufficient for literary creation. After all, the Great Yuan Empire’s script was not Chinese. Though also descended from pictographs, the characters and spoken language of the Great Yuan Empire differed greatly from Chinese, having arisen from very different civilizations. The greatest danger was in the similarities that concealed profound differences—sometimes, the same character could mean something entirely different.

So, as a semi-literate, Baili Feihong's dream of becoming a writer seemed delusional for now. But who could say about the future? Having merged with this body's memories, his reading was sufficient for simple texts. He was also working to graft his pre-transmigration knowledge onto this new world. The cultural adaptation was going smoothly.

"Honestly, aside from becoming an official, I can't think of anything I'm suited for!" Baili Feihong sighed deeply at the hardships of the world. In his previous life, he had been a mere programmer; now, he felt the world’s hostility acutely.

"If I want a better life, there's only one path left—become strong and join the Demon Suppression Division."

"Sixty-forty split, tsk tsk…"

But joining the Demon Suppression Division was no easy feat. Ordinary martial artists had no chance. He would have to become truly powerful, strong enough to be recruited.

As dusk fell, with no other options, Baili Feihong found a cheap inn for the night. It was a reluctant decision, but he made up his mind: tomorrow he would go to a broker and sell his family's plot of land. With the proceeds, he would rent a place and weather this difficult period. It was his only asset. Dock work paid too little and too slowly; it was enough to fill his belly before, but now, with his increased appetite from training, even that was not enough. He was losing money by working.

At this moment, Baili Feihong truly understood what it meant for a hero to be brought down by a lack of money.

The next morning, he returned to Sihai Martial Hall for the daily practice. He had memorized the sixteen-move routine, but when practicing, he often forgot the moves, and his transitions were clumsy and full of mistakes—the result was not Sihai Fist, but a turtle’s boxing.

Seeing this, Zhang Qianshan shook his head in helplessness. Baili Feihong had a serious problem: poor coordination. He could follow along with the group, but left to himself, his flaws were exposed. He couldn’t tell left from right, and his hands seemed to fight each other.

The only consolation was that Baili Feihong was quick-witted and had a good memory—once told, he could remember. "In his case, there’s nothing for it but practice."

He needed intense repetition to train his coordination and muscle response. Only with more effort than most could Baili Feihong truly master the Sihai Fist, and for combat, even more time would be needed.

Sweating profusely, Baili Feihong left the martial hall and found a small broker in the city.

"This plot is in the slums; the land isn’t worth much," the broker said, shaking his head after appraising it.

"Low value or not, it’s still land." Baili Feihong frowned—what the broker said was true, but was it really so worthless? Perhaps not.

"I don’t need your money—just give me a house with a yard for three months, and the land is yours."

"Two months, and we have a deal," the broker’s assistant said, eyes brightening.

"Agreed, but I want to see the house."